by Tara Pammi
“Fine. Have the original treaty and the amendments he is suggesting delivered to me. I will take a look.” Tugging Nikhat up along with him, he forced the fury rattling inside him to a corner.
* * *
Azeez barely kept his temper under control until Ayaan and Zohra vacated the vast hall. Planting himself in Nikhat’s way, he stood leaning against the closed doors.
“What kind of game are you playing now?”
She looked wary, a haunting strain around her usually placid features. “I’m not playing any game.”
“Just because we—”
She flinched and reached out a hand, as if to ward off an attack. “Please, Azeez.”
The poisonous words died in his throat.
Anything he would have said would have been wrong on so many levels. He didn’t want to cheapen or dirty what they had shared. His life had been enough of a wasteland for him to know that despite the past and the future what they had shared was special.
And whatever this restlessness simmering under his skin, that was gaining power inside him, that was beginning to fester as painfully as the guilt, it was not her fault. She had, as always, done what was required of her.
It was him. Suddenly, everything he had been so sure of a few weeks ago felt like shifting ground, and he didn’t know how to anchor himself.
He saw Nikhat swallow, struggle to speak. “I was about to remind you that you decided to do whatever you could to take the stress off Princess Zohra. It is why I am here, Your Highness.”
Her address felt like a slap in the face. “Do not call me that.”
She laughed and he turned to look at her. It was a low, haunting sound, so full of despair it made the hairs on his neck stand. “No? Can you hear yourself? I finally understand the audacity of hope in Ayaan’s eyes.
“How long has it been since you looked at yourself in a mirror, Azeez?
“You need a blood transfusion to be anything but the Prince of Dahaar. Not a bullet wound, not your self-loathing, not the fact that you are determined to live a half-life, nothing can change the fact that you are a prince through and through.
“Dahaar—its politics, its welfare, its economics—it’s the very blood that gives you life.”
“Enough, Nikhat.”
Instead of heeding his warning, she moved closer to him. Her gaze blazed with some unknown anguish, her hands fisted by her sides…the tightness of her shoulders, the tension in her lithe frame coiling tighter and tighter around them. And beneath all that, the heat of her body stroked the slow burn in him to a smoldering fire.
“Admit that a part of you craves it even now, admit how much it tortures you that Ayaan is taking your place, that it is Ayaan’s son who will be the next king of Dahaar. How much it galls you that Ayaan is taking everything that should have been yours?”
He flinched, the cutting fury of her words stealing into him, hurting him.
“Yes, it does. It tortures me that Ayaan suffers every night, it tortures me that my father and mother have to grieve their daughter—a daughter who was about to get married—it tortures me that wherever I turn, there’s still evidence of the destruction I wrought.”
She didn’t back down even then. Her lush mouth settled into a stubborn set, her chin tilting defiantly. “I know how much Amira loved you. Even if you were somehow responsible, she would have forgiven you, Azeez. She would have never wanted this…half-life for you.”
“But she’s not here. Because of me.”
“How? How is it your fault that a terrorist group attacked all three of you and killed her?”
“They didn’t attack us. I lured them there with bait. I passed on information that I would be there, set up a meet. They had been issuing threats for months.
“Without my father’s permission, without letting him know my dangerous plans, I planned to stay behind with a small unit and capture them. He dismissed that unit without my knowledge, and too late I realized Ayaan and Amira stayed back.
“They stayed back to talk to me. They stayed back because they were worried about me, because I had been avoiding them. And they were caught in the crossfire.”
He pushed the words out through a throat raw with ache and suddenly, it felt as if the choke hold of his own guilt and recriminations relented. Just a little. He felt her tentative touch on his shoulder, and shuddered at the thought of facing her.
But when he did, he didn’t see sympathy or pity. He only saw his own pain reflected there, he only saw grief.
And then it wasn’t so hard to speak anymore. It was a relief to put his agony into words, to let her see all of his sins, all of his guilt.
“I saw her take a bullet, Nikhat, one that should have been for me. I saw a bullet graze my twenty-year-old brother’s head. I saw them fall one after the other, I saw those bastards drag them away and I could do nothing.
“I brought destruction to them.
“And all because I had become reckless, because I hadn’t cared whether I lived or died.
“She’s dead because of me. My brother has nightmares to this day because of me. I let my emotions get the better of me. Because you left, I went on a reckless rampage.
“The Golden Prince, who had never wanted for anything, who had never had anything denied him, I couldn’t handle your rejection. That’s how emotionally strong I was. That kind of man, who can fragment so easily, that kind of man who’s at the mercy of his emotions, that man is not fit to be a king.
“But Ayaan is.
“There was a point when I thought Al Sharifs, the dynasty that ruled over these lands for two centuries, would end because of what I did. Ayaan’s news today…it fills me with joy, it feels like I can draw a breath for the first time. It galls me to look at him, yes, because he is a better man than I am.
