An elaborate feast was laid out in the center on a low table, the aromas wafting over and tickling Zohra’s nostrils.
Then came that musky scent with something else underneath it that meant Ayaan was moving close. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her vision limited, every other sense came alive at his nearness.
Her hands, tucked in her lap, trembled as he came near.
She could pinpoint the exact moment his gaze fell on her, in the way the very air around them charged with tension.
One of the women burst into Arabic just as he neared her, something between a song and a poem, a beautiful melody that filled the space. Her heart hammering in her chest, Zohra fought to stay still as he tugged the edges of the veil and lifted them up to reveal her face.
His face a mask of tension, he lifted her chin, turned toward the room and said, “My bride and your future queen, Crown Princess Zohra Katherine Naasar Al-Sharif.”
His voice glided over her skin. She fought against the shiver that threatened to root itself into her very bones. Congratulations, spoken in Arabic, overflowed around them.
She struggled to stay still as he sat down next to her, the solid musculature of his thigh flushed tight against hers. Keeping a smile in place, she unlocked her hands and turned. “Shouldn’t it be me who is furious, Ayaan? After all, you unveiled me like I was a gift.”
His mouth was a study in his fight to calm himself. “On the contrary, it is respect that they offer you. The tribal leaders won’t look upon your face unless I grant them permission. Just as I wouldn’t presume to speak to a sheikh’s wife without proper introduction.”
“Like we were your prized possessions.”
He held a silver tumbler to her mouth, and she realized the whole room was watching them, their own tumblers raised in mirroring actions. “Drink, Zohra.”
His command brooked no argument. Zohra took a sip clumsily. Heat spiraling to life between them, the intimacy of the simple action stole her breath. A drop of it lingered at the corner of her mouth. Ayaan swiped at it with a long brown finger. Desire flew hotly in her blood as though he had lit a spark on her skin with that contact. The cool sweet liquid did nothing to dim the heat blossoming inside her veins.
His gaze staying on her, Ayaan took a sip from the same tumbler and a cheer went up around the room.
“At one point in time the tribes were barbaric people, fighting with each other, among themselves for their very survival. In the last century, civilization has taken root but only a little. In this world, women still need protection—whether from other members of the tribe or other tribes or even royalty themselves. It is a mark of respect, of reverence, something that is taken very seriously. And my duty, whether I agree with their principles or even their form of life, is to respect and protect it.”
He turned toward her, and Zohra felt the force of his gaze right down to her toes. Triumph glittered in his eyes, turning them into an indescribable golden hue. “Have you had enough of playing at duty, ya habibati? Are you ready to admit that this world is not for you?”
A month ago, or even a day ago, she would have agreed with him, would have been intensely frustrated at the very least. She still was, if she was honest with herself. Sitting there like a package to be unwrapped went against every grain of belief she had fought hard to retain in this world.
But she had also seen and heard firsthand what an important role women played in the tribe’s hierarchy from her discussion with the women this afternoon. It was not a life she could see herself living, but she understood it.