TO DEFY A SHEIKH

by Maisey Yates

“Nothing about this suits me,” she said.

  “That’s not good. Because I’m attempting to make you smile, and if nothing suits you, I won’t be able to accomplish that.”

  “You’re making me sound difficult.”

  “That’s not my intent. You are much less difficult than when we first met and you attempted to stab me. That considered, I would hate to get on your bad side again.”

  “Who said you were off of it?”

  Their conversation faded out and she settled into the horse’s gait. And eventually, she settled into him. Her neck got stiff, a kink forming in the side, and she looked at the perfect pocket, just there, between his shoulder blades.

  It would alleviate the pain. If she could just rest against him for a second.

  She lowered her head. He was solid, but it wasn’t uncomfortable at all. The fabric of his shirt was damp with sweat, and she didn’t find it at all disagreeable.

  That only increased her discomfort.

  She could hear his heart, thundering in his chest. Could feel the shift of his muscles as he moved with the horse over the desert sand.

  She turned her face slightly and caught the scent of his skin. Of the sweat. Really, none of it was disagreeable at all. Which…made it disagreeable in its way.

  Samarah shifted and tightened her hold on him, her palms flat against his stomach. He was hard there, too. And she could feel his muscles, the definition of them, even with the fabric of his shirt separating her hands from his flesh.

  She’d seen his muscles, so she knew just how very defined they looked. And she also knew about the body hair. Which she found much more fascinating than she should.

  She stared at the horizon line after that, trying her best not to think too hard about Ferran’s body, and the way it felt beneath her hands. Or the way it looked without his shirt.

  It was only because she was trapped against him that she was thinking this way.

  The ride stretched on forever. She got hotter, and she got more restless. And her thoughts weren’t calming down. Her body wasn’t, either. She would have thought you just got used to being pressed against someone eventually, but apparently you didn’t.

  At least not when that someone was Ferran.

  “We’re here,” Ferran said, his tone hard, tugging back on the horse’s reins, bringing his behind pressing hard between her thighs and sending a jolt through her body.

  She curled her fingers into his shirt, desperate to hold on to him. And desperate to jump off and run screaming into the desert until she could figure out what the hell was wrong with her.

  She looked around his shoulder, and her body slowly released the tension it was holding fast to. The oasis was beautiful. A lush green blot of ink against a dry, pristine background of bone-white sky and pale sand.

  “Hang on to the saddle,” he said.

  She obeyed and he slid down off the horse, then held his hands out.

  “Seriously?” she asked.

  “What?”

  She swung her leg over the side of the horse and slid down onto the sand, landing deftly on her feet. “I’m not a delicate flower, Ferran. Do not treat me like one.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “You just tried. Now, where is it we’re staying?”

  “Are you wilting?”

  “Be careful, or I will bite you. I believe I owe you on that score.”

  His expression sharpened, the look in his eyes intensifying. “I can’t say I’m entirely opposed to you biting me.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Perhaps not to you, habibti. But if I conduct our marriage in the proper manner, it will make sense to you soon.”

  “I don’t see how it could.”

  He just looked at her, and he appeared to be amused. And she felt heat—both anger and other sorts of heat, sorts she didn’t want to contemplate—rising in her.

  “Your imagination is sadly lacking.”

  “You bit me once already,” she said. “I felt nothing.”

  Her stomach pitched, both because she was lying, and because she was reliving the scrape of his teeth over her skin. It was such an intimate thing. And right then, she started connecting all the dots.

  “Surely people don’t bite each other when they…” She snapped her mouth shut.

  “Not always. And I meant no more than I said.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said. “About there being no hidden meaning, not…not about the biting. I believe that, I just… Where are you going?” He’d taken the horse by the reins and started leading him away.

  “I thought you wanted to see where we were sleeping tonight?”

  “Fine. Lead the way.”

  “I am.”

  They walked farther into the oasis, shielded by a rock formation, and by a thick growth of trees that grew taller as they edged closer to the waterline.

  The water was like a sheet of glass. Reflecting the trees, the sky and sun from the still surface.

  “This is incredible,” she said. “Are there…don’t a lot of animals come here?”

  “I’ve never seen many, not when I have a fire going at night. And it’s rained recently, so this isn’t the only water. Though, you should watch for snakes.”

  “I don’t like snakes,” she said, her focus going to the ground as she watched the placement of each of her steps.

  “I’m not a huge fan of them, to be honest, but for the most part, you won’t be bothered by them.”

  “Yes, well, sometimes in floods, they would slither into the rooms I was staying in. Fortunately, not usually poisonous ones. But…but sometimes the odd viper would pay me a visit. So, your nickname for me is somewhat fitting.”

  “You don’t have to worry about snakes tonight,” he said. “I’ll build a fire now.”

