The Last Prince of Dahaar(80)

                He had kept Zohra’s face at the forefront of his mind through it all, drew strength from the image of her warm smile, rooted himself in her belief that he could beat anything.

                He had bent but he had not broken.

                Now he was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and he ached to see her, to hold her, to share this fresh grief with her.

                Ya Allah, he would give anything in that moment to hold her.

                Pushing away from the door, he walked past the sitting area into his office beyond.

                And as though he had conjured her out of his very imagination with sheer desperate craving, there was his wife, pacing the floor. Emotion knotted his throat, rooting him to the spot.

                He must have said her name aloud because she was hurtling toward him before he could blink. She hugged him tight, then stepped back, her gaze hungrily sweeping over him.

                “I heard the news. Is it...Is he...” She frowned. “How are you taking it? You look...exhausted.”

                Ayaan blinked, a host of emotions vying within him—the need to hold her tight against him was the strongest. He sucked in a deep breath, greedy for the scent of her.

                Until she had spoken, he hadn’t realized how good it was to be asked, to know that his state of mind mattered. Of course, it mattered to his parents too, but right now, they needed him more than he needed them.

                She was dressed in stylishly cut gray trousers and a light blue silk blouse. The delicate arch of her neck, the strong pulse thudding there, the stubborn jut of her chin, the flare of her arrogant nose—he was starving for the sight of her. Shaking his head, he tried to focus on what had bothered him about her statement. “Only four people know that he is alive.”

                “Khaleef told me,” she said, the concern in her voice fading back. “And before you bring down your wrath on him, remember this, Ayaan.” Her voice broke on his name, but she continued, her chin tilted high. Pure steel filled her words. “I care about Dahaar, about the king and the queen. I have every right to this information.”

                Despite the journey to hell and back in the past two days, Ayaan smiled. And in that very moment, he saw what he had been too blind to realize until now. This beautiful, amazing woman was a gift he had been given and due to his cowardice he hadn’t been able to accept it. “Are you done, ya habibati?”

                “No. And you can’t send me back to Siyaad either.” Her words reverberated with a confidence that brooked no argument, but her tight fists at her sides gave her away. “I refuse to hide, refuse to lick my wounds in private as I have done for so long, refuse to let someone other than me decide my fate, decide what I deserve and what I don’t.

                “Whether you want me or not, I am your wife. I have a right to live in Dahaara, a right to learn everything I need to be the Dahaaran queen, a right to your parents’ love. I have earned my place, Ayaan. And if you can’t bear the sight of me, then it is on your head. But you try to send me back and I will show you what a Siyaadi princess is truly made of.”

                It was the most magnificent sight he had ever beheld. His heart pounded in his chest. He moved closer and ran his fingers over the pulse beating frantically at her neck. “Adding to my nightmares, Zohra?”

                The resolve in her brown eyes melted, giving way to the cutting pain she hid. It punched him in the gut. “If that is how you see me, then so be it. But I have never wanted to be the cause for your—”

                “Shh...I meant it would be a torture to be near you and to not touch you, to not hold you.” He breathed into her hair. Tugging her toward him, he held her at her waist, loosely, striving for control over himself. “All I feel is joy when you are near, pure, freeing, like I have never felt before. How can you think you bring pain?”