“Queen Fatima, what is the significance of this sword?”
“It was my brother’s sword.” The answer came from Ayaan, who was still staring at it. “The one he was honored with when he was announced the crown prince of Dahaar.”
“I think Azeez,” the queen began, “would have been happy to see you take it for yourself, Ayaan. And what better occasion—”
“What Azeez would have wanted was to be alive. As he deserves to be.”
The words from Ayaan sounded like an anguished growl to Zohra. And she was sure she was the only one who had heard them.
In the next moment, Ayaan walked away without looking back, leaving a hall full of state dignitaries and distinguished guests staring after him with a mixture of curiosity and shock.
CHAPTER FOUR
AYAAN DRIED HIS hair roughly and threw the towel aside. He was bone-tired after his rigorous exercise regimen. It was the only way he knew of knocking himself out. Drown his body in so much physical strain that there was nothing for his mind to do but bathe him in sleep.
Sometimes it worked, sometimes he woke up screaming in the middle of the night.
At least he was in good shape. Khaleef, his bodyguard, a man he had known all his life, hadn’t let Ayaan run to fat and utter worthlessness in five years. His mind might be out of his control, but Ayaan intended to retain every ounce of control over his body.
He came to a halt, facing the doors of his suite. He hadn’t seen Zohra since he had stormed out of the Throne Hall.
He had been caught up in her beauty. But more than that, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from pushing past her prickly armor and boundaries. The same boundaries that he had forbidden her to cross with him. And yet with her by his side, the joy of the festivities had made a mark even on him, reminded him of who he used to be five years ago.
And then he had seen his brother’s sword. A stark reminder of why he was the one standing.
Several hours later now, the image of it refused to leave him alone. He pushed through the doors, came to the head of the bed and turned the light on. And stopped.
Wearing a gown made of the silkiest chiffon in the color of turquoise, Zohra lay sleeping against the pillows on his side. Instant heat swirled low in his gut. It was his wedding night, and his bride was sleeping in his bed. Even half the man that he was, he couldn’t remain immune to the breathtaking beauty of the woman.
She slept on her back, her hands raised above her head. The swirls of henna across her skin were beautiful and his gaze swept over her body.
Her delicately arched feet were also decorated in the same deep red intricate design disappearing beneath the gown at her calves.
The dress swirled around her slender form and yet managed to drape silkily over every curve and dip. Over her legs and her thighs, over the indentation of her waist and finally over her breasts.
Hundreds of golden threads were worked around the neckline, the weight of which pulled the fabric down. Giving him a view of the upper curve of one breast. They were small and rounded and he couldn’t move his gaze from the sight.
Desire ripped through him and even the simmering anger he felt at her presence couldn’t wash it away. He moved closer without knowing it. She smelled divine, like roses and attar and a rich, erotic fusion of both with her own scent.