The Last Prince of Dahaar

CHAPTER EIGHT


AYAAN STARTLED, WIDE-AWAKE, sweat beading on his forehead, the bed sheets tangled around his legs. He pulled on his sweatpants and walked to the veranda of his new suite.

The sky was gray, with dawn’s first light still a little while away. But he could see the hubbub of activity that had begun near the helipad in the grounds behind the palace. The cold air chafed his bare chest and face, settling deep into his pores. But he couldn’t move.

Ground lights illuminated the path, while the lights of buggies used to transport luggage lit the path to the helipad.

One week, all he had to do was to spend one week in the clutches of the desert, in the very place where they had been attacked, where he had seen his brother and sister fall.

Fear fisted his stomach with cold, hard fingers, choking his breath. He gripped the metal balustrade with tight knuckles, reminding himself to breathe through it. It was just his mind playing tricks on him.

But nothing helped. Instead of fighting it, he gave in to the shivers quaking through him and slid to the ground.

He was the crown prince of Dahaar, second son of King Malik Aslam Al-Sharif, a descendant of the Al-Sharifs who had ruled over Dahaar and the desert for ten centuries. Their history was rich, violent, immersed with stories of men who had conquered the desert in all its harsh glory, who had found a way to survive in its unforgiving climate and created a livelihood for their families and tribes.

And he, Ayaan bin Riyaaz Al-Sharif quaked with fear at the thought of a journey into the desert. Shame pounded through his blood.

The conference hadn’t happened in six years. One more year would not matter, his father had said, concern softening his shrewd eyes.

And Ayaan had indulged the idea, had felt relief at the temporary reprieve. Until he had seen the one woman whose very presence reminded him of every weakness he couldn’t defeat, taunted him with the offer he couldn’t accept.

Zohra.

Neither could he wipe the memory of how she tasted. She was a madness in his blood, rivaling the one in his mind.

How many things would he put off, how many duties would he postpone because he feared he was not enough, because he was afraid of what might push him that last step into the darkness waiting for him? He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to know, he had to try, even if he fell over the cliff. He had lost everything in the desert, he had lost himself, but he couldn’t let it take any more from him. When he looked at Zohra next, he wanted to have the knowledge of at least having tried, even if he failed.

Or history might as well erase his name from the majestic Al-Sharif dynasty.


* * *

Zohra hugged herself tight, shifting from one foot to the other. Her long-sleeved tunic and leggings underneath would be too warm in the desert sun, but even with the pashmina she had wrapped around herself, it was not enough for the early morning chill.

She blinked as the wind buffeted her from both sides. The idea of spending a week in the desert, amid strangers with only Ayaan for company was enough to turn her inside out.

But she couldn’t just wait around, wondering if she would ever be able to break from this life, wondering if she would ever have something reaching normal. So she had contacted her old organization and taken on a new project. Meeting the tribal chiefs of Dahaar was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. Not even for Monaco.

“What are you doing here?”

She steeled her spine and turned. The guards and the maids waiting behind them watched Ayaan and her with a hungry curiosity that was becoming the norm.

His face a study in cold fury, Ayaan stood a few feet from her. The frost in his eyes could cut through her skin given half the chance.

“I’m waiting,” she said, aware of the tremor in her voice. “Just as you are, for the captain to say that it’s okay to board.”

His hand clamped over her arm, his scowl fierce. She could feel every ridge, every groove of his fingers, heard the fracture in his harsh breathing. Her belly dipped and dived, the memory of how his mouth had devoured hers seared through her.

“Into the tent. Now, Zohra,” he said, flicking his head at a small tent nearby.

Zohra followed him, glad that one of them was keeping an eye on propriety.

All of Dahaar was greedy for every little detail about him. His country loved him but it was also waiting with bated breath, wondering if he would lose it, wondering if their prince would descend into that pit of darkness from which he had risen.

Because even with the strictest confidentiality enforced in the palace, it was clear that their prince was spiraling, toward what no one knew. He worked at a ruthless pace that left normal, healthy people dropping in exhaustion, he was extremely rude to anyone who dared defy him, his relationship with his parents was strained.

He was like a wounded animal that was raring to maim and hurt anyone who dared come close.

Not that anyone could question his sanity or his decisions regarding Dahaar. Not after the past ten days where he had spent countless hours in negotiation with the Sheikh of Zuran building a strategy to counter the terrorist groups that were a threat to all three nations of Dahaar, Zuran and Siyaad. The same groups that had tortured him, that had killed his brother and sister. Not after two terrorist cells had been taken down in one month under his strategic planning.

