The Last Prince of Dahaar

It was how he saw his life stretch in front of him. Isolated during the day and fighting his demons each night.

Until his bride had stood at the entrance to the hall.

He had sucked in a sharp breath, feeling as though a fog was falling away from his eyes. Suddenly, he had become aware of the reverent hush of the crowd as they watched her walk toward him, the festive strains of traditional music and the scent of the roses around the dais wafting up toward him.

Instead of the pristine white that tradition demanded, her dress was of the palest gold color with intricately heavy embroidery. It draped her torso in a severe cut, even the neckline revealing nothing but the palest hint of her skin. Thousands of tiny crystals stitched into the bodice twinkled every time she moved. It was cinched at her tiny waist and then showed off her long legs. Her hair was piled high and atop it sat a diamond tiara.

He had no doubt as to what statement she was making with that dress. Subtlety in any shape or form was apparently a strange concept to his bride.

His mouth curved, a lightness filling his chest.

The severity of the style did nothing but highlight the shape of her body—every curve and dip neatly delineated to satisfy his spiraling curiosity from that night.

Her skin glowed. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her features were too distinct and determined to play well with each other, but in that moment, there was no woman who would have suited better to be the future queen of Dahaar.

The longer he took in her beautiful face, the faster his heart beat.

His gut tightened in the most delicious way, a slow curl of heat unraveling in his muscles. He shuddered at the strangely dizzying sensation.

When the imam completed his prayer and she turned to look at Ayaan, the scent of her skin—rose attar and something else—teased his body into rising awareness.

She was his wife, his woman.

In name only, but in that moment, the primitive claim washed away everything else.

The music climbed a crescendo and the imam pronounced them man and wife.

She was now Princess Zohra Katherine Naasar Al-Sharif, the future queen of Dahaar.

Cheers and good wishes swept up through the hall. He let it all flow over him, fighting the inimitable weight of it, willing himself to focus on the happiness flowing around.

Hooking her hand through his, he led her down the steps of the dais and toward the area on the right to where the next ritual would take place. She had asked for the ceremonies to be completed the same day.

“What was the reason for this request?” he whispered at her ear, noticing her eyes light up as her brother Wasim hugged her. She said something to him and immediately the young prince of Siyaad cheered up.

It was the only time she fully smiled—when it was her half sister or half brother. For the rest of them, including her father, there was never a smile, at least not one that reached her eyes. Only a distance she clearly projected between her and the outside world.

Pity, because her smile held inexplicable warmth, almost a promise to chase away the shadows from the person she bestowed it on.

She stilled and turned toward him, her hand going to the sheer, gold-colored veil that fluttered from beneath the tiara. He leaned in and tugged it from where it had caught on the tiny crystal on her bodice. His fingers grazed the curve of her breast. She jerked back just as he did.

Her beautiful brown eyes flared. “I have no love for rituals that take three days. This way, my father can return to Siyaad tomorrow morning instead of waiting for another three days and spend energy he doesn’t have on—”

“I thought you didn’t care about your father.”

“I don’t. But it doesn’t mean that I want him to suffer. That would just...”

“Finally break through your stubborn head and show you what an ungrateful daughter you are.”

Zohra came to a sudden halt and stared at the man who was now her husband. They were surrounded from all sides by her father’s family and his own. And yet the scorn that had rattled in his words was just as obvious in his gaze. “Have I done something to upset you, Prince Ayaan?”

“No, Princess,” he said, lingering a second too long on the title. “Just telling the truth as I see it. It seems very few people dare to.”

“And you do?”

“I have taken an oath just now that I would protect you. Even if it has to be from yourself.”

“And of course, being a man, you have all the correct answers without knowing anything about my relationship with my father, right?”

One corner of his mouth turned up in mockery. “Have you noticed how every argument with you comes down to the fact that I am a man and you are not? One would think beneath all this contempt you show for duty and Siyaad, you’re just annoyed that you are not allowed to rule.”

His arrogance rendered her mute for a second. “I have never coveted the crown of Siyaad,” she said, angry with herself for letting him rile her so easily. “All it entails is that you endlessly sacrifice either your or your loved ones’ happiness at its feet.”

“As you are apparently unable or unwilling to see, I will spell it out for you, Princess. It seems your father has given you unfettered freedom while you didn’t even blink at the idea of betraying his trust. A princess of Siyaad, spending her summers in the desert, falling in love, the very life you have led is a testament to it. You’re standing here,” he said, laying his arm so casually against her waist that for a moment she lost track of what he said, “for no other reason than because you think you’re protecting your sister from a horrible fate.”

Her father and now Prince Ayaan, had both said the same thing to her.

Did they not see that it was their devotion to duty that had left her with no choice?

* * *

After more than an hour of mingling with guests, either strangers or her father’s family, who snubbed her or the courageous ones that veiled their insults cleverly, Zohra was to ready to escape when she found herself next to her new husband.

His nearness unsettled her, an extra layer of awareness sparking to life. Or maybe it was that he had a habit of saying things that burrowed under her skin.

A ten-layered white glazed cake that looked like a castle perched on the edge of a mountain was wheeled in front of them.

She laughed and turned toward him. “This has to be the best part of wedding a prince.”

His gaze lingered over her mouth a fraction too long before he responded. “A lesser man would take offense at that, Princess.”

His hand was callused and warm over hers as they cut the cake, his breath an unwanted caress against her skin. Maintaining her smile took more effort than it should have. “It’s a good thing you’re not a lesser man, or even the average. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be so...”