Hajar's Hidden Legacy

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Zahir took his fury, his humiliation, out on the pool in his gym. At least in the water his movements were smooth. He knew the length, knew just how many strokes it took to get to the end. Here there was no limp, his sight didn’t matter.

He stopped and gripped the edge of the pool cursing loudly, dragging his hand and droplets of water down his face, his palm burning where his flesh had been left raw and cut by the broken vase. But he welcomed that pain. Physical pain meant little to him. He’d survived more of it than any man should be able to.

But making such a fool of himself, showing such weakness, that was a true blow. He never did that. Now he had done it twice with her.

He looked up and saw pale, delicate ankles, then up farther to a set of shapely legs. Had she been any closer to the edge of the pool, he would have been treated to a lot more.

The woman had no sense of boundaries. “What is it you want, latifa?”

He tightened his jaw, grinding his teeth. His towel was across the gym, and she was there, standing, staring. Another chance to shock herself with his ravaged body? She hadn’t run the first time, but he did not go out of his way to show the scars that marred his body. Not out of vanity. But because they shamed him. Reminded him, every day, in every way, that he was less than he had been. That he shouldn’t be here.

Survivor’s guilt, his first doctor had called it. Naming it didn’t change anything. How else was he supposed to feel? Should he forget? Move on from the event that had taken everyone? If he forgot, who would remember? Who would carry it with them? He felt as though he was keeping them here. Anchoring them to this world.

Impossible, he knew. And yet the feelings remained.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

He placed his palms flat on the rough cement surrounding the pool, welcoming the pain it brought, the distraction, as he hauled himself out of the water in one fluid motion, bracing himself for the less than agile feeling that came with having his own two feet beneath him. Putting weight on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to him.

Her eyes were glued to his torso and he fought the urge to cover himself. A strange, weak response. It should not concern him, what she thought of his body, of the scars that marked his skin, the deep groove that showed the loss of muscle and strength in his thigh.

He simply stood for a moment, daring her to look away. She didn’t. But then, she never did anything he expected—why should she start now? He would almost be disappointed if she descended into predictability. Almost.

He reached over to the nearby towel rack to pull off a black towel, dragging it over his chest, then around to his back. She watched him the whole time, and he felt his body responding to the open, female appraisal. It had been so long since he had felt a woman’s hands on his skin, and just as long since one had looked at him as though he were a man.

No one, other than his physician, had ever seen his body uncovered since the wounds had healed. Amarah had seen him when they were fresh. When there had been a hope of healing. They had been too much for her to handle then. Or, perhaps she could have handled the scars if the attack had only stolen his physical attraction. If it had not taken the very soul of who he was. Good that she’d run early so he hadn’t had the chance to bring her down with him.

Of course, unlike his ex, Katharine wouldn’t be running.

“It means beauty,” he said, discarding the towel, crossing his arms over his chest.

She looked slightly surprised to hear the translation. “Oh. Well, I thought it might mean ‘pain in the rear’ or something.”

A sharp twinge of amusement forced a laugh to climb his throat. “Not quite.”

Full, pink lips curved into a smile and cut through the defense he’d put up between them. She appealed to his body, as a woman did to a man. A whole man. And for a brief moment, he felt as though he were.

It only took a sharp, shooting pain from his diminished thigh muscle to remind him that wasn’t the case. Just like the desert would wilt a rose, he would wither Katharine, would steal the life from her.