  “It’s hot still.”

  “A precaution. The tent is this way.”

  She followed him down the well-worn trail that led deeper into the trees, and out to the far side of the small lake. She stopped when she saw it. “It is not exactly a tent.”

  The “tent” had permanent walls, with windows, and what appeared to be a broad canvas stretched over the roof and anchored into the ground. There was a small deck off the front that went over the water.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “My escape, I suppose. Something much simpler than the palace. And quiet. I come out here whenever I visit the tribe. And sometimes for no reason at all.”

  “Do you bring women here?”

  She was curious. Fascinated by who Ferran was as a man. Not as the monster she’d built up in her head, and not even as the man he was around her. But the man he’d been for the past sixteen years. The man who, apparently, had a retreat. And who knew biting was a thing that could be exciting. And who undoubtedly had been kissed many times. And had lovers.

  Yes, she was very curious all of a sudden, who this man was. Because she had to know her enemy. The enemy she was preparing to ally herself with.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t bring women here.”

  “Where do you bring women?” she asked.

  She was curious now. And she wanted to know the answer. She wanted to know about these women, who knew about how it felt to be pressed up against his back, and to feel his stomach. And…more.

  She despised the fascination. It was like giving in to the desire to watch a fight breaking out on the streets. To take in the horror, the anger and blood. To be both drawn to and repulsed by what she was seeing.

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Because I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…because I am supposed to be your wife.” It was the first time she’d said it. The first time she’d felt li
ke that position might matter. Like it might really be real. Like she was making real steps toward their treaty, rather than just standing in a holding pattern, contemplating the merit of escaping, or exacting revenge of some kind. “It seems like I should know these things about you.”

  “I don’t,” he said, his tone hard.

  “What?”

  “I don’t…conduct affairs.”

  “Never?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I…I don’t…”

  He swept past her and into the dwelling.

  She looked inside. “This is very much not a tent. Just as your car was not a camel.”

  Yes, the ceiling was swaths of draped fabric; beneath it stretched canvas that she imagined was completely waterproof, but that did not make it a tent.

  There was formal furniture. It was spare, but very expensive looking. Wood and plush fabrics. Nothing as ornate as the palace. This seemed to speak more of Ferran, and not the rulers that had come before him. This was the man, and not the legacy.

  At least, it was a piece of him.

  She was digging for other pieces.

  “I confess, calling it a tent was slightly misleading.”

  “And the car?”

  “Yes, that, too.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t conduct relationships with women?” she asked. “I assumed…”

  “Why would you assume, Samarah?”

  Her cheeks heated. “I would have thought a man such as yourself would have lovers. Several of them. I remember how you were. Though, I suppose being naked with someone makes you very vulnerable to them. Sleeping with someone—they could kill you while you dreamed. I suppose…I suppose that means you have to be selective about lovers.”

  She wanted to know the answer because if she really was to be married to this man then it seemed like this was important information for her. It seemed she should know how he viewed sex. Why he had no lovers. If he was being truthful. Because if they were going to be married, they would share the marriage bed and all the intimacies that entailed.

  Intimacies she was woefully uneducated about.

  She’d heard sex spoken of in vile, crude terms. Had heard men make threats that were disgusting. Had heard prostitutes make allusions to things she hadn’t fully understood.

  She hoped there was more to marital activities than all of that. Really, she knew there had to be, because it was the thing that had driven their families to destruction.

  That was the part that scared her. The part of her that feared she would become a slave to it…the part that feared there was a part of herself that was undiscovered that would change completely when she finally found it.

  “Being naked with someone does not really make you all that vulnerable to them. And I never slept with any of my lovers.”

  “You didn’t? I was under the impression that…” She trailed off, not liking how innocent she was revealing herself to be.

  In so many ways she had no innocence. She’d been in the palace during all that horrible destruction. And then, back at home she’d survived the siege. There had been so much violence on both of those days. She’d survived homelessness, hunger, cold, heat, fear. Grief. So much more grief than one person could be expected to bear.

  But she didn’t understand the kind of connection that drove two people to pursue a romantic relationship. She didn’t understand sexual desire. Not in a specific way that existed between two lovers.

  It was her only piece of innocence really. Her physical innocence. Her emotions were jaded, her mind inundated with the cold ugliness of the world. It was only her body that remained untouched and she had fought fiercely for that. For her body was the one thing she had left that hadn’t been violated by the world.

  Still, she didn’t especially want him to know all of that.

  Have you ever been kissed, Samarah?

  She had a feeling he might know already. But she didn’t need to go revealing herself.

  “You do not have to sleep with someone just because you have sex with them. Though, perhaps in your case, since you lacked a steady bed it was easier to stay.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t sure if he was digging for information or not. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to give him any.

  “We aren’t talking abut me,” she said.

