THE TRUE KING OF DAHAAR(62)

                Zayed was, and had always been, truly alone in the world.

                “I will not call Father back for this. Not after everything he’s shouldered alone for all these years. I need help, Azeez.”

                “You have experienced staff for—”

                “You have a bloody doctorate in trade policy and economics. Father prepared us to complement each other, Azeez. For you to rule and for me to aid you. If you’re determined to leave, at least help me while you are here.”

                As though Ayaan had rolled a small explosive amidst the gleaming silverware on the table, the air leached out of the room. Princess Zohra’s gaze clashed with Azeez’s, a defiant challenge blazing in it.

                Instant denial rose to his lips. He felt Nikhat shift closer to him just as he opened his mouth. Beneath the table, she clasped her fingers with his, and he wondered if she realized what she was doing.

                “Fine. Have the original treaty and the amendments he is suggesting delivered to me. I will take a look.” Tugging Nikhat up along with him, he forced the fury rattling inside him to a corner.

                * * *

                Azeez barely kept his temper under control until Ayaan and Zohra vacated the vast hall. Planting himself in Nikhat’s way, he stood leaning against the closed doors.

                “What kind of game are you playing now?”

                She looked wary, a haunting strain around her usually placid features. “I’m not playing any game.”

                “Just because we—”

                She flinched and reached out a hand, as if to ward off an attack. “Please, Azeez.”

                The poisonous words died in his throat.

                Anything he would have said would have been wrong on so many levels. He didn’t want to cheapen or dirty what they had shared. His life had been enough of a wasteland for him to know that despite the past and the future what they had shared was special.

                And whatever this restlessness simmering under his skin, that was gaining power inside him, that was beginning to fester as painfully as the guilt, it was not her fault. She had, as always, done what was required of her.

                It was him. Suddenly, everything he had been so sure of a few weeks ago felt like shifting ground, and he didn’t know how to anchor himself.

                He saw Nikhat swallow, struggle to speak. “I was about to remind you that you decided to do whatever you could to take the stress off Princess Zohra. It is why I am here, Your Highness.”

                Her address felt like a slap in the face. “Do not call me that.”

                She laughed and he turned to look at her. It was a low, haunting sound, so full of despair it made the hairs on his neck stand. “No? Can you hear yourself? I finally understand the audacity of hope in Ayaan’s eyes.

                “How long has it been since you looked at yourself in a mirror, Azeez?

                “You need a blood transfusion to be anything but the Prince of Dahaar. Not a bullet wound, not your self-loathing, not the fact that you are determined to live a half-life, nothing can change the fact that you are a prince through and through.

                “Dahaar—its politics, its welfare, its economics—it’s the very blood that gives you life.”