The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns: The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin / The Greek Billionaire's Innocent Princess / The Future King's Love-Child
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‘There’s been no harm done,’ Kalila objected. ‘We’re safe.’
‘For now,’ Aarif replied darkly. ‘All is uncertain.’
‘You have a grim view of things,’ she replied, lifting her chin, clinging to her defiance though he picked at it with every unfeeling word he spoke. ‘When you found me in the church, you were the same. Do you always think the worst is going to happen, Aarif?’
He reached for the canteen from his own bag. ‘It often does,’ he told her and unscrewed the top. Kalila watched him drink; for some reason she found she could not tear her gaze away from the long brown column of his throat, the way his muscles moved as he drank. He finally lifted the canteen from his mouth and she saw the droplets of water on his lips, his chin, and still she could not look away. She gazed, helpless, fascinated.
Slowly her eyes moved upwards to meet his own locked gaze, saw the intensity of feeling there—what was it? Anger? Derision?
Desire.
The moment stretched between them, silent, expectant, and Kalila again remembered his body against hers, its hard contours pressed against her, demanding, knowing. She swallowed, knowing she must look away, she must act, if not demure, then at least dignified.
‘We should eat,’ she said, and the words sounded stilted, forced. ‘You must be hungry.’
Aarif said nothing, and Kalila did not risk looking at him again, seeing that unfathomable darkness in his eyes. Her hands trembled as she reached for bread and cheese, breaking off a bit of each and handing it to Aarif.
He took it with murmured thanks, and they ate quietly, neither speaking, neither looking at the other.
Was she imagining the tension coiling in the room, a far more frightening force than the wind that howled and moaned outside, rattling the sides of the tent as if it would sweep the shelter, and them inside, all away?
No, she was not, at least not in herself. She had never been so aware of another human being, the sounds of him chewing, of the cloth stretching across his body, even his breathing. She’d never had such an insane, instinctive desire to touch someone, to know what his hair, his skin felt like. Would his stubble be rough under her fingers? Would his hair be soft?
Horrified yet fascinated by the train of her thoughts, Kalila forced down a dry lump of bread and finally spoke, breaking the taut silence. ‘Haven’t you ever felt like that?’
‘Like what?’ Aarif’s tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it was close to it.
She swallowed again. ‘Wanting to be free, if just for a moment. Haven’t you ever wanted to…escape?’
He was silent for so long Kalila wondered if he was going to answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with a dark finality that Kalila knew she couldn’t question. Wouldn’t.
‘Perhaps, when I was a child,’ he said. ‘But I outgrew such childish desires, and so must you.’
Kalila said nothing. Yes, she knew running away had been a childish, desperate desire, a moment’s insanity, perhaps, and yet it had felt so good to be out on the desert, alone, in charge of her destiny, if only for an hour…even with the churning fear and regret, it had been good.
For a moment, she had been free.
She wondered if Aarif could ever understand that.
‘Besides,’ he continued, still unsympathetic, ‘you had your years in Cambridge to be free, if this freedom is so important to you. Do you think my brother will veil you and lock you in the women’s quarters? He is a modern man, Princess.’
‘Yesterday you called me Kalila,’ she blurted, and his lips compressed into a hard line.
‘Yesterday was not today,’ he said flatly, and Kalila wondered what he meant. She almost asked him, but then she remembered again the feel of his body against hers, his eyes pleading urgently—angrily—with hers, and she thought perhaps it was better not to know. Safer, anyway.
‘What will happen?’ she asked instead, heard the unsteadiness in her voice. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘God willing, they are sheltered at the airport. The storm will not die down until morning, I should think. We will return then.’ His voice was grim, determined, and Kalila knew what he was thinking.
‘And how will you explain our absence?’
‘How will you?’ he challenged. ‘What will you say to your nurse, Kalila? She believed you were unwell. What will you say to all the civil servants of your country who have sworn to give their lives to protect you? Will you talk about freedom to them?’ His voice rang out, contemptuous, condemning, and Kalila closed her eyes.
