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.