The Last Prince of Dahaar. Tara Pammi

colors of his gaze that made her chest tighten, that made it a chore to pull air in.

      It was the unhidden pain that haunted those depths. His fingers caressed her wrists, as though to make sure she was there.

      He closed his eyes, his breathing going from harsh to a softer rhythm and opened his eyes again.

      It was as though she was looking into a different man’s eyes.

      His gaze was cautious at first, openly curious, next sweeping over her eyes, nose, lingering on her mouth, until a shadow cycled it to sheer fury.

      It lit his gaze up like the blazing fire of a thousand suns.

      He released her, pushed her back and she fell against the headboard with a soft gasp. He pulled himself up to his knees, his movements in no way reminiscent of the nightmare he had been fighting just moments ago. “Who are you?”

      His words sounded rough, gravelly, which meant he had been screaming for a while before she had arrived.

      Her chest tightened. “Are you okay?” she whispered, taking in the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the infinitesimal tremble in the set of his lean shoulders.

      “How is that any of your business?” he roared. “I dismissed the guards hours ago. I was informed no one would be allowed into this wing per my orders. So what the hell are you doing here?”

      That’s why no one had stopped her. And he had the volume on the TV set to that earsplitting level as if he had known...

      Zohra frowned. “I saw you thrashing on the sheets. I had to help.”

      “I could have hurt you.”

      She instantly tugged the sleeves of her tunic over her wrists.

      His face could have been poured from concrete for the tightness that crept into it. Only the slight flare of his nostrils and the incandescent rage in his gaze said he was still a man and not one of the concrete busts of long-gone emperors and warriors scattered around the palace. “Turn on the lamp.”

      She leaned over and turned it on, her entire body feeling strangely awkward. The lamp was on her side and cast just enough glow to illuminate his face.

      Ayaan bin Riyaaz Al-Sharif, the new crown prince of Dahaar was not what she had been expecting. The Mad Prince, that’s what she had heard the Siyaadi palace staff whisper about him. Yet there was nothing remotely mad about the man staring at her with incisive intelligence in his eyes.

      There had been only a single picture of him, a grainy one, eight months ago when Dahaar had jubilantly celebrated his return. He had been pronounced dead five years ago along with his older brother and sister—victims of a brutal terrorist attack.

      But nothing more about him had been revealed, nor had he appeared anywhere in public. Even the ceremony where he had been declared crown prince had been private, which had only fueled the media and the public’s hunger for information about him.

      He had remained a shapeless, mindless figure at the back of her mind.

      Until she had visited her father this afternoon. Weakened by a heart attack, the king had sounded feeble and yet his words had rung with pride and joy.

      Prince Ayaan has agreed to marry you, Zohra. You will be the queen of Dahaar one day.

      Suddenly, the Mad Prince had become the man who could bind her forever to the very world that had taken everything from her.

      The reminder, however, did nothing to stem the quiet, relentless assault his very presence wreaked on her. She could no more stop her gaze from drifting over him than she could stop breathing.

      He had a gaunt, chiseled look that added to the rumors swirling about him.

      His face was long with a severe nose, a pointed chin, with cheekbones that were sharp enough to cut. His wavy, black hair curled onto his high forehead in an unkempt way. As if he had threaded his fingers through it and tugged at it viciously. The moment the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was true.

      The tendons in his neck stood out. He was lean, bordering on thin and yet what flesh there was to him looked as if it had been carved out of rock.

      A pale, inch-wide scar stretched from his left shoulder all the way to his ribs on the right side and beyond to his back. What could wield such a painful-looking scar?

      Her empty stomach rolled on itself. How could a man withstand so much without...going mad?

      The thought swept through her like a fierce cold wave, and she shivered.

      His scrutiny as intent as her own, he said, “Hold out your hands,” in a tone that held raw command.

      Zohra sucked in a breath and tucked her hands behind her.

      He moved on the bed with lithe grace that would have been beautiful to savor if her heart hadn’t crawled into her throat. She was taller than the average Dahaaran woman and yet he towered over her.

      The scent of him had a tang to it that made her suck in a quick, greedy breath even before she knew it. He tugged her hands forward in a sudden move.

      Her skin stung where he had gripped her at even the slight friction of his fingers. He sucked in a deep breath. As though he was bracing himself. His fingers gentled as he pushed the sleeves of her tunic back.

      Dark impressions framed each wrist. A chill surrounded them, and she had the strangest feeling that his emotions were at the center of it.

      She tugged at her hands but he didn’t let go. “How long were you here before I woke up?”

      The tension emanating from him rendered her mute.

      “How long?”

      He didn’t shout the words yet they radiated with utter fury. “Five, maybe six minutes. I didn’t know what to do.”

      He let go of her hands with a jerk. “You were not supposed to be in here in the first place. And if you’re reckless enough to be, the minute you saw me, you should have turned around and walked out.”

      She shook her head. “I would loathe myself if I just walked away.”

      He ran a hand through his hair again, his movements visibly shaken. But he didn’t get off the bed, blocking her escape. “It is a quarter to midnight. I have asked you twice why you are here. If you will not answer me, I will summon the guard. Before you realize it, you will be out of a job, out of a livelihood. All for what? To get a little information on the Mad Prince? A quick photograph, is that it? Tell me who sent you here and I will show lenience.”

      He thought she was a servant paid to gather information about him? “No one sent me here, Prince Ayaan.”

      He became stiffer, if possible, the rigid line of his shoulders obvious in the feeble light. The bones at the crook between his neck and shoulders stood out in stark relief.

      She didn’t want to antagonize him any more than she already had. She didn’t want to ponder about his nightmare, his reaction to her being a witness to it. If she did this right, she wouldn’t need to see him ever again nor hear the gut-wrenching pain she had heard in his cries.

      “I...came here of my own volition. It was important for me to talk to you before you left tomorrow morning.”

      Slowly, the annoyance in his expression shifted to watchfulness. And she fought the need to shy away from it, to hide from his intense scrutiny.

      He knew.

      She could pinpoint the exact moment he realized—the watchfulness turned into realization, a flare of color in those beautiful eyes.

      That gaze moved over her in a slow sweep, lingering over her face for the longest time, seeing her with new eyes. This time, it wasn’t mere anger that colored it, but wariness, almost as if she had suddenly become dangerous to him.

      “Of course you’re not a servant.”

      He stepped off the bed as though