The media had declared that he was a better statesman than his father was and speculated about the leaps of progress that Dahaar would make under his rule.

If he survived the year...

And standing on the sidelines, watching him push himself without interfering, Zohra had never felt more powerless, more useless.

The moment she entered the tent, he reached her. After ten days of keeping her distance, Zohra was starved for the sight of him.

“Believe me when I say this, Zohra. I have zero patience today. Now, why are you not on your way to Monaco?”

Zohra frowned. Tension radiated from him, the skin tugged tight over his lean features. “I decided to holiday later. Right now, I’m coming with you to the desert for the tribal conference.”

“I know how much you have embraced your duty, Princess,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone, “but let me tell you the truth. No one truly cares whether you are present or not.”

His words cut to the weakest part of her. “True, but without me who will dare to tell you that the veneer of civilization is slipping, Your Arrogant Highness?”

“This is the first conference with our tribes in six years.” His tone gentled, his gaze lingering over her in an almost pacifying way, the intense hunger in it belying his casual words. “If you are there, your safety will weigh on me.”

She had never felt so aware of another person, so clued in to every nuance in a word they said, every gesture they made. She wanted to shake him and comfort him at the same time. “I’m not a stranger to desert life. I used to run a project in Siyaad that—”

“I know about your Awareness Projects, Zohra. You travel to the desert in teams and educate the tribes about basics—hygiene, disease, education, women’s health.”

“Then are you going back on your word and forbidding me from continuing my work, my life as before?”

He leaned close and her skin snapped to life. The faint scar on the top of his left eyebrow should have made him look flawed. Even just a little would have been fair. Instead, it only added to his powerful personality. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? I think nothing would make you happier than if I became that arrogant bastard you envisaged that first night in Siyaad.”

She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “If you turned into an arrogant jerk, and by the way you are halfway there, I wouldn’t have to worry about you killing yourself. I would be the merriest widow in the world, wouldn’t I? All the freedom and none of the duties.”

His mouth touched the corner of hers, and her knees wobbled. Molten heat prickled along her skin even as she cursed her betraying body. “Is Faisal going to be there, Zohra?” He whispered the words into her skin—an assault on her senses and a cutting insult all wrapped in one. “Is that why you are so eager to return to work?”

She pushed his hand from her, tears gathering in her eyes. “You think I proposed starting a life with you ten days ago and now am panting to see Faisal again? I guess you really are no different when it comes to what you think about me, are you, Ayaan?”

She turned away from him, hating the fact that he could wound her so easily. His opinions were beginning to matter too much, and yet she had no way to stop it.

Before she could take another step, he pulled her back to him. He held her loosely this time, his thumb catching the tears that threatened to fall. “Ya Allah, I’m not worthy of your tears, Zohra.” The frost in his gaze thawed, his mouth lost the tightness. He ran a hand through his hair, looked around, as though searching for the right words. His gaze found her again, hungry, intense. “I spoke without thinking. That remark...it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. Please accept my apology.”

The air left her lungs in a loud whoosh. “Then accept that I’m coming with you, Ayaan. I did nothing to violate our agreement in the past ten days. I stayed far away from you and believe me, it was a miracle in—”

“You exist, Zohra. That is torment enough for me.”

Her heart skidded to a halt. His words spoken through gritted teeth were soft, and yet rang with a depth of emotion. The hungry intensity of his gaze was etched into her mind, the naked want in it inched its way around her heart.

He turned around and walked out.

Hugging herself hard, Zohra stared at his back. Familiar resentment flared at his dismissal. She should turn around, she had never ventured where she was not welcome before.

But she had also spent eleven years doing everything she could to prove that she cared nothing for Siyaad. Perversely, her every action had been shaped by the very thing she refused to be dictated by.

Nothing she had done had been because she’d wanted to do it. She had thought she had loved Faisal, that she hadn’t fought back against her father’s family because she’d never wanted a place among them, now...now she was not sure of anything.

But when it came to the man who had married her...she wanted to stand by him. Not because it was her duty, not because of what it would mean for her future. But because she wanted to.

It was a crystal clear sign in a sea of murky actions motivated by her anger toward her father, by years of hurt that she had nursed into bitterness.

She had no name for what drove her to it, she didn’t even understand it.

But whatever demons haunted Ayaan, she would stand by his side while he battled them. For however long she could.