The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin(31)

‘Aarif…’

He moaned aloud, felt himself slip under the sea, the salty water filling his mouth, his lungs—

‘Aarif.’

There was no cry this time, no desperate rending of the air. Instead the voice was quiet, gentle. Forgiving. Aarif broke free from the water, climbing to the surface, and found that the sea was still. Calm.

Lying in his bed, he felt the dream recede from his consciousness like a wave from the shore, slowly slipping away until there was nothing left but silence and peace.

Zafir was gone. He was no longer crying out, no longer pleading for help, and Aarif knew he would not hear his brother’s desperate voice again.

The realisation was a blessing tinged with sorrow, and Aarif felt a sense of relief, of release. The dream was gone, and he was no longer afraid.

He opened his eyes to see the first pink finger of dawn creep across the sky, and took a deep, shuddering, healing breath.

It was finished.

Aarif swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to the window. Outside the desert shimmered in the morning light, and the air was still fresh and cool.

Today was Kalila’s wedding day. He pictured her in her bedroom, lying in her bed—had she suffered a sleepless night as he had? Had she had bad dreams?

Yet she, he knew, was responsible for the banishing of his own nightmare. He felt, for the first time in over twenty years, at peace with himself. Forgiven.

That, he thought, was Kalila’s gift to him.

What would his gift to her be?

I thought you loved me, but if you really did you’d be willing to take the risk.

If he loved her. Of course he loved her; he loved her spirit and her sense of humour, her honesty and her honour. He loved the way her eyes reflected her every thought and feeling, like a mirror to her soul. He loved her with every fibre of his being, heart, mind, body, and soul. And he knew then that Kalila was right; you couldn’t throw that kind of love away.

You needed to take a risk.



Kalila awoke to the same dawn, the soft pink light streaking across the sky in pale fingers. Her body ached and her eyes felt dry and gritty; she’d barely slept at all.

As she lay in bed she heard the palace stirring to life around her: the cheerful twitter of sparrows in the garden, the whistling of a kitchen servant gone outside for an errand.

Today was her wedding day. Strange, she thought distantly, how it failed to affect her now. She felt dull, leaden, lifeless. The life had drained out of her last night, when Aarif had let her walk away.

Had she thought he wouldn’t? Had she actually believed that Aarif might confront Zakari, insist on making her his bride? Kalila’s mouth twisted in a grim smile. It seemed incredible now, and so it was.

Aarif didn’t love her, or at least not enough. And that was all that mattered.

Although now, she supposed, it didn’t matter at all; what mattered was her marriage, and the life marked out for her as Queen of Calista, King Zakari’s bride.

A brisk knock sounded on the door, and before Kalila could bid someone to enter Juhanah peeked her head around.

‘Good morning, Princess.’

‘You’re awake early,’ Kalila said, trying to summon a smile and failing.

‘And so are you. Today is a busy day.’

‘Yes.’ Kalila knew she sounded completely unenthused, but she knew she could be honest with Juhanah. Later she would need her energy to present the charade of a loving, happy wife. Now she leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

‘Kalila.’ Juhanah perched on the edge of the bed, one plump hand resting gently on Kalila’s arm. ‘You must not torture yourself like this.’

Kalila opened her eyes. ‘I can’t help it, Juhanah.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper, conscious even now of who could be listening. ‘I don’t want to marry him.’

‘No, and I am not surprised,’ Juhanah replied with a sad little smile. ‘You have not even seen him! He has not courted or wooed you, there have been no flowers, no jewels, not even a letter or message.’

Kalila shook her head, managing a wry smile. ‘That wouldn’t have made a difference.’

‘No? You think not?’ Juhanah arched one eyebrow, clearly sceptical. ‘If you knew your bridegroom was eager to meet you—to bed you—then you would not have looked to Aarif for attention.’

‘I understand what you are saying,’ Kalila said quietly, wanting—needing—to be honest, ‘but it wasn’t like that. I never expected to fall in love with Aarif. There was very little to love about him at first, you know. But even if Zakari were here, dancing attendance on me, it would have happened.’ She thought of Aarif’s words: it is written. Perhaps it was. ‘I could not have kept myself from it, Juhanah, even if I tried, which I confess I did not.’

