He turned away from her, signaling an end to this conversation. “You’ll have to accompany me to the hammam.”
Whatever she had been about to say misted away. Enjoying a minute of uncensored, unwise desire she felt for him without guilt and shame was one thing, accompanying Azeez Al Sharif to what was essentially a steam room was another.
She had delivered babies, she had no false modesty or squeamishness left in her. But this was…him.
He halted at the door. “Unless you think what I ask is beyond the bounds of propriety and want to call the whole thing off, Dr. Zakhari?”
She fisted her hands, wanting to wipe the mockery off his face. He was constantly going to try to push her to leave. “There are servants to help you there, Azeez.”
“Do you know that Ayaan had all the old servants, like Khaleef, people who have seen me as a baby, reassigned to work in this wing?”
She frowned, remembering what her father had said. “Yes. I thought it a good security measure since you insist on not letting the people of Dahaar learn that you’re alive.”
His mouth set into a bitter line. “These are the same people who carried me on their shoulders in the palace, taught me how to ride a bike, celebrated with me when my father announced me Crown Prince. These are people who have known me my entire life, Nikhat. And now, when they look at me, all I see is their pity. That pity…Ya Allah…” He sounded tortured, his shoulders shaking with the enormity of it. She wasn’t the only one who had loved him—the entire palace, all of Dahaar had worshipped their magnificent prince. “It haunts me day and night, jeers me for the mockery I have become. I hide from my parents and yet…there they are, silent witnesses to my inadequacy, to my guilt.”
He turned away from her. Ayaan had truly no idea how much his brother was suffering inside these walls. “If it scares you to be around me, helping me, then say the word, latifa. But I will not accept help from anyone else.”
That resentment would have frayed her at one time, but not anymore. Each little facet of his pain that she saw only strengthened her resolve.
Somehow, or especially because he wanted to punish her by keeping her close, he had decided she would be the one he leaned on. And even though every word from him, every moment spent with him, poked holes through her will, she still wanted to do this.
She met his gaze, striving for a casualness that she was far from feeling. “I used to feel overwhelmed and afraid and thrilled and God knows what else by you, all those years ago. I don’t anymore.”
His gaze swept over her cotton tunic top and leggings. “I can see that. Living away from Dahaar apparently suits you very well. You will have to change out of those clothes.”
“I’m your servant, remember, not your spa buddy.” That teased a smile from his mouth. “And I have already showered.”
He stiffened next to her, and slowly pulled his arm away. “I know. I can smell the scent of your jasmine soap. You smell exactly like you did eight years ago.” He said it as if it was a curse he was enduring. And for her, it was as if someone had sucked out the oxygen from the room. “But I’m going to need help and you will melt if you enter the hammam in those clothes.”
CHAPTER FIVE
IN THE END, Nikhat didn’t give in to his demands. At least, not completely.
The first room, which was a heat room, was an architectural marvel—a huge cavernous room with sweeping archways, its interiors made of gold marble that glittered in the billowing steam. Candles threw dim light around, just enough to spot the seats and pillars. The smell of eucalyptus filled the air, while crystal decanters in a variety of intricate shapes lay around.
Azeez lay on the marble platform in the middle, the pride of the room, his face down, his lower body covered by a thick, white towel. A concession for her.
Tendrils of her hair stuck to her forehead, her skin tingling and heating everywhere. Except to lend a hand as he settled over the marble bed, she hadn’t really helped him. But suddenly, she felt the most rampant curiosity to see his wound.
Seeing it wouldn’t particularly serve a purpose. And yet, she couldn’t talk herself out of it. From what Ayaan had said, Azeez spoke of his wound with no one, not even a doctor. But he had spoken of it with her, in a matter-of-fact voice that glossed over the horror of it, but still he had.
She was it—his doctor, his psychiatrist, his nurse and his friend. Had he realized what he had asked her to do? How had fate once again brought them to this point?
The timer she had set outside for thirty minutes pinged. Wiping her face on her sleeve, she made her way to him.