Frowning, Zohra struggled with the overwhelming urge to turn tail and disappear. She already had a healthy amount of dislike for any state affairs, and Prince Ayaan’s long-suffering attitude toward her presence on top of that grated at her.
She reached his side and the group widened to include her. Her nerves tightened at the press of Ayaan’s hard muscle beside her and all she could hear was the amplified thud of her heart, the whistle of every hard-fought breath, as he introduced her.
Ayaan’s palm lay against her lower back. She shivered, wondering if there was a brand on her skin in the shape of his palm. Zohra couldn’t remember the names of the two men and their wives a second after they fell on her ears.
How could she react so strongly to his presence while he barely tolerated hers?
He turned her toward him slightly. “I hope you have recovered from the wedding, Princess.”
A stinging response rose to her tongue. Pulling a deep breath in, she looked around and checked her impulse to shout at him in a very unprincesslike way. “You are actually deigning to speak to me?” she whispered.
He blinked at the animosity in her tone.
“Of course, state functions. That was in the rule book, wasn’t it?” She was acting like a child, but she couldn’t dismiss the image of Ayaan bracing himself to face her. Indifference and resentment had wounded her more than she had thought. And facing the same again...
“One of the times you will sigh deeply and suffer my company instead of banishing me from your presence.”
His hands locked behind him, he studied her with an intense gaze as if he could drill into her head and read all her secrets and fears. His mouth flattened, his ire nothing but a spark in his golden brown gaze. “And here I was afraid that you were far too clever than I ever wanted my wife to be, Princess.”
Rooted to the spot, Zohra stared at his back and spent the next two hours wondering what he meant. The informal social gathering complete, they were led through a narrow entrance, flanked by uniformed guards dressed in Dahaar’s navy blue.
Surprised by the security measures, Zohra was about to ask Ayaan when huge, ancient doors opened in front of them.
It was a scene unlike Zohra had ever seen.
A roar went up instantly at the sight of Ayaan. They were in a marble-tiled hall, ten times bigger than the huge throne room with at least a thousand people standing upon the wide staircase on the other side and more falling into a single line behind security ropes around the perimeter of the hall.
With every cheer and greeting that came from the crowd, Zohra felt Ayaan freeze next to her, inch by painful inch as if someone was injecting ice into his very veins. She heard Queen Fatima whisper Ayaan’s name, saw the king’s concerned pat on his shoulder but Ayaan didn’t budge.
He could have been the statue of a centuries-old warrior for all the life she felt in him.
Seconds merged and a tiny ripple of shock spread through the group around them. The cheers from the crowd began to pale into something else. Zohra stole a look at Ayaan and her breath hitched in her throat. His face looked as if someone had poured concrete over his features, his nostrils flaring as he fought to breathe.
Was this what he faced every time he walked in front of a crowd?
Her throat tight, Zohra reached for his hand. He didn’t budge. She moved closer, clasped her fingers around his.