The Last Prince of Dahaar(20)

                Her father and now Prince Ayaan, had both said the same thing to her.

                Did they not see that it was their devotion to duty that had left her with no choice?

                * * *

                After more than an hour of mingling with guests, either strangers or her father’s family, who snubbed her or the courageous ones that veiled their insults cleverly, Zohra was to ready to escape when she found herself next to her new husband.

                His nearness unsettled her, an extra layer of awareness sparking to life. Or maybe it was that he had a habit of saying things that burrowed under her skin.

                A ten-layered white glazed cake that looked like a castle perched on the edge of a mountain was wheeled in front of them.

                She laughed and turned toward him. “This has to be the best part of wedding a prince.”

                His gaze lingered over her mouth a fraction too long before he responded. “A lesser man would take offense at that, Princess.”

                His hand was callused and warm over hers as they cut the cake, his breath an unwanted caress against her skin. Maintaining her smile took more effort than it should have. “It’s a good thing you’re not a lesser man, or even the average. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be so...”

                The cheers around them should have fractured the intimacy of the moment. Instead, a web wove around them and neither could dispel it. His long fingers brought a piece of cake to her mouth, and Zohra’s skin prickled. “So...?”

                Swallowing the cake past a tight throat, Zohra mirrored his actions. His mouth, opening and closing over her fingers, sent a shiver up her spine. Shaking her head, she struggled to find her voice. “So unaffected, untouched by...everything around you. You seem to want nothing for yourself, you...”

                “Who said I don’t want anything?” he whispered.

                His words washed over her like warm honey. Her gaze flitted to his lips as if drawn by a force she couldn’t fight.

                He really had the most sensuous mouth—full and lush, in perfect contrast to the sharp angles of the rest of his face. Longing, unbidden and powerful, reached and held tight inside her muscles.

                With that awareness also came a gut-clenching realization. This man, despite all his promises of expecting nothing from her, was more dangerous to her than a traditional prince could have been. Because she didn’t know what to predict from him. Like now.

                Suddenly, a flicker of such unbearable pain filled his gaze and she lost track of her thoughts. He hadn’t been fully smiling before—he never did—but at least there had been a gleam of indulgent humor in his expression. Now, his features were frozen into a cold mask.

                A servant approached them with a long, rectangular silver tray in hand, the contents of it hidden under the Dahaaran flag.

                Zohra could see the gleaming silver hilt of a sword encrusted with emeralds peeking from under the cloth.

                “It is yours now, Ayaan,” Queen Fatima said, her eyes filling up with tears.

                Zohra turned toward him when no response came from Ayaan.

                He looked at the sword as if it were something expressly sent to torture him. There was a deathly pallor to his skin while his gaze remained glued to the tray.

                Unease fluttering in her belly, Zohra looked to her new mother-in-law. For once, she was irritated at her own decision all these years to learn nothing of rituals and culture.