Stolen by the Desert King

by Clare Connelly

  She groaned at the invasion; the sweet, sweet invasion, but there was no time to let the pleasure unfold. He thrust into her again and again, his body punishing in its intensity, her own body captive to his.

  Breath burned in her lungs and desire was making her dizzy. She curled her legs around his waist but he wrapped his fingers around her thighs and pushed her legs wider before curling his hands around her butt and lifting her to meet his sweet, torturous invasion.

  It was a different pleasure – so much more intense than the slow-building ache of his mouth on her body, this was fast and loud, like a balloon bursting. She pushed up to sitting when her orgasm reached fever pitch and he drew her body to his, his mouth seeking hers, his tongue lashing hers in time with his arousal’s possession. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and held onto him for dear life but he didn’t allow her the time to process the feeling. He held her against him for only a moment, enjoying the shuddering of her breath as it ripped from her body and the exaltations of her muscles, squeezing his length in frantic rebellion and then he lifted her easily, holding her to him, keeping himself deep inside of her as he stepped away from the bed.

  The water against her feet was unexpected and she bucked in his arms, but he held her low on his arousal, his mouth still seeking hers. It was warm, though, and the feeling of being immersed in the pool as he buried himself in her was a pleasure she almost couldn’t fathom.

  When he was waist deep, he tilted her backwards, so that she was floating on the surface, and he drove into her, holding her weightless form by the hips so that he could possess her with all of himself. She whimpered when his mouth crushed down on her breast and her next orgasm was the fiercest of all. He watched her, holding her still this time, holding himself still.

  Her moans were soft and yet they filled the space, echoing around the ancient room. He rolled his hips and she shuddered with awareness.

  And then he moved once more and his own body was tipping over, his seed spilling into her, his heart heavy in his chest.

  There was silence afterwards, and an almost eerie stillness, heavy in the room.

  He held her, watched her floating on her back in the crystal clear water, and gently eased her back to sitting, wrapping her around him. Her hair was wet, her body heavy with exhaustion.

  And he understood that feeling – could remember his own sexual awakening, though it had been many years ago. He could recall that sense of having been drugged; the way pleasure spread through one’s body and weakened it. As opposed to how he felt in that moment – strong. Superhuman.

  He carried her from the water in his arms and placed her on her feet back on the marbled tiles. It was the first time she saw the stacks of towels – a pale colour and enormous. He wrapped one around her shoulders, patting her dry, rubbing her body, crouching in front of her to be sure even her ankles were dried, and then he stood.

  “There is a door to your room through here.” He put a hand in the small of her back, gloriously naked, her eyes holding the wall ahead.

  She frowned as she turned to it.

  But Khalifa was walking now, guiding her to it.

  “Our rooms are linked through this corridor.” He turned a key in the door and it sprung open, revealing a small tunnel with dim lights on either side. She could just make out another door at the opposite end.

  Kylie nodded, waiting for him to shut the door.

  He didn’t.

  “My days are busy. But I will send for you at night. Or come to your room.” He took a step back, his expression distant and unfamiliar. “Aïna will answer any questions you have.”

  He was dismissing her?

  She blinked up at him, her confusion obvious. “Are you … you want me to … you don’t want me to stay?”

  His eyes drew together, his brows thick and low on his forehead.

  “Why would I want you to stay?”

  Colour stained her cheeks. Pain slashed her heart and her body, still weakened by his attentions, iced over. She bit down on her lip, searching for something she could say. Something brave and pithy.

  And for a second she thought she saw a softening in his expression – a softening that promised humanity and normality. Then, it was gone.

  “This is not a real marriage.” He spoke slowly, as though comprehension was an issue. “It is important that you remember that.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KYLIE TOLD HERSELF THAT she wasn’t waiting for him. That she was simply sitting in bed reading. But as the night bled into the middle night and her body began to revolt against its desertion, her temper increased.

  So he wasn’t coming for her?

  Well, fine.

  She folded the page of her book over, placing it on the bedside table at her side and crossing her arms over her chest.

  Her own bedroom was every bit as beautiful as the room they’d made love in. Though it lacked the incredible swimming pool beneath the bed, it boasted ancient timber doors that led to a Juliette balcony. It overlooked the city in one direction and the desert in another and there were exotic plants in pots that formed the impression of a jungle in the sky. She stood restlessly, her feet bare as she padded across the tiled floor towards the outside world.

  It had been a balmy day – hot and sultry – but the night was cool. She pushed the doors outwards with relief, enjoying the desert wind that grazed her skin and spread cool over her flesh. A bird sung as she moved and she paused, trying to catch the direction from which its distinctive call came. The desert. She moved to that side of the balcony, lifting a flower from a bush as she went, breathing in its intoxicating sweetness.

  Everything was more. More fragrant, more heady, more beautiful.

  She arched her arms over her head and then propped her elbows on the balustrade, staring out at the land, seeing the way the wind shifted sand with its invisible strength.