“I do not care, however, whether it is he or I on the throne, whether it is my son or his that will rule Dahaar next. I’m not guilty of that sin.”
Nikhat rubbed the back of her neck with her fingers, rocking on the balls of her feet, her breath coming and going in hard bursts.
“Nikhat?” He grabbed her as she swayed. “Why do you care so much about this…about whether I leave Dahaar or not?”
“I don’t want to,” she said. “My life will be so much simpler if you leave. And yet, I see you and…” She had paid a high price, one he hadn’t asked of her, one that she suddenly wasn’t so sure about, so that he could do his duty, so that he could be the man he was destined to be, so that he could father the heir to the throne. “Leaving him to deal with all this when you can help, leaving him to deal with Dahaar, with your parents when you hold yourself responsible for all this, it sounds like the opposite of penance.
“This sounds like cowardice.”
“What would you have me do, Nikhat?”
The vulnerability in his words shook her, the trust in his dark gaze, how she wished she deserved it. She clutched his hands and tugged him toward her. She kissed his cheek, loving the raspy texture, holding him as if she never wanted to let go. “I think you have punished yourself enough. Your heart is your greatest gift, Azeez. But you won’t listen to me, will you?” She ran her fingers over his temple, tracing the strong lines of his cheekbones, loving him a little more in that moment.
How could she not?
“Tell Ayaan what you told me. Tell him why you want to leave, Azeez, the true reason. And if you still want to be punished, then accept whatever he decides for you as your sentence.”
She didn’t know if her answer angered him or affected him at all. He only stared at her for what felt like a long time before he turned around and left.
Nikhat reached for the wall behind her and crumpled against it. She felt as if she would shatter into a million pieces. Or maybe she already had and this was how it felt to fall apart.
&nbs
p; Do you think I care whether it is he or I on the throne, whether it is my son or his son that will rule Dahaar next?
It felt as if the one decision that she had built her life around had suddenly morphed, changed shape into a question rather than a statement, and the foundations of her life were fracturing around it.
Even when she had ventured toward happiness again with Richard, she had only been hurt by his sudden change of heart that he wanted children. It had made her realize that she had been right about not wanting to give Azeez the choice between her love and the throne.
But now she was caught inside a hell of her own making, hating herself, pitying herself, questioning every decision she had ever made to arrive at this point in her life.
Because, as long as she had been confident that she had done the right thing, she had borne any amount of pain, soldiered on with her life even after losing everything that had been precious to her. But if Azeez hadn’t cared whether it was he or his brother who inherited the throne, or whose child was the heir…
She sank to the floor in a boneless heap, and wrapped her arms around herself.
The only thing she understood amidst all that, the one thing she knew was that she couldn’t bear to see him leave, she couldn’t even breathe at the thought of not seeing him again, of not feeling his rough hands on her, of not feeling his hard body shudder in her arms, of not seeing that gaze sear through her, owning her, claiming her.
She had fought tiny little battles all her life to be able to follow her own heart, to be able to make her own destiny, to have the right to do as she willed.
Now she felt all that strength unraveling. All she wanted was to give herself over, body and will, into his hands, and forget everything.
She would always love him, she realized with a shudder. And she was desperate enough to hold on to him for as long as she could.
* * *
The next morning, Azeez paced the length of his brother’s office, shocked at the difference in his own mind since he had been here only a few weeks ago.
The room still dealt a swift kick to his gut, but at least he could breathe after those first few moments, he could bear to stand inside.
His mind, however, would not let go of Nikhat’s words.
Cowardice, that was it. Every action of his, every decision he had made in the last few years was full of his own cowardice, his ego, his dented pride. He had hidden it all under guilt, called it penance.
But she was right.
How could he walk away now knowing everything he did?
Maybe if Ayaan hadn’t brought him back, maybe if he hadn’t seen how much Ayaan needed him, maybe if he hadn’t learned today that he was going to be an uncle…he felt divided in half, the unrelenting questions pounding through him.
Maybe he was not fit to rule Dahaar, but he could still be its servant, couldn’t he? He could serve his brother, he could shoulder some of his burden.
Where was the honor in walking away from the wreckage he had created?
He walked to the portrait of his family, and let the tears prick behind his eyes. Maybe he was not completely broken. It had taken him years to realize what his father had always taught him.
His father, Azeez and Ayaan—they had all been born with a purpose—to serve Dahaar and its people. And for years, embroiled in in his own guilt and inadequacy, he had forgotten that. He had forgotten what he was capable of, he had forgotten what it felt like to be the man he was destined to be.
“Azeez?”
He turned around and faced Ayaan. His copper gaze curious, his brother stared at him warily. “Is everything all right?”
Nodding, Azeez pointed to the file he had left on the table. “I have taken a look at the amendments to the treaty. What Zayed’s committee is suggesting is not completely disagreeable. If I were the new high sheikh of Zuran, my first act would be to restore all the rights his uncle signed away to their oil. My guess is that he needs this to happen so that he can thwart the High Council. Remember, in Zuran, the High Council has the final vote on everything, even electing the sheikh. If we back his victory now, we will have gained a powerful ally, we can use this to better tax treaties, even.”