‘Don’t. I know…’ She drew a shaky breath. ‘I know I acted foolishly. Selfishly. I know!’ She swept the crumbs off her lap, suddenly restless, needing activity, needing the freedom she had so desperately craved. Tears stung her eyes as she realised the full depth of her situation, her mess. And she’d caused it. Everything, she thought miserably, was her fault.
‘How did you arrange it?’ Aarif asked after a moment. ‘Who brought the horse? The provisions?’
Her eyes flew to his even as her mind replayed the frantic, whispered conversation with a stableboy that morning. ‘I don’t want to tell you.’
He shrugged, no more than the arrogant lifting of one powerful shoulder. ‘I could find out easily enough.’
She thought of the shy, young boy, how she’d determinedly twisted him around her little finger, and felt another hot rush of guilt. ‘I don’t want—that person—punished.’
‘You are the one who should be punished,’ Aarif returned harshly. ‘Not some frightened servant girl—or was it a besotted stableboy? Either one too weak to disobey your bidding!’
More condemnation. They piled on her head, a crippling burden she had to bear alone.
‘It hardly matters,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve as good as guessed anyway.’ She raised her eyes to his, seeking mercy from the one person who was least likely to give it. ‘But tell me this, Aarif. Was it really so terribly selfish, so unforgivable, to allow myself one day—one afternoon—of freedom, when the rest of my life is spoken for?’
Her question was like a penny being dropped into a fountain, sending ripples through the stillness. Ripples of awareness, of feeling.
Aarif said nothing, but Kalila thought she saw a softening in his glance, however small, and it compelled her to continue. ‘I don’t want an arranged marriage. I’m willing to go through with it, and I’ll do my duty by Zakari. I’ll do my best. But I want to be loved, Aarif, and I think that’s a natural desire. Human beings were created for love. To love and be loved. And even if Zakari grows to love me—and that, I know, is only an if—it’s not the same. We weren’t able to choose. Your father and stepmother chose love, and so did my parents. Why can’t I?’
Her question rang out in a helpless, desperate demand, one that Aarif did not answer. ‘Your destiny lay elsewhere,’ he replied after a moment, his voice expressionless. He looked away.
‘My destiny,’ Kalila repeated, unable to keep the scorn from her voice. Not even wanting to. ‘A destiny shaped by my father and yours, not by me. I want to choose my own destiny, or at least believe it could be different.’
‘We do not always have that choice, Kalila.’ His voice was low, almost gentle, although he still did not look at her.
‘And what about you?’ Kalila forced herself to ask. ‘Don’t you want love? To love someone and be loved back?’ She knew it was an impertinent question, an imprudent one. It hinted at shadowy thoughts, memories, desires, nudged them to the light. It was, she realised, her heart fluttering in anticipation of his response, a dangerous question.
Yet she wanted to know. She needed to know.
‘It doesn’t matter what I want,’ Aarif finally said, and it was clear he was ending the conversation. ‘It never has. What matters is how best I can serve my family and country.’
‘You don’t take your own desires into consideration at all?’ Kalila pressed, and when his eyes met hers they were flat and hard.
‘No.’
Kalila felt as if she’d touched on something darker, some hidden memory or regret that suddenly filled the small space of the tent with its poisonous presence.
Aarif busied himself taking off his boots and spreading his blanket as far away from her as he could.
‘We should sleep. We will ride out as soon as the storm breaks.’
Nodding slowly, Kalila reached for her own blanket. Aarif lay on his side, his back to her, his body still and tense.
She spread her own blanket out, removing her boots, stretching out gingerly. If she so much as moved her arm it would brush against Aarif’s back, and as much as she was tempted to feel the bunched muscle underneath his shirt—a desire that surprised her with its sudden, unexpected urgency—she pressed backwards instead.
The wind still whistled and shrieked shrilly, and the flapping of the tent’s sides was a ceaseless sound. On the wind she heard the horses neighing and moving in animalistic anxiety.
Tomorrow she would be back in civilisation, in Calista. She would meet Zakari. And what would she say? How would she explain what she had done? And why?
Kalila closed her eyes, unwilling to consider the impossible answers to those questions. Tomorrow, she determined miserably, would have to take care of itself.
Kalila had no idea how either of them could sleep in this situation, yet even so fatigue fell over her in a fog. Still, her body was too tense, too aware, too miserable to relax into sleep. She lay awake, listening to the wind and Aarif’s steady breathing.