Juhanah regarded her quietly for a moment, her lips pursed. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘it is finished now. Today you will be a bride, a wife, and there is no place for Aarif.’ There was a note of warning, even censure, in Juhanah’s voice that made Kalila blush. What if her nurse knew the truth of that night apart? Or had she already guessed it?

‘I know that, Juhanah. I doubt Aarif and I will even speak in private together again.’ How would they deal with one another? she wondered. How would she survive seeing him every day, pretending he was no more than an honoured brother? How would he cope with seeing her as Zakari’s wife, holding Zakari’s children, when the only children she wanted were—?

Kalila let out a sudden, choked cry as the enormity of Aarif’s decision last night hit her with a hammer blow. He’d exiled her for the rest of her life, forced her into a prison of unhappiness that she would never escape.

‘Kalila,’ Juhanah said gently, her hand tightening on Kalila’s arm, ‘you must let it go. Let him go. Your future is with Zakari, and by God’s grace you can still love him as a wife should.’

The thought was anathema, yet Kalila knew Juhanah was right. Zakari was innocent, if negligent; she could still try to be a good wife to him. It was the only hope she had, thin thread that it was.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ she managed at last. ‘I know it, Juhanah. It’s just so very hard right now.’

‘Of course it is,’ Juhanah soothed. ‘I shall fetch your breakfast. Take a moment to compose yourself, ya daanaya, for the other women will be here soon and you will not be left alone all day.’

Juhanah spoke the truth, Kalila soon realised, for after breakfast her room was filled with a flurry of women, servants and siblings and guests, who were eager to help in the preparations. Kalila felt like a spectator, a ghost; she let herself be dressed, her mother’s antique white gown sliding easily over her slight curves—had she lost weight? She let her hair be teased into a high cluster of shiny curls. She let her face be painted, and pearl drops fastened in her ears, a magnificent Calistan diamond necklace around her throat.

The sun was high in the sky, the palace courtyard filled with spectators and guests, luxurious black sedans and sports convertibles as everyone began to assemble for the wedding of the decade.

The wedding was in less than an hour, and Zakari still wasn’t here.

Kalila choked down some lunch, although her stomach seethed with nerves. She felt awkward and stiff in her wedding gown, unused to the endless yards of pearl-encrusted satin, the veil’s comb that dug into her scalp. She felt hot and uncomfortable, and almost desperately she searched for some kind of happiness or hope to carry her through the rest of the day.

‘Come, they are waiting downstairs,’ Juhanah said. The room had finally emptied out of people and Kalila was alone, blessedly alone. ‘You must be ready.’

Kalila swallowed. It was time. Time to face her destiny, her duty. ‘Is King Zakari here yet?’ she asked, her voice dry and papery.

Juhanah shrugged, but then Kalila heard the answer to her question in the hectic whirring of a helicopter above the palace. She moved to the window, and saw the helicopter with the Calistan royal insignia descend to the helipad. It was Zakari, she knew it was, and in a moment she would see him—

Then she saw another figure striding towards the landed helicopter, a figure that was familiar and beloved. Aarif. Aarif was going to meet Zakari, and suddenly Kalila knew that he was going to tell him everything. He wouldn’t be able to keep from being honest, no matter what the cost to either of them.

Kalila closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight.

‘Come, Princess,’ Juhanah murmured, pulling her away from the window. ‘There is nothing for you to see. You will see your husband as you walk down the aisle. That is as it should be.’

Kalila nodded, and let herself be led away. Her mind and body was numb, blessedly numb, as Juhanah led her through the palace corridors to a sitting room Kalila had never seen before.

‘You will wait here,’ Juhanah said, ‘until it is time. A servant will knock on the door when it is time to go out.’

Kalila nodded. The wedding ceremony, she knew, was in the formal reception hall of the palace, an ornate room with marble pillars and a frescoed ceiling. She’d seen the servants setting up chairs there yesterday, row upon endless row.

It was tradition, borrowed from the Greeks, for the groom to hand the bride her bouquet, and distantly Kalila wondered if Zakari would remember her flowers. But of course he wouldn’t have to; someone would hand him a tasteful bouquet of roses or some such and he would give them to her with a smile as if he’d chosen them himself…