Because he hadn’t wanted to hurt his mother.
But he couldn’t bear it anymore, not when being near them stifled the breath out of him. So he had finally told her last night.
Ayaan had stood stiffly at the entrance to the day lounge she used, like one of the old iron-armored soldiers that adorned the palace, unable to move, unable to look into her eyes, terrified that she would touch him or even worse embrace him.
She had come to stand by him, and stopped suddenly as though realizing what her nearness did to him. “I will arrange a different wing for Zohra and you, away from the old ones. I only...want you to be happy, Ayaan.”
To which he had nodded, incapable of answering, and walked away without a backward glance. Even though, for once, he hadn’t felt like a pale shadow of his brother, hadn’t felt the ball of guilt around his neck.
There were still things unsaid between them; her grief and his isolation were indefensible walls. But in that moment for the first time in eight months, the tight band around his chest had eased a little.
And he owed it to Zohra.
Every time he saw her, a little bit of his hold on himself loosened, forever vanished in the face of his escalating need to touch her. The need to feel like he could connect with at least one person in the world, to feel like he wasn’t one man standing in the midst of a desert, alone. It was a dangerously seductive need.
Which was why he was standing here, waiting for his errant wife instead of on his way back to Dahaar.
He looked up as she appeared on the other side of the roof. A long-sleeved white shirt hugged her upper body, tucked into cream-colored jodhpurs. The outline of her torso, the long line of her thighs made his mouth dry up.
There was a strain on her features which fractured the mask of strength she donned so easily. She had left for Siyaad without a word to him, exactly as they had agreed. But her sudden disappearance had rankled more than he liked.
She stayed there, her gaze widening gradually.
He looked around, noticing what she saw. The rooftop glittered with hundreds of tiny, artistic lanterns lighting up the vast expanse, throwing orange packets of light everywhere.
A small table stood at the center of it, a traditional one of low height. A myriad of desserts sat atop it on silver plates, a silver jug with intricate patterns next to it. Two divans with plump cushions were placed either side of the table.
It looked incredibly romantic. A setting he himself would have orchestrated in another life. And he hadn’t noticed it until Zohra had joined him, as if she was the only one who could awaken things in him that were not for mere survival.
He reached her side and leaned against the wall, smiling at the stiff way she held herself.
Finally, she met his gaze, extreme wariness in hers. “What is all this?”
“I asked Saira to summon you here to meet me. And that we were not to be disturbed.” He looked around himself. “Apparently, Saira has a very active imagination.”
“And I have no idea how to wake her up to reality,” she said, shaking her head.
“Is it so unbelievable that for Saira, this life, this reality might not be so bad, Princess? Amira’s wedding had been arranged, too. And I know that she was extremely happy. If you love Saira, you have to accept her reality, too.”
She nodded without argument, her expression thoughtful.