Had he actually managed to fall asleep? It wouldn’t surprise her. He was a man of infinite, iron control. Sleep, like everything else, would follow his bidding.
Finally, after what felt like several hours, she fell into an uneasy doze, woken suddenly in the middle of the night.
All was dark and silent; the storm had abated and the stillness of the aftermath carried its own eerie tension. Yet there was a sound, a faint moaning, and Kalila wondered if it was the wind or one of the animals, still uneasy in the unfamiliar surroundings.
But no, she realised, the sound was coming from inside the tent. From right next to her, little more than a tortured breath, a whispered plea of anguish. She shifted, the blanket rustling underneath her, and squinted through the moonlit darkness.
Aarif lay on his back, the blanket twisted around him, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. His lips were parted in a grimace, his eyelids twitching as he battled his nightmare.
For surely it was a nightmare that held him in its grip, Kalila realised, for the sound, that piteous moan, was coming from Aarif.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS the same, it was always the same. Agonisingly, torturously the same, where he could never change what had happened, what would happen, replaying again and again in his mind as he watched, helpless, hopeless…
He knew it was a dream, and still he could not wake himself from it. The nightmare grabbed him by the throat, swallowed him whole in its cavernous jaws, so all he could hear was his brother’s choked cry of desperation.
‘Aarif…’
And he did nothing. He felt the searing heat across his face once more, his hands reaching out to grasp—to save—his brother, but Zafir was too far, and farther still, his face pale and terrified as Aarif fell into the water and it rushed into his mouth and nose, closed over his head…
‘Aarif…’ The voice was softer, sweeter now, a whisper from another world, the real world, yet still the dream did not let him go. He shook from the force of it, great tremors that racked his body with emotional agony.
‘Aarif…’ It was Zafir again, his voice trailing away, the cry of a boy, a child, and yet holding the relentless ring of condemnation. ‘Save me…’
The voice rang in his eyes, faint and desperate, and there was nothing Aarif could do. There was nothing he could ever do.
Aarif shifted restlessly on his blanket, his face contorted with both pain and anguish.
‘Aarif…’ Kalila whispered, but he didn’t hear her. Couldn’t. He was locked in a far more terrible world than the one they currently inhabited. Tentatively Kalila reached over to touch his shoulder, wanting to stir him into wakefulness, but Aarif jerked away from her light touch.
‘No…no!’ His desperate scream ripped through the stillness of the tent, the night, and caused Kalila’s hand to freeze inches from his shoulder. That agonised shriek was a sound she would never forget. It was the sound of a man in mental agony, mortal pain.
Aarif let out another shuddering breath, his hands bunching on the blanket, and Kalila saw the faint, silvery tracks of tears on his cheeks.
Her heart twisted painfully at the sight of so much suffering. What kind of dream could hold him in such terrible captivity?
‘Aarif…’ she tried again, her voice stronger now. ‘It’s all right. It’s just a dream.’ Yet even as she spoke she realised it was not just a dream. A mere figment of imagination could not hold Aarif so strongly in its thrall. This was something far more terrible, far more real.
Kalila couldn’t bear to see him suffering so; it cut at her heart and she felt near tears herself. She leaned over him, smoothing the damp hair away from his forehead. ‘Aarif,’ she said again, her voice breaking, and then he opened his eyes.
Their faces were close, so close that when his eyes opened it felt as if he touched her with his gaze. Kalila was conscious of her hand still stroking his hair as if he were a child to be comforted.
Aarif stared at her, the vestiges of his private torment still visible on his ravaged face, and then he let out a choked cry and tried to roll away.
He couldn’t; she wouldn’t let him. She didn’t know why she wouldn’t, only that she acted on instinct. No one deserved to bear that kind of pain alone. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. Her fingers threaded through his hair, drawing his gaze back to hers. ‘What torments you so?’ she whispered. Aarif said nothing. She could feel his racing heart, heard him swallow back another cry. Gently, a movement born still of instinct, she trailed her fingers down his cheek, tracing the path of his scar as if her touch could heal that grim reminder of what—?
