The Last Prince of Dahaar(23)
Her legs shook beneath her, a gaping void opening up in her gut. But she refused to let him see the nagging hurt his words evoked. He was not the cause of it, she knew that, but his words were a reminder of the most painful fact of her life. Since her mother had died, she had not belonged anywhere. Her life felt as if it was a repeat telecast of the worst moments; indifference and resentment. “Unless you want me to make a spectacle of myself and roam around the palace at this hour of the night in the inconsequential gown underneath this robe, I suggest you get off your high horse and find yourself a different bed for the night.”
He reached her before she could blink, his hold on her wrist inflexible, leaving Zohra no choice but to follow. “As you might already be guessing with that smart head of yours,” he said, his jaw so tight that she wondered that she could hear his words, “not only is the man you married uncivilized but he is also a coward who loathes sleeping anywhere but in his quarters.”
Because of his nightmares?
Her chest tight, Zohra stared at his profile as he tugged her through the door. She swallowed the question, shrugging off the instant concern that stole over her.
She had no idea how far they had gone until they were standing in front of another set of doors. But by the thick silence around them, Zohra knew they were still in the same wing.
“This has to work for tonight.”
With that curt statement, he turned and left, leaving Zohra speechless in his wake. Tucking her arms around her, she ventured into the huge room. Now that she was awake, the scent of attar and rose that clung to her skin cloyed through her, the sensitive rub of her thighs making her aware of her state of undress.
Using the velvet-covered footstool, she lugged herself onto the antique bed and lay down. She shivered, even though the room was comfortably warm. Silver threaded white cotton sheets rustled as she settled in, the silence creeping into her skin.
She stared up at the canopy of the bed, shameful tears pooling in her eyes.
Hadn’t she lived through this same lonely moment too many times to be still weighed down by a stranger’s indifference to her?
Zohra had known what she was taking on for Saira’s sake and yet she couldn’t shake the loneliness that twisted inside her, the crippling fear that she was bound to spend her entire life alone.
* * *
Stepping over the threshold of the State Hall, Zohra smiled for the first time in the week since the wedding. She was wearing an extremely comfortable and stylish pink pantsuit thanks to her personal stylist, and, for once, Zohra felt she could handle the day ahead.
It was the first official public event that Ayaan was attending since the wedding. Her gaze focused on Ayaan who, Zohra had noticed, rarely met his mother’s eyes. Queen Fatima had walked them through every event that had been planned for the day. Even Zohra knew that it was a job for a political aide but she had a feeling the queen had taken it on so that she could spend some time with her son.
A small crowd had already gathered, including Ayaan’s parents. Clad in a slate gray suit that hugged his wide shoulders, Ayaan stood at the opposite wall. His jaw clean-shaven, the unruly waves of his hair combed back, he looked every inch a commanding prince who had come back to Dahaar and its people against all odds.
He stood near his father and two other suit-clad men, but the way he stood, slanted away from the group, with a smile that curved his mouth but didn’t touch his gaze, Zohra felt his isolation like a live thing, almost as if there were a fortress around him.
A hush fell around her as everyone noticed her entrance. Her skin prickled with awareness like a warning beacon just as those golden eyes landed on her. And she saw the infinitesimal tightening of his shoulders, the long indrawn breath, as if he were bracing himself.