Midnight on the Sands. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ dark hair looked like he’d simply combed it with his fingers. He hadn’t tried too hard. In short, he looked like a man who didn’t really want to be here.

      But he’d come. And that was really what mattered. That was where the bravery was.

      “Ready?” he asked.

      “Yes?” she said, her voice hesitant.

      “Better than that, Katharine.”

      “Yes. What exactly are we saying?”

      “That we are getting married.” He turned and walked back to the door, his posture straight, the injury in his leg giving his gait an uneven rhythm.

      Her heart swelled in her chest, so big it was nearly painful. She felt his effort in her, felt the strength it took him to walk with his head held high.

      She had never seen a bigger accomplishment than she saw in those few steps from her side to the door.

      Two of his security staff pushed the doors open and flanked them on their way out into the courtyard. The press was behind the gate, their cameras aimed at Zahir. There was a rapid clicking of shutters and she saw the faintest twitch in the muscles of Zahir’s face. But it was barely traceable. His expression remained mostly passive, his body stiff and straight.

      “We don’t have to do this,” she said. “We can have a representative … “

      “I will not walk away. I am not a coward, Katharine, whatever else I might be.”

      She nodded once and took three quick steps so that she was at his side.

      “We will take three questions,” Zahir said, standing in front of the massive, wrought-iron gate, his arms folded over his chest. The questions wouldn’t matter, not to a media obsessed with seeing the Beast of Hajar, the man who had sequestered himself in the palace for so long, never having more than a blurred photograph taken of him since the attack that had shaken a nation.

      “It’s true? You’re marrying Sheikh Malik’s fiancée, Princess Katharine?” One of the reporters in the back shouted the question over the roar of voices.

      “No. She is not my brother’s fiancée. My brother is dead. I am marrying my fiancée.” He barked the words, and she saw a group of sweat beads forming on his brow. She stepped closer, running her fingertips down his arm, the rough hair tickling her skin.

      She felt him relax slightly beneath her touch.

      “When is the wedding?”

      “Just over a month away. One more.”

      “Princess Katharine! How is it to bed the Beast?”

      His muscles locked beneath her hand. Anger burned in her stomach, threatened to boil over.

      “I would not be so crass as to answer such a question,” she said. She felt a slight tremor run through the hard muscle on his forearm. “But I will say this, it is a loss to women that I expect, and will receive, fidelity from my husband. A great loss indeed.”

      She felt some of the tension ease, at least she thought she did … somehow. She felt it in her, an echo of his own emotion and stress.

      “That’s all,” he said, taking her hand in his and lacing his fingers through hers. She followed him back, away from the gate and back into the cool sanctuary of the palace. When the heavy doors closed behind them, Zahir lifted his hand and ran it through his hair.

      His fingers shook as he did it, the one real crack in his strength she’d witnessed.

      The security guards faded into the background, gracefully making their exit without ever betraying that they’d seen any weakness in their ruler.

      That left Katharine and Zahir standing alone in the corridor. She searched for words. Something about the lack of class some people exhibited. Or maybe a few foul names to call the reporter who’d dared to ask that question. Or a few foul names for her father. For putting them in this position, for exposing Zahir to the scandal hungry European press.

      He turned to her and her words dried on her tongue, along with all of the moisture in her throat. Dark emotion blazed in his eyes, a fire, a hunger, that made an answering, heated ache begin to burn in her stomach.

      She backed up a step, and he advanced, one step, then two, and she didn’t retreat again. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, her breasts crushed against his hard chest.

      His kiss was a shock, no preliminaries, no hesitation. He simply took. And she took back. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him as he clung to her. His hands were rough on her hips, gripping her firmly, his blunt fingertips digging into her flesh.

      He backed her up against the wall, pressing her flat against the surface. She released her hold on him, turned her hands and pressed her palms against the cool inlaid gold and onyx, trying to find purchase, something to keep her from sliding to the floor. He released her mouth and curved his head, pressing hot kisses to her neck, down to her collarbone.

      Zahir let go of her hips and moved his hand to hers. She wove her fingers through his, his weight keeping her pinned to the wall. But she didn’t feel trapped or frightened. She was with Zahir. And she was protected.

      She felt the tension ebbing from his body, flooding away as his passion mounted. But it was replaced with intensity of a different kind. An entirely new kind of need.

      And she felt it, too. Her body ached for him, with need of him.

      “Zahir,” she whispered.

      He went stiff in her arms, his intake of breath swift and harsh. And just like last time, he jerked away, his eyes clouded with desire. His erection was obvious, thick and ready, pressing against the filmy layer of fabric that concealed his body from hers.

      He stepped back from her, his chest moving up and down sharply, his expression hard. “When you say my name,” he said, his voice rough. “I come back to myself.”

      She didn’t know why he said it that way, as though it pained him. She had used it in the alley, had been able to shake him from the flashback that had held him in its iron grip.

      “I don’t … “

      “I do not want to come back to this body,” he said, the words forced out of his throat. He turned and walked away, leaving her there, her arms still pressed against the wall as though he held her there.

      Leaving her cold and hot and wanting more than she knew she would ever have.

      Zahir wasn’t a religious man. He never had been. Still, the habits of his people were ingrained in him, and drinking alcohol, especially to excess, had always been frowned upon by most in his culture. He had always frowned upon it.

      He was tempted now. To drink everything away until it all faded from him. To find something to numb reality, to make it less … real.

      No. When reality faded, he lost time. He lost parts of himself. He saw that day. Had to watch it all play out from beginning to end.

      Ebn el sharmoota.

      He СКАЧАТЬ