The little touches of his palm at her back, the brush of his hand against hers, were more for public display than anything else, but they affected her strongly nonetheless.
Her fingers tingled when he clasped them with his own, her heart thudded, every inch of her body thrummed as if they were alone instead of in a sea of people, as if he touched her because he craved it, because he needed to.
And despite her best efforts, Zohra kept forgetting that the man she had married sought nothing for himself. Not pleasure or power or fame.
The prince of Dahaar did everything he did in the name of duty.
CHAPTER FIVE
AYAAN ENTERED THE vast hall and took his seat opposite his mother while his father sat at the head of the centuries-old dinner table. And just as it did for the past few months, instantly his throat closed up, an unbearable stiffness setting into his shoulders.
The ancient, handcrafted table that probably weighed a ton, the colorful walls hanging with handmade Dahaaran rugs that showcased historical Al-Sharif events, the high circular ceilings... Every time he entered the hall, he felt as if he entered a tomb, as if he was being slowly but surely smothered by every inanimate object in the room.
Not to mention the fact he couldn’t even look at his parents. Nodding at them, he settled into his chair. The weight of their attention was like a heavy chain on his shoulders.
Shying his gaze away from her, he answered his mother’s inquiries about his day with single word answers, wondering why today felt even more painful than the past week.
The whole family together for dinner. Even before their family had been broken by tragedy, it had been a tradition his mother had enforced as much as possible. But never had it been such an exercise in pain as it had become since his return.
“Where is Princess Zohra?” his father asked, and Ayaan frowned.
Two weeks since their marriage, two weeks of countless political dinners and public appearances, and Zohra had somehow become the buffer between him and the outside world, even between him and his parents. Because whatever else his wife was, she was not a silent creature.
Listening to either her questions about the various ceremonies or her perceptive inquiries about state affairs and watching her struggle to curb her temper and her tongue—sometimes successfully, sometimes not—had become a daily ritual in itself. And looking at his father, Ayaan realized it was not just him that had become used to the princess’s presence.
“Princess Zohra is completing the final wedding ritual and should be joining us any minute,” his mother announced.
The uncomfortable silence descending again, Ayaan fidgeted in his seat, restless to leave. “Can we begin dinner?”
“No.” An implacable answer from his mother which meant she was in full queen mode. It was a term his siblings and he had coined together.
His chest tightened at the recollection as Ayaan turned to the side and froze. One by one, the entire palace staff was entering the hall. The senior ones took their seats on low-slung divans along the perimeter of the wall while the rest of them stood in between. Almost a hundred of them and they were all dressed in their best, their pride and joy at being included shining in their gazes.
Another group of servants laid down numerous empty glass bowls with tiny spoons all over the huge table.
Straightening in his chair, Ayaan turned back to his mother. The restlessness in his limbs shifted, curiosity now rooting him to his seat. “What is the ritual, mother?”
“Every new Al-Sharif bride has to cook dessert for the family,” his mother said, a hint of complaint in her tone. “Zohra somehow managed to postpone it until now.”
Ayaan smiled. He could very well imagine Princess Zohra stomping with frustration somewhere. “But why is the entire palace staff here?”
His mother glanced in the direction of the entrance, the lines of her mouth tight. “They are all here to taste the dessert she cooks along with us, Prince Ayaan. It is a centuries-old tradition to give the staff a way to welcome the new bride, to give them a chance to feel that they are an integral part of the royal family.”
Blinking, Ayaan leaned back against the chair. He had no idea if the Siyaadi princess could cook. For the first time in months, a strange anticipation filled him. But no matter what, he knew he was in for an interesting couple of hours.
Not just today, any time spent with his unconventional wife was always interesting. At the least.
He looked over to his right just as Zohra arrived at the entrance to the hall accompanied by fanfare and an army of excited servants.
Spying the anxiety in her gaze, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, Ayaan felt the most uncharacteristic surge of concern. From the corner of his eye, he could see Zohra approach the table with dragging footsteps that clearly said she wanted to be anywhere but here. In her hands was the centuries-old, gleaming silver bowl he remembered seeing long ago. Behind her, similar bowls were being carried by the kitchen staff and laid beside the low-slung divans where the palace staff were seated.