  Even the sky took on a different quality here, in this small country on the edge of the world. It was inky and black, but somehow liquid, and clouds whisped across it like ships lost at sea. The stars sparkled but they were powerless to guide the clouds; they floundered and forgot.

  Her day had been busy, if not exactly productive. As with the day before, a steady stream of servants appeared, all under Aïna’s guidance, to consult with Kylie. A chef spent an hour inquiring as to Kylie’s preferred meals, asking if there were favourites and when she generally liked to eat. Kylie had expected to fit in with local customs; in fact, one of her nannies had refused to let her eat anything other than Argenese food and as a result she had grown to love many of the nationalistic dishes, like goats cheese with dried quince and lamb cooked with honey and pomegranate. She’d even acquired a taste – though it had taken quite some time – for the spread that was made from pistachio and orange peel – a really nutty marmalade that people tended to love or hate.

  So having a chef who was prepared to cook her anything she desired was unexpected.

  Kylie had furnished him with a list of her favourites, though truly, she wasn’t sure she cared and then Aïna had shown in the next appointment; this time, a tailor. A tall, slender woman with impeccable hair and makeup, dressed in a colourful gown, flat leather shoes and dozens of bangles that had made musical sounds as she’d gesticulated.

  She’d measured Kylie, held swatches of fabric to her skin to determine which colours were most flattering and then she’d measured Kylie all over, her fingers moving deftly. She’d seen the bruising on Kylie’s neck – it was far worse a day after the fact and she suspected it would continue to worsen over the coming days – but had said nothing, simply strung her tape in a different direction and jotted something down in her book.

  “There will be a cobbler to measure your feet and he and I will coordinate with outfits,” she nodded.

  “Is this really necessary?” Kylie asked Aïna when they were alone once more.

  “Of course, madam. You are the Queen of Argenon. What do you expect?”

  She bit down on her
lip, the overwhelming realisation that she was, indeed queen of this ancient kingdom, sat strangely around her shoulders.

  After the tailer and the cobbler there’d been the Keeper of the Jewels, an intimidating man who must surely have been a century old, holding a leather diary in his waxy fingers. He sat beside Kylie and spoke reverentially – though his reverence was reserved for the subject matter of his book rather than his royal appointment.

  The photographs in the book showcased jewels – and not ordinary jewels, either. There were crowns and tiaras and chokers filled with diamonds, enormous gems that would be weighty and incredibly expensive.

  Kylie had flipped through the book, her bewilderment growing as the man insisted she choose which she preferred for ceremonial occasions and which she liked best for every day affairs.

  It was an enormous task, for Kylie would have preferred to go sans tiara as much as possible – an opinion that was not welcomed, apparently.

  “Please tell me that’s the end of it,” she’d said to Aïna when they were alone again.

  “No, your highness. But I can reschedule the rest for tomorrow, if you’re tired.”

  “Yes,” Kylie nodded, though she wasn’t tired so much as utterly out of her league. “Thank you.”

  The shelves in her room had been filled with books and there was also a Macbook and an iPad.

  She’d read on and off and emailed Mel, keeping the news bland and boring rather than admitting to the confusing change of events.

  But the day had seemed to drag forever and several times she found herself standing by The Door. The one that would lead back to his bedroom. She’d stood by it, listening, her heart paused, her pulse softened, her breath held.

  And then she’d realised what she was doing and forced herself to move away. To pretend interest in another book. Another email.

  But the charade had worn thin now.

  A frown tugged at her lips. Finally, the thoughts, the questions, the riddles she’d been nudging aside all day moved into the middle of her mind and refused to budge.

  Why had Khalifa interfered? Was it just to prevent her marriage into the powerful Haddad family? And was her family’s name so powerful that their marriage really would have posed a threat?

  She tried to remember the stories. The stories her father had told; her mother had repeated. Stories she’d grown up hearing and never really understood, but that she’d loved anyway because her parents had spoken softly, in hushed tones.

  She moved back inside and reached for the iPad on autopilot, then returned to the balcony. There was a low chair with a tapestried cushion on its base. She curled up into it, tucking her knees up to her chest and leaning back, typing into the google box:

  THE MAHA ISHAN FAMILY; ARGENON.

  It took only seconds and then thousands of sites appeared. She ignored Wikipedia and scrolled lower, finally landing on a geneology website that she knew to be reputable.

  She clicked on the link and drummed her fingers as she waited for the page to load. It didn’t take long.

  It was mainly text but about halfway down there was a reproduction of a painting – the couple were featured on their wedding day and, Kylie’s cheeks flushed pink, the woman wore a dress strikingly similar to the one Aïna had dressed her in.

  Her finger touched the picture lightly but the iPad flinched at the confusing instruction and she withdrew her hand, flicking to the top of the page instead and reading with an interest she couldn’t believe she’d never really had before.

  From the seventh century AD through to the nineteenth century, the Maha Ishan were considered one of the most powerful families of Argenon. Originally desert traders, skilled at crossing the sand dunes of Argenon, they established routes of commerce between the sea and the communities that were spread across the desert.

