The Last Prince of Dahaar(72)

                She had been a sight to behold when she had addressed the nation of Siyaad after her father’s funeral.

                Ayaan had finally understood why King Salim had pushed for this marriage. He had thought marriage to the crown prince of Dahaar would achieve for Zohra her rightful place in the world, remove the stigma of her birth.

                And yet, in just a week, Zohra had proved how wrong her father had been. She had needed neither the weight of the Dahaaran crown behind her nor Ayaan’s support—either as her husband, or even as a man who could validate her place in Siyaad, in the way their archaic culture dictated.

                But the primitive instinct in him that had somehow been nurtured by his madness of five years had risen to the forefront again. Why else would he feel things an educated man, a man supposed to lead his nation on a path of progress should be ashamed to even think?

                Her strength in the week following her father’s death, her confidence in taking on any number of challenges without quaking, the conviction of her own beliefs—Ayaan had been alternately amazed and weighed down by it, the worst of his fears crystallizing into undeniable truth.

                Resentment was an acrid taste in his mouth, followed by utter shame at the level he could sink to.

                He was a worse man than he had ever thought that he had indulged, even if for a few seconds, the idea of Zohra being a weak woman, of Zohra needing his help, of Zohra leaning on him for strength.

                Even growing up with archaic customs that elevated a man while downplaying a woman’s role, he still had never looked down on a woman. How could he when he had grown up surrounded by his mother’s quiet strength, Amira’s cutting wit and incredible confidence?

                And yet Zohra’s strength had only brought out his inadequacy, the bone-deep chill that said she deserved so much more than he gave her.

                After knowing the resentment and sheer indifference Zohra had faced for so long, after hearing the echo of that pain still reverberating in her words, this conflicting whiplash of his own emotions, the wave of his intense desire and the crest of his self-condemnations, this was what he had to give her?

                Caught up in his own personal pain, he had retreated from her, instead of standing by her. Of course, he had been by her side for all the public ceremonies and state functions. But he had not once inquired after her as a husband, had not offered a moment’s comfort as a lover, had not even extended the minimum courtesy of meeting her eyes.

                Because he had been terrified that she would see the truth in his eyes.

                And still she came to his bed, she still sought him out, she still wanted to share his nightmares.

                She would forever try to save him while he would damn her.

                Even that realization was not enough to keep him from her. The greed inside him to be near her, to touch her, to feel her hunger for him, had no bounds or rules.

                Pulling the long tunic he wore over his head, he climbed onto the bed. He turned on the bedside lamp, and lay on his side, content to watch her. He pushed strands of her silky hair back from her face.

                Leaning on his elbow, he rubbed the pads of his thumb over her mouth, the familiar ache in him building with the velocity of an approaching storm. He sucked in a deep breath.

                He had accepted long ago that it was always going to be like this with her. Nothing had changed. The pleasure he found with her was intense, binding him to her. He rode the wave at night, until nothing but self-loathing remained during the cold light of the day.

                This fierce princess had become his salvation and his purgatory.