Kalila didn’t even know, but she felt it, knew the pain Aarif was experiencing must be a personal memory, a private grief. His hand clamped over hers, his fingers trapping and yet clinging to hers, and he shook his head, trying to speak, but unable to.
Kalila stilled, her fingers on his face, and Aarif closed his eyes. A shudder went through his body, a tremor of remembered emotion, and naturally—too naturally—Kalila put her arms around him and drew him to herself.
His head was on her shoulder, his silky hair brushing her lips, his body, hard and muscular, against hers. His arms came around her, and Kalila realised she had never been so close to a man, every part of their bodies in intimate contact. It felt natural, right, this closeness, their bodies wrapped around each other in an embrace born of comfort and need. It humbled her that a man like Aarif would accept her caress, that he might even need it.
Neither of them spoke.
His still-racing heart pounded against her own chest, and after many long moments where the only sound was Aarif’s ragged breathing she felt it slow. She stroked his hair, felt his fingers tighten reflexively on her shoulder. Still neither of them moved beyond those tiny gestures, neither of them spoke.
Kalila knew that to speak, to even think would break the moment between them, with its precious fragility, its tenuous tenderness. In a day and night of unreality, this felt real. It felt, she thought distantly, before her mind turned hazy and still once more, right.
Another long moment passed and Aarif’s breathing steadied. Now was the time, Kalila knew, for them to roll away, to close their eyes, to forget this brief and wonderful intimacy, this moment of desire stolen from a lifetime of duty.
Yet she didn’t, and she knew with a sudden, thrilling certainty that Aarif wouldn’t. She knew as he lifted his head, his eyes gazing darkly, hungrily into hers, what he would do.
He kissed her.
It was not the hard, urgent kiss she’d been half expecting, something born of the reckless desperation of this stolen moment. Instead it was sweet, tentative, his mouth moving gently over hers until it bloomed into something stronger and sweeter still as he deepened the contact, his tongue exploring her lips, her mouth, his hands reaching to cup her face, to draw her even closer, as if he was seeking something from her—and she gave it.
Kalila gave herself up to that kiss, let it reverberate through her heart and mind, body and soul. It was, she thought hazily, a wonderful first kiss. For she’d never been kissed before, not like this, not like anything.
She’d kept herself apart, pure, as she’d always meant to do, as she’d had to do as a princess betrothed since she was twelve. Yet now her mind drifted away from that realisation, for with it came the ugly knowledge that this was far more wrong and selfish an act than running away in the first place.
This was betrayal of the deepest kind, yet her mind—and heart—skittered away from that word for this felt too wonderful. Too right.
The kiss deepened, lengthened and grew into hands and touch, their bodies a living map to be explored and understood.
Aarif fumbled at first with her clothes, but somehow the buttons and snaps gave way and her skin was bare to his fingers, his hands gliding over her flesh before his lips followed, and Kalila gasped at the intimacy, the exposure that made her feel vulnerable and yet treasured.
Loved.
They moved as one, in silence, the only sound a drawing of breath, a sigh of pleasure, the whispering slide of skin against skin. It felt like a dream, a wonderful and healing dream, as Aarif’s hands moved over her, touching her in places that had known no man’s caress.
She opened herself up to him, parting her legs, arching her back, wanting his touch, needing this new caress, this forbidden intimacy.
And then she touched him, tentatively at first, her hands exploring, seeking, discovering the hard, muscled plane of his chest and stomach, the surprisingly smooth curve of his hip, the ridges on his back—more scars.
Now was not the time to ask where they came from, what terrible memory Aarif kept locked in his heart. Now, Kalila thought, her lips touching the places her hands had gone, brushing over that satiny skin, was the time for healing.
She wouldn’t think about what this meant. She pushed the thought, the implications, firmly away, and let herself drift in a haze of feeling and emotion, let Aarif’s hands and mouth seek her as she gave herself up to him and the maelstrom of pleasure and wonder he caused to whirl within her.
She’d never imagined the feelings to be strong—sharp—she gasped as he touched her, gasped in surprise and wonder, and felt Aarif smile against her skin. She loved that she’d made him smile, that there was a joy to be found here.
