“I’m waiting,” she said, aware of the tremor in her voice. “Just as you are, for the captain to say that it’s okay to board.”
His hand clamped over her arm, his scowl fierce. She could feel every ridge, every groove of his fingers, heard the fracture in his harsh breathing. Her belly dipped and dived, the memory of how his mouth had devoured hers seared through her.
“Into the tent. Now, Zohra,” he said, flicking his head at a small tent nearby.
Zohra followed him, glad that one of them was keeping an eye on propriety.
All of Dahaar was greedy for every little detail about him. His country loved him but it was also waiting with bated breath, wondering if he would lose it, wondering if their prince would descend into that pit of darkness from which he had risen.
Because even with the strictest confidentiality enforced in the palace, it was clear that their prince was spiraling, toward what no one knew. He worked at a ruthless pace that left normal, healthy people dropping in exhaustion, he was extremely rude to anyone who dared defy him, his relationship with his parents was strained.
He was like a wounded animal that was raring to maim and hurt anyone who dared come close.
Not that anyone could question his sanity or his decisions regarding Dahaar. Not after the past ten days where he had spent countless hours in negotiation with the Sheikh of Zuran building a strategy to counter the terrorist groups that were a threat to all three nations of Dahaar, Zuran and Siyaad. The same groups that had tortured him, that had killed his brother and sister. Not after two terrorist cells had been taken down in one month under his strategic planning.
The media had declared that he was a better statesman than his father was and speculated about the leaps of progress that Dahaar would make under his rule.
If he survived the year...
And standing on the sidelines, watching him push himself without interfering, Zohra had never felt more powerless, more useless.
The moment she entered the tent, he reached her. After ten days of keeping her distance, Zohra was starved for the sight of him.
“Believe me when I say this, Zohra. I have zero patience today. Now, why are you not on your way to Monaco?”
Zohra frowned. Tension radiated from him, the skin tugged tight over his lean features. “I decided to holiday later. Right now, I’m coming with you to the desert for the tribal conference.”
“I know how much you have embraced your duty, Princess,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone, “but let me tell you the truth. No one truly cares whether you are present or not.”
His words cut to the weakest part of her. “True, but without me who will dare to tell you that the veneer of civilization is slipping, Your Arrogant Highness?”
“This is the first conference with our tribes in six years.” His tone gentled, his gaze lingering over her in an almost pacifying way, the intense hunger in it belying his casual words. “If you are there, your safety will weigh on me.”
She had never felt so aware of another person, so clued in to every nuance in a word they said, every gesture they made. She wanted to shake him and comfort him at the same time. “I’m not a stranger to desert life. I used to run a project in Siyaad that—”
“I know about your Awareness Projects, Zohra. You travel to the desert in teams and educate the tribes about basics—hygiene, disease, education, women’s health.”