  “No. We are not. But that should answer your questions.”

  “It doesn’t really.”

  “Then perhaps you should speak more plainly so I can answer them. I am not playing guessing games with you, Samarah.”

  “When you say you do not conduct affairs…you are not…I mean, you have been with…”

  “I am not a virgin,” he said, the word dripping with incredulity. “I slept with enough women that they blurred together during my teenage years, but there was an inciting incident that put me off passion. I had a job to do, and I have not had the time to lose myself in pleasure since I overtook the throne.” His expression was hard, a dark, frightening rage filling his eyes. “Do you now feel suitably informed, Samarah?”

  No. Now she wanted to ask about the pleasure. The pleasure he was afraid to lose himself in. Wanted to ask what that meant to a man like him. Sixteen years of celibacy. What it would mean when he broke it. And if he really intended to break it with her. For them to… Now she wanted to ask a whole lot of questions, but she was stuck because if she did then she really would give herself away. And then she would be standing in a remote location talking about sex with the man who was caught in a fog in her brain. Somewhere between enemy and ally. Somewhere between monster and fiancé.

  It was all too weird.

  “I feel more informed. Yes. Are you going to start a fire?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll bring you your things. Why don’t you get settled.”

  “Where is my room?” She wondered for a moment if he would suggest they share. And that terrified her. And made her feel something else that she couldn’t quite place.

  “Whichever one you choose, I will take the other. Does that suit?”

  “As much as anything in this arrangement does.”

  “You flatter me,” he said, his voice clipped.

  Now he sounded annoyed with her, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what she’d done. And she shouldn’t care. So she wouldn’t.

  “All right, I will arrange my things. Enjoy building your fire.”

  “I’ll see you again for dinner,” he said. “If it rains, I will cook indoors.”

  “Do you expect it to rain?”

  “I always prepare for a potential catastrophe. Rain, flooding.”

  “All right,” she said, waving her hand, already going off to explore other rooms of the house. She badly needed a reprieve from his presence. He was making her say—and think—crazy things.

  She needed to get her head on straight. She needed to remember what it was she was doing here.

  That thought deflated her. She sank to the couch. What she was doing here was marrying Ferran Bashar, the man she’d sworn to kill. Because it was the right thing to do. For their countries. It was a greater good she couldn’t simply ignore.

  This was a true sacrificial act, not just something that would assuage the burning anguish inside of her. She’d talked herself into thinking his murder, and her subsequent death, a death she’d been nearly certain of, would be sacrificial. But perhaps not. Perhaps it had only been an act born of blinding rage and desperation.

  The same sort of rage that had driven her father.

  The thought hit her hard, a realization she slid sickly through her veins like cold tar. She was not her father. She was not a mindless rage machine who would destroy all simply to get revenge upon his wife and her new lover.

  And on the heels of
that realization, the other was cemented.

  She was going to marry Ferran. She was going to be his wife.

  God help her. It was real.

  A tear slid down her cheek and dropped onto her hand. And for the first time since her mother wandered into the desert and never returned, Samarah Al-Azem let herself cry.

  * * *

  When she stumbled outside an hour later, she didn’t feel any less stunned, but she did feel a renewed sense of purpose. Determination. She felt…she felt as if she was truly on a new path. As if she’d reconciled this change.

  At least in part.

  She looked up at the sun, which was resting low over the horizon now. A chill spread over the desert sand, along with a hazy blue blanket that seemed to thicken the air. Gnats swarmed over the reeds, and she batted them away from her face as she walked through the tall plants down to the water.

  She grabbed a large stick and let it go before her, doing a sweep for snakes as she went along.

  Thankfully, none had seen the need to get in her path.

  She came to the damp, cold mud and stopped, looking out at the water. The surface rippled, then broke, and Ferran appeared. He stood, his back to her, water droplets rolling through the valleys in his flesh, created by the hard-cut muscles that she’d been enjoying on the ride over.

  He took a step up toward the bank that was to the left, and the waterline lowered on his body, so that it revealed two deep grooves in his lower back before showing his…oh.

  He took another step and the water slid off his skin. And she could see now that he was naked. And he was…

  She’d never really looked at a man’s butt before. Not like this. Not one that was bare, and muscular and…well, bare.

  More importantly, she’d never been given to the urge to simply stare at a man like this, clothed or not. As a man and not a threat. As a man and not a mere weapon. But flesh and blood. He was fascinating. Especially with their earlier conversation playing through her mind, combined with the close proximity of the horse ride.

  And her recent acceptance, full acceptance, of the fact that she was to be his wife.

  Yes, it was all that that had her there, staring and unable to stop. Her mouth was agape. Truly. Her face felt like it was on fire and her heart…her heart was beating faster than she’d thought was physically possible.