I sat alone in my chamber, on a platformed cushion piled high with pillows covered in vibrant fabrics. Surrounding the bed was a thin veil of spider-silk, blowing with eerie leisure at the slightest disturbance. My knees were drawn to my chest; my fingers laced across my ankles.
He wasn't going to show up.
Feeling like an imbecile, I slid off the bed and wrapped a soft shawl around my bare shoulders, padding lightly towards the large terrace. The sweet scent of citrus blossoms wafted through the carved wooden screens leading to the terrace, whispering of freedom now beyond reach. A breeze gusted along the gossamer curtains lining the walls of the chamber. I rubbed my hands along my arms, fighting the cold.
What was I going to do? I had no way out of this situation. I did not think that my husband would think too kindly of me sneaking off into the marketplace in the early hours of the morning even though he had done the same thing. My brows furrowed at the contradiction. The refugees were driven here because of the war with the Turks and the French. He was the reason they were here. His conquests, despite his father's disapproval, were the reason they were here. Yet, he'd paid for their food. Was that out of guilt?
But, he was a known murderer. He'd decimated whole tribes! The city echoed with tales of his ferocity. How he never tolerated any dissent. How he'd flogged a man for talking back. He was the Caliph's sword. A fearless warrior and a gifted swordsman. The General of his army. The youngest son.
Now, I was his wife.
If I managed to get out of this situation, which was an impossible task in itself, I had nowhere to go. Going to the Ottomans was out of the question. They would probably get me married off to some other powerful man, an illegitimate contender to the throne.
Baba would be hung to death here, losing his position and his life.
If I did become selfish, I was looking at a loveless and perilous future either way. My hands clenched on the curtain, tears threatening to spill over. All I wanted was the freedom to do as I pleased. No one to question why I was making potions, making ointments, helping people.
'You could still do that', Sanaa's voice whispered. I stared at the gardens below me, chewing the inside of my cheeks.
"Shehzadi"
I jumped, whirling around to see Prince Alizayd staring at me with a blank expression.
His eyes roamed over my figure and I took an inadvertent step back. My body flushed under his heavy appraisal, his eyes traveling from my neck down to the valley of my breasts and lower to my waist. His intense gaze heated and I took a sharp breath, my stomach clenching.
His eyes snapped back to meet mine and I released a pent up breath. I took in his attire, trying to keep my eyes from wandering too far. He was wearing a qamis of the finest white linen and grey shalwar trousers. He was barefoot, I noted as he stepped closer to me, his eyes not leaving mine for a second. His stature and expression embodied the antithesis of everything I found warm and good in the world.
Why did he have to be a murderer? Why did it have to be him? Hazel eyes peered into my soul, those shape features coming into focus as he made his way towards me. He moved soundlessly, like a ghost.
I made a snap decision and walked over to meet him.
Whatever happened today, I was not going to let him take away my freedom. This would have to be my best option. I would make it so, for myself, for my father and for my clansmen. With every step I took, I felt the clarity of my purpose rise in my blood.
This man was a conundrum but I had to find a way to manipulate him. To mould him. Excellent swordsmen tended to be stalwart strategists. Quick to spot signs of subterfuge. And this presented yet another obstacle. If he ever suspected me of manipulation, it would be even more difficult to catch him unawares. I stared at him, my eyes never wavering.
He reached a hand out to me.
Just as I extended my palm to grasp it, I remembered to bow. The warmth of the room brought a flush to my cheeks. When I met his eyes again, he blinked once. A spark of something flashing across his face, lingering at the edges of his lips. It was gone too quickly to offer anything of significance.
My fingers brushed his lightly and he captured them in a deathly grip. I swallowed a gasp.
"No need to bow before me, my wife does not bow before anyone, least of all me," I blinked, rising to my feet, slowly. Interesting.
"Apologies," I said, my voice tinged with disbelief. He shook his head, his eyes focused on my face, calculating. I waited. He took in the wrap around my shoulders.
"Have you had anything to eat?" This conversation was not going the way I imagined. He took my silence as a no and strode out of the room. I heard a dark rumble and a soft click of the door.
What was going on?
As far as wedding nights went, this one was not going as planned. He returned, minutes later, with a serving girl in tow. She carried the tray in, her gaze lowered, placing it on the low table in front of me.