And yet a moment came—as Kalila knew it would have to—when they could have stopped. Should have. Clothing bunched and pushed aside, their bodies bare and touching, Aarif moved on top of her, poised to join his body to hers in an act so intimate, so sacred and precious and unfamiliar, and yet so right. His eyes sought and met hers, a silent agreement. They gazed at each other, neither speaking, both complicit, and then their bodies joined as one.
Kalila gasped at the feeling, her hands bunching on his back, the twinge of discomfort lost in the exquisite sensation of this union, the fullness of him inside her, the sense of completion that reverberated through her body and heart.
Aarif buried his head in her shoulder, his hair brushing her lips, his body straining for both of their releases, and she clasped him to her, gasping in wonder and shock. She never wanted the moment to end, never wanted to feel alone again—
The realisation was as wonderful as the sensation of his body moving in hers, and as her body finally gave itself up to the spiralling pleasure and the joy she found that at last, now, she felt free. That she knew who she was.
What she’d been meant for.
The aftermath, she thought as Aarif rolled away from her, was as eerie and silent as that of the storm. Aarif lay on his back, one arm flung over his face. The silence that had wound its seductive spell around them moments before now stretched taut as a wire, and just as sharp.
Kalila was suddenly conscious of the sand in her scalp, the stickiness on her thighs. Moments before she’d felt only joy, and now it was replaced by something far worse. Something sordid. She felt used and cheap and dirty, and she didn’t want to.
Yet, a whisper within her mocked, isn’t that just what you are? You just betrayed your fiancé with his brother.
She closed her eyes, felt the flood of remorse that she’d kept at bay while pleasure had reigned in her body and heart, still turned her bones to runny wax. She felt the regret wash over her in engulfing waves, and could only imagine how Aarif felt.
Aarif…a man bound by duty and honour. A man with whom responsibility weighed heavily, endlessly. What could he be thinking now?
She sneaked a glance at him and saw he hadn’t moved. Only moments ago she’d touched his skin, kissed him, loved him.
Love.
Could she love Aarif? Did she?
She barely knew him; he was unforgiving, unemotional, unpleasant, and yet when she’d held him in her arms…
When he’d touched her as if he knew her, not just her body, but her heart. Her mind.
When he’d smiled.
Kalila swallowed. She couldn’t possibly love Aarif, yet what had happened between them was real, it was something—
‘Aarif.’ Her voice came out in a croak. She had no idea what to say, where to begin—
‘Don’t.’ The one word was harsh, guttural, savage. Aarif rolled up in one fluid movement, his face averted from hers, and with a vicious jerk he peeled the tape away from the door. Kalila watched him, her heart starting to pound with a relentless anxiety, and a deep misery settled coldly in her bones.
Another jerk and the tape was off; he flung it to the floor before pushing through the flap and out into the desert’s darkness.
Kalila could hear the crunch of his bare feet on the sand, the low nicker of one of the horses and Aarif’s soothing murmur back. Tears—stupid tears—stung her eyes. He was kinder to the horses than he was to her.
And yet, that insistent whisper protested, the horses didn’t do anything. They are innocent. You are not.
Innocence. So prized, so precious. So important for a woman like her, a woman poised to marry a king, and she was innocent no longer. Instinctively Kalila glanced down, saw a faint rusty smear of blood on her thigh. In another age that bit of blood would have been proof of her innocence, her purity, her whole reason for being a wife. It would have been displayed with bawdy jokes and satisfied smiles. In another age, she realised, swallowing down a hysterical laugh, she would have been killed for what she had just done.
Her innocence was gone.
And yet even so, despite the regret and shame and even fear coursing through her, she couldn’t forget the feeling of Aarif in her arms, in her body. She couldn’t forget, and she didn’t want to.
What kind of woman did that make her?
She took a shuddering breath, tried to calm her racing thoughts, her racing heart. She needed to think, to plan. She needed to speak with Aarif.
With a bit of water from the canteen she cleaned herself up as best she could and dressed, combing the tangles from her hair with her fingers.
Then, taking another deep breath for courage, she slipped through the flap and out into the cool night.
The air was cold and sharp, the sky glittering with stars. The sand dunes were cast in silver by the moonlight, and the air after the storm was perfectly still.