His shock apparent in his slow steps, Ayaan grabbed him in a sudden hug. A shudder racked his brother’s body. “I forgot how much you used to rub my face in the fact that you’re better than me at everything.”
“Believe me, Ayaan, I’m not.” For once, the memories that swamped him did not steal Azeez’s breath. He cleared his throat. “I have also prepared an official statement for you. Run it by your economic adviser. We cannot—Dahaar cannot—look weak to Zayed. By agreeing to this, we are showing good faith, not capitulating under his threat of war. He needs to understand that.”
His brother picked up the statement Azeez had written by hand, his brow tied. “This is brilliant.” Only then did he look at Azeez. “Were you up all night?”
“Yes.”
Pulling the chair back, Ayaan crumpled into it with a harsh exhale. The strain on his brother’s features intensified the thread of shame Azeez felt. “Because you are preparing to flee in the middle of the night?”
Azeez felt his temper flare but held it in check. He had deserved that. “My fate is in your hands, Ayaan.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will tell you why I didn’t come back, why I quake at the idea of meeting Father’s eyes, why I can’t bear to see Mother’s tears. And then you decide. You decide my fate and I will accept it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AZEEZ CLOSED THE door to his bedchamber. He was exhausted from little sleep last night and after the eviscerating discussion he had had with Ayaan.
There had been no judgment, no anger, nothing but shared loss in his brother’s eyes.
His brother and he had shed tears over their sister, he had seen what grief Ayaan hid under the strong facade, understood why the past haunted him in the form of his own nightmares, his worry for Zohra’s health, his mounting concerns about Zohra’s home country, Siyaad, and its administration until her brother Wasim came of age…
From every word he had said and every complaint he had left unsaid, it was clear that Ayaan was barely keeping up. They had both known and accepted that such was this life, that beneath the palaces and decadent lifestyles that the public saw, running a country was hard work, with peace treaties that fell apart at a minute’s notice at a perceived insult, it was strategy cloaked as diplomacy, it was sometimes picking the least evil choice in a host of bigger ones.
His father had shouldered it all with their mother by his side, and Ayaan would with Princess Zohra by his side. And Azeez would aid him, he would do everything he could to share his brother’s burden.
He would spend the rest of his life being his brother’s servant.
Instantly, his thoughts turned to Nikhat. He had been avoiding her, even as her words hadn’t left him alone. She had looked as if she would fall apart, as if somehow his grief had morphed her. He longed to hold her, kiss her, wanted to comfort her, and yet, he could not.
He wanted to tell her that he was going to stay in Dahaar, thank her for helping him find himself again, his sense of purpose again, thank her for sharing his shame and his pain…the list was endless.
But he wouldn’t stop there. He knew what it was to kiss her, to hold her and to know every intimate sound she made, and he couldn’t go back to not wanting that.
And to want her like that again, to let her tangle his emotions just as he was beginning to find a purpose to his life again, it was not acceptable.
He spied a rectangular yellow envelope on his desk marked Confidential and froze.
The reports he had requested four days ago while Nikhat had been sleeping in his bed had finally arrived.
He had no doubt it would have everythin
g he had asked for—photocopies of every doctor’s report that had been written about the woman who had skewered him with her questions, who was bent upon knowing every dark and cracked part of him. And a comprehensive write-up translating it into layman’s words for him.
Walking past the desk to the dark wood cabinet behind it, he extracted a crystal decanter and poured himself a drink. He hadn’t touched one in five weeks, not since he had thrown the bottle at her. He didn’t have to now, the sane part of him whispered. He needn’t have the drink, nor did he need to open that envelope and read what was inside.
He could trash it and walk away from this moment, forget he had ever requested it. He didn’t have to know what she had been through. Not even she was worth playing this dangerous game of wills with his own emotions.
He put down the glass with a thud that resonated around him. Tearing open the envelope, he pulled out the sheaf of papers and proceeded to read.
Report after report of words he didn’t understand, just as he had assumed. She had seen a lot of doctors, here and abroad. Finally he found the page that would make sense of the technical words.
Halfway through the succinct write-up, he froze, the very axis of his world tilting in front of his very eyes.
Nikhat might never be able to have children.
Suddenly, every word out of her mouth, every action of hers, made sense. She had left him not because she had loved her dream of being a doctor, her freedom more than she had loved him.
His chest felt tight, a hollow ringing in his ears.
What would he have done if she had told him the truth? He would have never thought any less of her, he would have…
His limbs felt restless, his skin too tight to contain the emotions within him.
She had never told him the entire truth. She had sacrificed her own happiness and his so that he could do his duty. She was every bit the magnificent woman he thought she was.
And with the realization brought threadbare hope and excruciating anguish. Anguish that she had never trusted him enough with her secret, trusted him enough with the truth.
