The Last Prince of Dahaar(26)

                They spent the entire day greeting Dahaarans who had traveled long distances to meet their prince and his new bride. And the hardest part was that all through the day, he kept touching her. He never completely relaxed but after the first hour, he became less tense.

                Of course, Queen Fatima had warned her that there were eyes and ears watching their every move, hungrier than usual about the crown prince who was finally entering the political arena of Dahaar and his first formal ceremony with his new Siyaadi bride.

                The little touches of his palm at her back, the brush of his hand against hers, were more for public display than anything else, but they affected her strongly nonetheless.

                Her fingers tingled when he clasped them with his own, her heart thudded, every inch of her body thrummed as if they were alone instead of in a sea of people, as if he touched her because he craved it, because he needed to.

                And despite her best efforts, Zohra kept forgetting that the man she had married sought nothing for himself. Not pleasure or power or fame.

                The prince of Dahaar did everything he did in the name of duty.





                                      CHAPTER FIVE

                AYAAN ENTERED THE vast hall and took his seat opposite his mother while his father sat at the head of the centuries-old dinner table. And just as it did for the past few months, instantly his throat closed up, an unbearable stiffness setting into his shoulders.

                The ancient, handcrafted table that probably weighed a ton, the colorful walls hanging with handmade Dahaaran rugs that showcased historical Al-Sharif events, the high circular ceilings... Every time he entered the hall, he felt as if he entered a tomb, as if he was being slowly but surely smothered by every inanimate object in the room.

                Not to mention the fact he couldn’t even look at his parents. Nodding at them, he settled into his chair. The weight of their attention was like a heavy chain on his shoulders.

                Shying his gaze away from her, he answered his mother’s inquiries about his day with single word answers, wondering why today felt even more painful than the past week.

                The whole family together for dinner. Even before their family had been broken by tragedy, it had been a tradition his mother had enforced as much as possible. But never had it been such an exercise in pain as it had become since his return.

                “Where is Princess Zohra?” his father asked, and Ayaan frowned.

                Two weeks since their marriage, two weeks of countless political dinners and public appearances, and Zohra had somehow become the buffer between him and the outside world, even between him and his parents. Because whatever else his wife was, she was not a silent creature.

                Listening to either her questions about the various ceremonies or her perceptive inquiries about state affairs and watching her struggle to curb her temper and her tongue—sometimes successfully, sometimes not—had become a daily ritual in itself. And looking at his father, Ayaan realized it was not just him that had become used to the princess’s presence.

                “Princess Zohra is completing the final wedding ritual and should be joining us any minute,” his mother announced.

                The uncomfortable silence descending again, Ayaan fidgeted in his seat, restless to leave. “Can we begin dinner?”

                “No.” An implacable answer from his mother which meant she was in full queen mode. It was a term his siblings and he had coined together.