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.
CHAPTER NINE
SITTING AROUND QUIETLY while Ayaan discussed important matters with the sheikhs of eight different tribes, dressed in an elaborate silk gown that weighed a ton, Zohra wondered what she had gotten herself into.
It was her own fault for talking herself into this trip at the last minute and jumping in without learning anything. She didn’t wish she hadn’t come, just that she had come armed with knowledge. Like why she was sitting on the biggest divan in the tent with her face hidden by a veil, being studiously ignored by everyone in the room.
The four times she had traveled to the desert encampments in Siyaad, she had been one of three women who had worked there. And no one, including Faisal, had known who she was in the beginning.
Which meant the tribal leaders had barely tolerated her and the other women, and only because their project had been authorized and funded by her father.
Everything had been completely different since Ayaan and she had arrived this morning. The fact that the future queen of Dahaar had graced them with her presence, something they had not been expecting, had thrown the tribal leaders into a hubbub of activity. And before she blinked again, the men had disappeared.
A velvet path had been laid out for her to walk on, and smiling girls dressed in traditional Bedouin clothes had thrown rose petals on it. Her trembling hand in Ayaan’s, Zohra had faltered. She had thought she would feel like a fake and yet, for the first time in her life, she was more excited than disinterested. Maybe because beneath all the fanfare, she was still going to do what she had always enjoyed or maybe because of the man standing next to her.
She had thought his anger over her presence would thaw. But instead, it felt as if she was sitting next to a volcano. Any minute, he was going to implode and she had no idea what would rip the shred of control that was holding him together.
From the cursory glance she had taken around her when they had arrived, she knew the tents were on scales of luxury she hadn’t seen when she had traveled before. The campsite was designed around an oasis of native ghaf trees. About four Bedouin-style tents made of richly patterned lambs’ wool were scattered around.
They had been immediately provided refreshments while women had arrived from the different tribes to welcome her. Within minutes, Ayaan disappeared leaving her under their care. When they had politely inquired if she was ready to listen to their requests, she had been shocked, even though it was what she had come for.
And so she had spent the afternoon, familiarizing herself with the different tribes, making notes herself, which had surprised the women again, given she hadn’t delegated the task.
She had barely rested in her tent when she’d been woken up to be readied for the night’s feast. Fortunately, her stylist had packed the emerald silk caftan the queen had had custom-designed for Zohra.
She’d let her maid dress her in the traditional way. Her hands and feet were once again decorated with henna, of the temporary kind this time. Her hair was brushed back and decorated with an exquisite gold comb with diamonds in between. Over it came the veil, woven with pure gold that fell to her upper lip.
When she had turned to the tribeswomen to refuse, one of them had smiled shyly, and burst into an Arabic dialect. Loath to remove that smile, Zohra had kept quiet.
Now, around fifteen men and women sat on smaller divans interspersed around them, all turned just a little bit toward the one she was sitting on. Ayaan was walking around greeting them one by one, accepting their gifts and passing them on to the guard standing back.