Forged in the Desert Heat. Maisey Yates

in theory. And yet, it would be a lot like an extension of the life she already had. Living for appearances. That was all normal to her. She felt like she was always “on.” Even with her friends. The elite women’s college they’d gone to had encouraged them to be strong, studious and polished. To conform to a particular image. And even when they had personal time, even when they laughed and let the formality drop a bit, that core, that bit of guardedness, still ran through the group just beneath the surface.

      She’d always been afraid to show too much of herself. Those tears in the desert had been some of the most honest emotion she’d let escape in years.

      She wrapped herself in the robe and wandered back into the bedroom. “Oh, you are kidding me,” she said, looking down at the long, ornate table along the nearest wall. There was a bowl filled with fruit on it. Figs, dates, grapes.

      “All I need is a hottie cabana boy with palm fronds standing by to fan me,” she muttered, taking a grape from the cluster and popping it into her mouth.

      “I see you’re finding everything to your liking.”

      She whipped around and saw Zafar striding through her bedroom doors. He looked...different. He had lost the headdress and heavy traveling robes, in favor of a white linen shirt and a pair of pale dress pants. His long hair was wet, clean and tied back. He had kept the beard, but it was trimmed short.

      Somehow, he looked even more dangerous now, with this cloak of civility. Because at least before, he was advertising that he was a hazard. He had danger signs and flares all over him before. This great hairy beast with a full beard and flowing robes. With windburned skin and a thin coating of dirt. And the sweat smell. Not forgetting that.

      But now she felt she could see more of him, and it displayed, to her detriment, just how handsome he truly was. Square jawed with a strong chin, and yet again, the lips.

      Why was she so fascinated by his lips? Men’s lips weren’t that big a deal.

      “Everything is lovely, all things considered.”

      “What things considered?”

      “Does the phrase ‘gilded cage’ mean anything to you?”

      He shook his head. “No. You are comfortable?”

      She let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes. More or less. But I would feel more comfortable if I could let my father or Tariq know I was safe.”

      “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” He started pacing over the high-gloss obsidian floor. A caged tiger. That was what he reminded her of. The thought sent a little shiver of fear chasing down her spine. “I was hardly exaggerating when I said this incident could push us into war. Neither of us want that, am I right?”

      “They must be frantic!” she said. “Honestly, can you...can you channel what it might be like to feel, just for a second? They probably think I’m dead. Or sold. Which I was. But...but they probably think I’m in grave peril. I could talk to Tariq. At least give me a chance.”

      He shook his head. “Things are far too tenuous for me at the moment. Let me tell you a story.”

      “I hope it has a happy ending.”

      “It hasn’t ended yet. You may well decide how it does end, so listen carefully. There once was a boy, who grew up in an opulent palace, fully expecting one day to be king. Until the castle was invaded by an enemy army, an enemy army who clearly knew how to get direct access to the sheikh and sheikha. They were killed. Violently. Horribly. Only the boy was spared. He would be king; at sixteen, he could very well have ruled. But there was a problem. An inquiry, suggested by the boy’s uncle, which indicated he was to blame for the death of his parents. And he was found guilty.”

      There was no emotion in Zafar’s voice. There was nothing. It was more frightening than if there had been rage, malice, regret. Blank nothingness when speaking of an event like that, total detachment when she knew he was talking about himself...it was wrong. It was frightening, how divorced from it he was.

      It made her wonder if she was as safe with the dynamic ruler as she’d initially imagined.

      “Exiled to the desert for fifteen years under a cloud. The uncle ruled, the people fell into despair, the country to near ruin. And who was to blame? The boy, of course. A boy who somehow survived those years alone and is now a man. A man who must now assume the throne. You see what is stacked against me?”

      “I understand,” she said, shifting, the stone floor cold beneath her bare feet. She suddenly became very conscious that she was wearing a robe with nothing beneath it. “But let me tell you a story about a girl and...and...no, let me just say, I disappeared some six or seven days ago from a desert tour I wasn’t supposed to be on. My friends are probably frantic. My fiancé is probably...concerned.” Devastated might be a stretch. Tariq was a very even-tempered man. “My father...” She nearly choked then. “My father will be destroyed. I am all that he has...you have to understand.”

      Even as she said it, she hoped it was true. Strange that she was wishing for her father to be distressed, but...but she was always so afraid that his life was easier without her. It had been for her mother. No child to take care of. No one to break her lovely things.

      “And you have to understand this. Inquiries are being made about you. Discreet ones, but it is happening. Kazeem received a phone call with a very clear threat. That the future Sheikha of Shakar was missing, and should she be found on Al Sabahan soil my reign will hold a record for brevity.”

      “Oh,” she said, feeling dazed.

      “I am all this country has,” he said, his voice hard, echoing in the room. “If there is to be a future for my people, I must remain on the throne. There is no room for negotiation.”

      “So, what if I try to leave?”

      “You will be detained. But I seriously doubt you will try to leave.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you’re a sensible woman. A woman who wouldn’t want blood on her hands.” He looked at her, his eyes taking on a strange, distant quality. “Take it from a man who knows, habibti. Whether you spill it with your own hand or not, blood won’t come clean.”

      She believed him. Believed it was true. Believed that he knew what it meant to have blood on his hands. Not for one second would she doubt it.

      Could she do it? Could she risk it?

      The entire thing made her uneasy, but she hardly had a choice. She could try and run, she could try to find her way back on her own, try to call Tariq, who would storm the castle and...and...oh dear.

      She looked at Zafar. Did she really trust this man? That he would release her? That he would do what he said?

      She did. Because she’d been alone with him in the desert overnight, and he’d slept with his arm curled around her waist to keep her from shivering. Because when she’d needed touch, no matter whether he understood it or felt it or not, he had provided it. He hadn’t taken advantage of her, had never once touched her inappropriately or in a way that would harm her.

      In short, he treated her exactly like a man in his position should treat her, provided he was telling the truth.

      “I require an exit strategy, Sheikh,” she said.

      “What do you mean?”

      “When will you release me? Regardless of what is happening. There has to be a set end date. A sell-by.”

      “I’m not certain I can give you that.”

      “I require it,” she said. “No more than thirty days.”