The Forced Bride Of Alazar. Кейт Хьюит

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СКАЧАТЬ sense for our marriage to be an arrangement that is convenient to both of us.’

      ‘Make sense?’ For a moment Azim looked coldly amused. ‘How so?’

      Encouraged by the mere fact that he’d asked a question, Johara plunged into her explanation. ‘As you might know, I have spent most of my life in France. I am not as familiar with Alazar as you are—’

      ‘You are Alazaran-born, with your bloodline able to be traced back nearly a thousand years.’

      Yes, she knew of her precious ancestry, descended hundreds of years ago from the sister of a sultan. ‘All I meant is,’ she explained, ‘France is my home, and has been since I was a young child. I’ve only been to Alazar a handful of times in my whole life.’

      Azim’s mouth twisted in contempt. ‘A notable lack in your upbringing. You will have to familiarise yourself with its customs immediately.’

      This wasn’t going at all the way she’d intended. Hoped. ‘What I mean to say is,’ Johara tried yet again, ‘I would like to live in France for as much of the year as possible. Of course, I would come to Alazar when needed, for state functions and the like.’ She spoke quickly, tripping over her words, desperate to come to an agreement. ‘Whenever I’m needed, of course. It seems a suitable arrangement to us both—’

      ‘Does it?’ Azim cocked his head, his narrowed gaze sweeping over her, a dark searchlight. ‘It does not seem so to me. Far from it, in fact.’

      Frustrations warred with despair and Johara clenched her fists, hiding them in the stiff skirts of her dress. ‘May I ask why?’

      ‘My wife belongs with me, not pursuing her own interests in another country,’ Azim stated, a hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘The Sultana of Alazar must be by the Sultan’s side, or in the palace, showing the country what an exemplary, modest and honourable woman she is. That is where you belong, Sadiyyah Behwar,’ he finished in a ringing, final tone of a judge delivering his sentence. ‘By my side, in the palace harem—or in my bed.’

      * * *

      Azim noted the way Johara’s pupils flared even as her face paled. Was she disgusted by the thought of sharing his bed? He’d had his fair share of women over the years, and they had all been more than willing to be there. In any case it didn’t matter whether Johara was or not. He was not looking for companionship or even pleasure from this arrangement. After a lifetime of being denied such things, he had schooled himself not to want them.

      ‘You are very blunt,’ she managed, two bright spots of colour now visible high on each cheekbone, the delicate skin around her pouty mouth nearly white.

      ‘I am merely stating facts.’

      Johara shook her head slowly. ‘So you want me with you all the time, and yet you have no interest in getting to know me?’

      ‘What is there to know?’ Azim returned. The pain in his temples was becoming too much to indulge her in such a sentimental conversation. He didn’t care about her feelings, or even his own. This was a matter of state, nothing more. ‘You are young, healthy and eminently suitable,’ he clarified. ‘You can trace your bloodline back almost as far as I can. That is all I need to know.’

      She lifted her chin, her eyes flaring now with anger. Arif had assured him his daughter was extremely biddable, but from this conversation alone Azim knew the man had exaggerated—and her defiance was both an aggravation and an insult he didn’t need.

      ‘There must be a dozen women like me,’ she said, her chin lifted, ‘with suitable breeding and bloodlines. Why are you so determined to marry a stranger you don’t even want to get to know?’

      Because she’d been intended for Malik. Because choosing anyone else when his entire country had been expecting her as Sultana would be an admission of failure, a sign of defeat, and something he refused to consider. He had suffered too much, sacrificed too much, to fail in this. ‘You are my chosen Sultana,’ he stated coldly. ‘Most women would consider that an honour.’

      Her eyes flashed. ‘But I am not most women.’

      ‘So I am beginning to realise.’

      ‘I just don’t understand—’

      ‘You don’t need to understand,’ Azim snapped. He took a steadying breath, pain stabbing his temples once more. He could feel a full-fledged migraine coming on, the black spots starting to dance before his eyes, the nausea churning in his stomach. He had five minutes, if that, to get to a dark, quiet room and wait out the agony. ‘All you need to do,’ he stated in a tone of utter finality, ‘is to obey.’

      Her mouth dropped open as Azim turned away. He walked blindly from the room, his vision starting to grey at the edges. He could not manage any more. From behind him he heard a ragged gasp.

      ‘Your Highness...’ It was a cross between a protest and a plea, a sorrowful sound that grated on his nerves even as it plucked at the broken strings of his compassion. He had been abrupt with his fiancée, he could acknowledge that. If he hadn’t been in pain, if he hadn’t seen her shudder...perhaps things might have been a little different. But it was too late now to make amends, if he even wanted to, which he didn’t think he did. Better for his bride to accept the hard reality, just as he’d had to do time and time again. Life was hard. People turned on you, betrayed you, used you. She could learn the same life lessons he had, albeit in far more comfortable circumstances.

      ‘An attendant will show you to your room,’ he stated, forcing the words out past the pain that was building like a towering wall in his head. ‘You may spend the next few days preparing for our wedding.’ He didn’t wait to hear her reply. He knew Arif would force her to comply, and in any case he didn’t trust himself to stay standing for much longer. He pushed through the doors, doubling over the moment they’d swung behind him, his hands braced on his knees.

      ‘Your Highness...’ An attendant hurried forward, and with immense effort Azim straightened, throwing off the servant’s arm. He couldn’t be seen as weak, not even by a servant.

      ‘I’m fine,’ he grated. Then he walked on leaden legs to his bedroom, and its welcoming darkness.

      * * *

      Johara stood in the audience chamber for a full five minutes before she felt composed enough to leave its privacy for the prying eyes of the many palace staff. The abruptness of her conversation with Azim had bordered on the surreal, and yet it had possessed the stomach-clenching realisation of hard reality. This man, who had not spared her so much as an introduction, who barked commands, whose smile seemed cruel, was going to be her husband.

      She tried to find one redeeming quality in the man she was meant to spend her life with and came up empty. He possessed a strong sense of duty, she supposed, her thoughts laced with desperation and flat-out panic. He wasn’t bad-looking; in fact, if his expression hadn’t been so severe, his manner so terse, she might have thought him quite handsome. His form was certainly powerful, and even in the shock and tension of their conversation she’d noticed his muscled shoulders, the dark slashes of his eyebrows.

      He had a compelling look about him, possessing the kind of bearing that made you want to both stare and look away at the same time. He was too much. Too hard, too cold, too cruel. He hadn’t offered her one simple civility in their first meeting. What on earth would their life together look like?

      She couldn’t СКАЧАТЬ