  In the sixteenth century, the family moved away from the desert and from trade, their wealth enormous. They settled into the capital city but it was not long before their wealth bred power and power unsettled the ruling family.

  War was inevitable and it was as vicious as it was barbaric.

  For a century the country battled before a truce was effected. But the military efforts were expensive and many lives were lost. A third family began to prosper and their power and influence almost challenged that of the Al Asouri and Maha Ishans. The Haddids – Kylie’s heart twisted. Though the spelling was different, surely it could only be referring to the Haddad? – mounted a challenge to the throne of the Kingdom and for seventeen days they succeeded, killing almost the entire ruling family before a party that had been hunting to the South returned and waged a late night ambush on the palace.

  The moat of the palace of Argenon was dug days later, and it is rumoured that the Haddids were made to serve as slaves for the construction. The Al Asouris were back in the palace but the threat of civil discontent rumbled beneath the surface for another hundred years. It was Lina Maha Ishan who sought to put her own family into power – she formed an alliance with a young member of the Haddid family and planned to marry him. If she’d succeeded, their marriage would have been a grave threat to the fragile power of the Al Asouris.

  The plans were discovered and the Maha Ishans were exiled from Argenon. The Haddids mostly left by choice, only a few members remained.

  It is believed the Maha Ishan family eventually settled in Australia but their ties to the country of Argenon are now relegated to the ancient past.

  Kylie flicked her eyes up to the desert, her expression troubled.

  If only.

  Nothing about the past felt ancient.

  It was reaching through the veils of time with offensive ease and wrapping fingers around her. Fingers that made her heart clutch.

  Why hadn’t she questioned her parents’ plans more?

  The piece she’d just read was simply the first act to her own life’s story. How was she still taking part in an ancient blood grudge?

  The desert winds changed direction, and they sped up, spinning with newfound intensity and sending sand across the sky and lifting it to her. It grated against her skin, into her eyes and she turned her back on it, moving inside, where a small amount had preceded her and formed a sort of gritty carpet at her feet.

  She shut the doors as the wind intensified further and she could hear the sand grinding against the doors and walls. With curiosity, she strode to one of the glass windows and climbed up so she could see through it.

  A sand storm?

  Surely it must have been. She could hardly see there was so much of the stuff in the air beyond the window. The night sky was black behind it, but the stars had disappeared; the clouds too.

  A shiver ran down her spine and she stepped backwards from the window, towards the bed. But she wasn’t tired.

  She lay down, staring at the ceiling, listening to the noise of sand against the palace, her hands curled across her stomach.

  The door stayed resolutely shut and she wondered at what Khalifa was doing. Was he thinking of her?

  Was he wanting her?

  Or was he regretting this marriage?

  How could they have done anything but marry, though? She saw now the impossibility of her union with the Haddads, and so too why they were so desperate for it to go ahead! What a fool she’d been! An impulsive idiot!

  And why had her parents gone along with it?

  They sold you, azeezi.

  His words pierced her brain, like tiny daggers she was powerless to ward off. She had no shield for the truth, but still, she almost couldn’t quite believe it.

  Her parents had loved her.

  She closed her eyes and snuggled into the luxurious linen sheets, breathing in the fragrance of vanilla and lavender. It wasn’t until she felt wetness on her cheeks that she realised she’d been crying.

  Why?

  Had shock made her dim-witted?

  She blinked her eyes open, staring at the laced walls that surrounded the bed, and she thought of Sydney. Of the apartment she’d live
d in, knowing the Haddad family to be paying for it. Knowing that she was promised to a man. She thought of George Randall, the boy she’d had a huge crush on all through school and told herself she could never, ever speak to. She thought of when he’d finally asked her on a date, in senior year, and she’d looked down her nose at him – because it was easier to walk away from something if he thought – like everyone else did – that she was a boring snob.

  And was she?

  Kylie couldn’t really remember who she was. For years, only Mel had been her friend. Only Mel had seen beneath the façade and the veneer. Only Mel had persisted. She’d held a mirror up to Kylie that she’d so badly needed – a mirror that showed her who she was.

  Destined to marry a man she’d never met, sure, but so much more than that.

  She’d loved her degree, but had even that been an attempt to block herself from feeling? Mathematics. It was a systematic and ordered subject and she’d always been drawn to it for that reason. She loved the methodical ways numbers made sense.

  Because people didn’t.

  People were unreliable and confusing.

  Kylie had never really been good with people.

  Where was Khalifa? What was he doing?

  *

  The bed smelled like her. He inhaled her fragrance, staring up at the sky through the glass of his ceiling, watching as sand doused the palace. His body was tense, aroused with a need to bury itself in her, to feel her, taste her, smell her, pleasure her.

  But his mind was reaching through time, fingering the past in a way that made him uneasy.

  Selena would be furious with him.

  How many times had she told him to let the past go? To forgive and forget – just like she had apparently done?

  The painful truth of her relationship with Fayez was far from her mind, or so she claimed. But he saw the scars. He saw the way her confidence had fled, her easy smile deserted her; the way she jumped at anything above a whisper.