* * *
Your Prince.
He had referred to himself as her prince. It had a very nice ring to it, Nikhat decided, snuggling languorously into the solid warmth of his body.
He was hers, the man who had promised to make every silly little dream of hers come true.
Against all odds, Azeez bin Rashid Al Sharif, the magnificent and breathtaking Crown Prince of Dahaar had somehow fallen in love with her. He had laughed all her doubts away when she had said she was not suited to be queen, he had forsaken all other women, the prince who had women throughout the world falling over him, for her, had promised her that he would always love her and keep her happy.
She would have to be the queen, of course. But with him by her side, Nikhat felt she could rule the whole universe, if that’s what was required.
An echo of a dull ache spread through her lower belly, and suddenly all her dreams shattered into a million pieces around her. It was the bitterest kind of reality to wake up to, but it was her reality, her life.
Her happiness, she had realized, hadn’t been in his power or hers.
Opening her eyes, she saw that she was coiled around Azeez like a vine. Delicious warmth spread under her skin. Licking her dry lips, she glanced at the bedside digital alarm clock. It was half past two. The bed lamp was still on.
She was lying on her left side, her legs tangled with Azeez’s, her arm tight around his hips. She gasped as she realized how hard she was holding him, pressing her left hand into his damaged hip. She was about to jerk it back when he grasped her wrist and held it there. “That pressure feels good, habeebi.”
She stilled, a thousand different voices clamoring to be heard inside her head. And yet, not a single one of them was even a token protest. She only felt exhilaration, only the utmost lethargy. Not shame, or disbelief or any such thing.
Azeez Al Sharif, even when he considered himself a cripple, was a perfect specimen of masculinity that would induce knee-jerking reaction in any woman. And the intimacy of waking up next to him like this was like a drug that filled her with inexplicable longing.
What she felt, coiled against him, was healthy, thrilling, one of the few things that validated her femininity. After the last day of pain that was a reminder of everything she was not, the warm languor in her muscles, the slow burn of desire, she welcomed it wholeheartedly.
He was hard against her and warm. He smelled the way he always did—of sandalwood and exquisite heat and dark, sinful promises. She sucked in a deep breath, savoring the scent of him. Against the onslaught of those sensations, the dull ache in her lower belly was almost negligible.
Feeling his gaze on her, she glanced up. His features looked strained, dark shadows under his eyes. Had he slept with his torso leaning against the headboard? She made to move, but his arm around her didn’t budge. “I’m sorry. You must have been very uncomfortable.”
He shrugged, his gaze devouring her with a quiet intensity that should have alarmed her. Instead, it swathed her with an electrifying thrill. “I don’t remember the last time I slept through the night anyway. It was only a few hours. And every time, I tried to make myself more comfortable, you held on so tight that I was afraid to hurt you, or even worse, wake you up when it looked like you finally had some relief.”
She felt color swamp her cheeks. “Thank you for staying with me. I have forgotten how awful it gets.”
“And when you take these medications that you are waiting for?”