The tray was covered with lavash bread, a round of goat cheese enfolded in sweet preserves, a tureen of soup, and a halved pomegranate, its seeds glistening like garnets in the dim lamp lighting. An ornate silver pot of cardamom tea sat over a low burning flame. My stomach rumbled at the delicious smell.
He gestured for me to be seated and I stared at him suspiciously. I rearranged the cushions to provide maximum coverage and tried to relax. Whatever he was playing at, I had to be ready. He ignored me, taking off his turban and running his hand through his thick curly hair.
Holy...
He looked up and I averted my gaze, pretending not to see the small knowing smile on his lips. Arrogant bastard. I did not wait for him and proceeded to take a small bite of the bread, dipping it into the soup and popping it into my mouth.
My eyes closed and I moaned. This was heaven. The palace chefs had done an excellent job.
"That good?" the words said were innocent, but the meaning was not. Despite the situation, anticipation curled in my stomach.
His long fingers reached over, his eyes focused on mine and he took a piece of my bread, following my example and put it into his mouth. "You weren't exaggerating," I merely gave him a look, choosing to ignore the comment.
"Does my bride have nothing to say?" I deliberated. Play coy? Or go big?
"The food is good," my voice came out clear, a huge contrast to the conflict within.
He stared at me, his eyes unreadable. Allah, had I had messed this up? Was this it? I'd ruined my marriage on the first night.
I kept my expression neutral, focusing on the second bite, ignoring the panic within. A rich loud laugh rang out and I paused, shocked.
He was...laughing at me?
My heart fell and I struggled to keep my expression flat. He regained his composure giving me a soft look. "You're so innocent"
I raised an eyebrow not knowing how to take that statement. "So pure," he continued moving closer, brushing my shawl away, his fingers barely touching my bare shoulder. I tried not to flinch, keeping my body stiff and unmoving.
My cheeks defied my unmoving countenance, turning red at his advance. His fingers followed the curve of my heated cheek, his other hand pushing the table away.
I shivered when his nose skimmed my neck, inhaling. "Lavender," he breathed, his breath fanning out, causing goosebumps to erupt all over. His hands continued their exploration, running through my hair. I eased back onto the bed, my heart thundering loudly, feeling out of control. He followed my retreat, his body hovering over mine.
"Do you want this?" Did I want this?
Before I had a chance to respond, his lips brushed over mine. I gasped at the soft contact, and I swore I could feel his lips curve against mine in a smile. He moved his mouth along mine, painstakingly slow as if he were mapping out the curve of my lips with his. I held completely still, my heart feeling like a trapped butterfly as he retraced the path he'd just made.
My first kiss.
My mind was a muddled mess, my hands trapped between his chest and mine. I trembled as my hands curled into the front of his qamis, moving on their own accord, dragging it over his shoulders and then his head.
My lips parted and my eyes widened.
I'd seen a man's chest before, but I'd never seen one like this, with muscles that flexed and bunched with every move. He was broad of shoulder and chest, all lean muscles defined by years of intense training. There was a fine dusting of hair under his navel that disappeared behind his shalwar.
Even in the candlelight, I could see how tight his shalwar was, how it gloved his body, leaving very little to the imagination.
And I had a vast imagination thanks to the visits to Uncle Yaqoob's shop. Unfamiliar sensations curled in my stomach, causing a whirlwind of tangled emotions.
I tried to catch my breath, watching his eyes darken to an intense amber shade. His body shifted, settling heavily into mine and I arched, my mouth opening in a gasp.
Ali's amber-eyed gaze rose to my head, and he shifted his hand out from behind my neck. I tensed as he picked up a strand of my hair, drawing it out so it shone in the candlelight. His head tilted to the left.
"Beautiful," he muttered, his lips coming in to capture mine once again.
He tilted his head, increasing the pressure, deepening the kiss. Suddenly, everything changed. This kiss—its rawness—left me breathless. Both of us gasped when we parted, our chests rising and falling quickly.
I couldn't see his expression in the dark, but I could feel his penetrating stare.
He trailed just one fingertip along my neckline, following the rapid rise and fall of the swell of my breast. A riot of sensations followed his finger, so many I couldn't make sense of them all.
"Prince Alizayd," a loud voice cut through our haze. He didn't move, his hand coming dangerously close to cupping my breast, circling, teasing.
"Someone's outside," I muttered, he still didn't move, his lips nibbling at my neck. I arched again, my fingers grasping at his dark lustrous locks.
"My Prince. There's an emergency!"
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Woah... 🥵