Midnight on the Sands: Hajar's Hidden Legacy / To Touch a Sheikh / Her Sheikh Protector

No.

The words repeated in her head over and over. Growing more and more acrid with each replaying. Of course, she’d had no other reason to come, but in that moment it had felt like a rejection to him.

It had been, but it had been to protect herself. Because she could so easily get lost in the kissing. In the passion and the desire, and forget that this was a temporary marriage. And that he wasn’t able to feel emotion for her. That he would never want her in his bed night after night. That even if they gave in, the arrangement wouldn’t last.

“I wouldn’t want it to anyway,” she said into the empty room.

She was headed to the light at the end of the tunnel. Except when she closed her eyes, she didn’t really see a light anymore. She saw a man with bleak eyes and an obvious despair that seemed to reach deep into his soul.

“Katharine.”

Zahir’s deep, strong voice pulled her out of the fuzziness of her dreams and back into the stark reality of wakefulness. The afternoon sun was pouring through the window and spilling on the edge of her bed, where her hand was resting, steadily burning it to a bright pink.

She tugged it back and flexed her fingers. “Yes?” She turned to face him and her heart nearly stopped. He was just so powerful, his presence so full.

“Why is there an army of press at the door?” “I don’t … my father,” she said, moving into a sitting position and scrubbing her hand over her face. “Such a good public showing, I’m sure, is important to him. A message sent to John. Letting him know that his hopes of gaining the throne are completely over.”

She looked at Zahir, at the wild look in those dark eyes, and she felt a sharp stab of pain her stomach unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She wasn’t helping here, that was for sure. She was dragging him into hell. For the sake of her own feelings of accomplishment?

No. This had been important. Real. John couldn’t take the throne, and he couldn’t be allowed to have influence over Alexander.

But the fact that Zahir had to get pushed into this … She gritted her teeth. “We can tell them to go away.” She watched him, his shoulders straight, his eyes glittering in the light. He slowly curled his fingers in, the tendons on the backs of his hands standing out, showing the extreme pressure he was putting on them, on his body. “No,” he said, his voice hard.

“Then we can ignore them.” She could picture it. They could go out the back. Ride to the Oasis. The Oasis of Hope. It could be their refuge. It was tempting, very tempting to just ride away from everything. But in her mind, she was with Zahir, not away from him.

“No. We will go and make a statement.” He flicked a dismissive glance over her. “Make yourself up, and meet me in the front corridor in twenty minutes.”

Katharine was in the entryway two minutes early, her hair pinned up, wearing a bright yellow dress with a thick white belt that cinched the waist in. It was sunny. Chipper, even. Maybe it would make her feel a little perkier. A little less like she was leading Zahir to the executioner.

Zahir walked in, clad in white linen pants and a sand-colored tunic that molded to his well-defined chest. He didn’t go in for traditional dress, which didn’t really surprise her. He wasn’t the type to do something simply because it was what others had done before him.

His short 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.