The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns. Кейт Хьюит

words she heard the answer in her own heart. The room was cast into pools of light and shadow by the little lamp and the thick, velvety darkness outside. It was an intimate environment. A dangerous one, and as Kalila watched Aarif’s eyes flare with awareness she knew he realised it too.

      She felt it herself, coiling around her heart, making her body tingle. It would be so easy, she thought, to rise from her chair and go to Aarif, to take the spectacles from his nose and the book from his hands, and—

      ‘Go to bed, Kalila,’ Aarif said quietly. ‘It is late.’

      It wasn’t that late, only nine o’clock or so, but Kalila knew what he was really saying. Stay away from me.

      And yet she couldn’t. She didn’t want to, even though it was dangerous. Even though it was wrong.

      Aarif continued gazing at her, his expression steady and becoming cold, the warm, sensual atmosphere dissolving into arctic awkwardness. After a moment Kalila rose from the chair, trying to keep her dignity although it was hard. Aarif said nothing, just watched as she took a step backwards.

      ‘Goodnight,’ she finally whispered, and turned around and fled.

      It took her a while to find her way back to the bedroom, and Kalila was glad. For a few minutes she lost herself in the darkened corridors, her footsteps a whispery slapping sound against the worn stone. She didn’t want to return to her bedroom, her prison.

      This is my life now. All of this, my life.

      She closed her eyes. How could she have not realised how this would feel? A loveless marriage, born of duty? Hadn’t she realised in Cambridge, back when she had had a choice or at least the semblance of one, how this would feel?

      How miserable she would be?

      And yet, it didn’t matter, because in the end, even when she’d found something different, deeper with Aarif—maybe—she would still do her duty, would have to, and so would he. That was what hurt most of all.

      She slipped into her bedroom, a cool evening breeze blowing in the scent of jasmine from the gardens.

      Kalila went to the window seat and curled up there, her flushed cheek pressed against the cool stone. She gazed down at the shadowy tangle of bushes and shrubs below, and it reminded her so much of her garden at home—a garden she’d loved, a garden she didn’t know when she’d see again—that she let out an involuntary choked cry of despair.

      I don’t want to be here.

      A tear trickled down her cheek, and a knock sounded on the door.

      Kalila slid from the window seat, dashing that one treacherous tear from her face, and went to open the door. Aarif stood there, his face drawn, as ever, into harsh lines, his eyes dark and almost angry, his mouth pursed tightly.

      ‘Is something wrong…?’ Kalila asked and Aarif thrust something at her.

      ‘Here.’

      Kalila’s hands closed around the object as a matter of instinct and she glanced down at it. It was a book, a mystery by Agatha Christie, one she hadn’t read. Her lips curved into an incredulous, hopeful smile and she glanced up at Aarif.

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘I thought you might want something to read, and I had some in my room.’ Then, as if he’d said too much, he shut his mouth, his lips pressed tightly together once more.

      Yet Kalila could not keep from smiling, couldn’t keep the knowledge from blooming inside her. Somewhere, somehow, deep inside, Aarif cared. About her. Maybe just a little bit, a tiny bit, but—

      It was there.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said again, her voice dropping to a whisper, and Aarif looked as if he might say something. He raised his hand, and Kalila tensed for his touch, wanting it, needing it—but he dropped it again and gave her a small, sorrowful smile.

      ‘Goodnight, Kalila,’ he said, and turned and walked slowly down the darkened hallway.

      He needed to stay away from her. Aarif knew that, knew it with every instinct he possessed, and yet he denied what his mind relentlessly told him, denied and failed.

      Failed his brother, failed himself, failed Kalila. Was there any test he would not fail? he wondered cynically, his mouth twisting in bitter acknowledgement of his own weakness. Was there anything—anyone—he could be trusted with?

      The last time he’d been entrusted with another’s care, his brother had died.

      Take care of him.

      He hadn’t.

      This time, he’d stolen a princess’s innocence, her purity. He had, Aarif acknowledged with stark clarity, ruined her life. For even if Zakari could forgive his bride, the chances of Kalila gaining what she so wanted with him—love, happiness—were slim. How could those be built on a basis of betrayal?

      It was with a rare irony that Aarif acknowledged how this tragedy had sprung from the first. If he hadn’t had his old nightmare, Kalila wouldn’t have comforted him. He wouldn’t have found a moment’s peace, a moment’s sanctuary in her arms, and sought more.

      More.

      He’d denied himself for so long, kept himself apart from life and love, and yet for a moment he’d given in, he’d allowed himself to feast at a table where he was not even a guest.

      And he wanted more.

      Even now, he wanted to feel her in his arms, breathe in the sweet scent of her hair, watch the impish smile play about her mouth before he kissed her—

      He strode into his bedroom, his fingers threading through his hair, fists clenched, feeling pain—

      How could he make this right? How could he make anything right?

      Or was he condemned to the hell of living with his mistakes and their endless repercussions, without any chance for healing or salvation?

      Outside the cicadas continued their relentless chorus and the moon rose in the inky sky. He was condemned, Aarif decided grimly, and he deserved to be.