Forged in the Desert Heat

* * *

Fast was an understatement. They made a brief stop at the oasis, a pocket in a mountain that seemed to rise from the earth, shielding greenery and water from the sun, providing shade and relief from the immeasurable heat.

Sadly, they didn’t linger for very long and they were back in the sun, the horse’s hoofbeats a repetitive, pounding rhythm that was starting to drive her crazy.

By the time the vague impression of the city, hazy in the distance, came into view, Ana was afraid she was going to fall off the horse. Fatigue had set in, bone deep. She felt coated in a fine layer of dust, her fingers dry and stiff with it.

She needed a bath. And a soft bed. She could worry about everything else later, as long as she had those two things as soon as humanly possible.

This was not her life. Her life was cosseted in terms of physical comforts. A plush mansion, a private all-girls school with antique, spotless furniture and women’s college dorms that rivaled any five-star hotel.

Hot baths and soft beds had been taken for granted all of her life. Never again. Never, ever again. She was wretched. She felt more rodent than human at the moment. Like some ground-dwelling creature rooted out of her hole, left to dry out beneath the heat.

As they drew closer she could see skyscrapers. Gray glass and steel, just like any city in the United States. But beyond that was the wall. Tall, made of yellow brick, a testament to the city that once had been—a thousand years ago.

“Welcome to Bihar,” he said, his tone grim.

“Are you just going to ride in?”

He tightened his hold on her. “Why the hell not?”

He was a funny contradiction. A man who was able to spout poetry about the desert, soliloquies of great elegance. And yet, when he had to engage in conversation, the elegance was gone. On his own, he was all raw power and certainty, but when he had to interact...well, that was a weakness for sure.

“Seems to me a horse might be out of place.”

“In the inner city, yes, but not here on the outskirts. Not on the road to the palace. At least not the road I intend to take.”

They forged on, through the walls that kept Bihar separate from the desert. They went past homes, pressed together, stacked four floors high, made from sun-bleached brick. Then on past an open-air market with rows of baskets filled to the brim with flour, nuts and dried fruit. People were milling about everywhere, making way for Zafar without sparing a lingering glance.

She turned and looked up at him. Only his eyes were visible. Dark and fathomless. His face was covered by his headdress. No one would recognize him. It struck her then, how funny it was.

The sheikh riding through on his black war horse, a captive in the saddle with him. And no one would ever know.

They continued on, moving up a narrow cobbled street, past the dense crowds, and through more neighborhoods, the houses starting to spread out then getting sparser. The cobbles turned to dirt, a path that followed the wall of the city, in an olive grove that seemed the stretch on for miles. Then she saw it, a glimmer on the hilltop, stretching across the entire ridge: the palace. Imposing. Massive. Beautiful.

White stone walls and a sapphire roof made it a beacon that she was sure could be seen from most points in the city. Bihar might have thoroughly modern buildings that nearly touched the sky, but the palace seemed to be a part of it. Something ethereal or supernatural. Unreal.

Zafar urged the horse into a canter and the palace rapidly drew closer. When they arrived at the gate, Zafar dismounted, tugging at the fabric that covered his face, revealing strong, handsome features. Unmistakable. No wonder he traveled the way that he did. There was no way he would go unrecognized if he didn’t keep his face covered. No way in the world.

He reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out...a cell phone. Ana felt like she’d just been given whiplash. Everything about Zafar seemed part of another era. The man had ridden a freaking black stallion through the city streets, and now he was making a call on a cell phone.

It was incongruous. Her brain rejected it wholly, but it couldn’t argue with what she was seeing. Her poor brain. It had tried rejecting this entire experience, but unfortunately, the past week was reality. This was reality.

“I’m here. Open the gates.”

And the gates did open.

She was still on the horse, clinging to the saddle as Zafar led them into an opulent courtyard. Intricate stone mosaic spiraled in from the walls that partitioned the palace off from the rest of the world, a fountain in the middle, evidence of wealth. As were the green lawns and plants that went beyond the mosaic. Water for the purpose of creating beauty rather than simply survival was an example of extreme luxury in the desert. That much she knew from Tariq.

As if the entire palace wasn’t example enough.

She looked at Zafar. His posture was rod straight, black eyes filled with a ferocity that frightened her. There was a rage in him. Spilling from him. And then, suddenly, the walls were back up, and his eyes were blank again.

They were met at the front by men who looked no more civilized than Zafar, a band of huge, marauder-type men. Desert pirates. That’s what they made her think of. All of them. Her escort included. One of the men, the largest, even had a curved sword at his waist. Honestly, she was shocked no one had an eye patch.

Fear reverberated through her, an echo along her veins, a shadow of what she’d felt when she was taken from the camp and her friends, but powerful enough that it clung to every part of her. Wouldn’t let her go.

She was in his domain. Truly, she had been from the moment she’d been hauled across the border from Shakar to Al Sabah, but here, with evidence of his power all around, it was impossible to deny. Impossible to ignore.

His power, his strength was frightening. And magnetic. It drew her to him in a way she couldn’t fathom. Made her heart beat a little faster. Fear again, that was all. It could be nothing else.

“Sheikh,” one of them said, inclining his head. He didn’t even spare her a glance.

“Do you need help dismounting?” Zafar asked.

“I think I’ve got it, thanks.” She climbed down off of the horse, stumbling a little bit. So much for preserving her pride. She looked over at Zafar’s sketchy crew and smiled.

“We shall need a room prepared for my guest. I assume you saw to the hiring of new servants?”

She nearly laughed. Guest? Was that what she was?

The largest man nodded. “Everything has been taken care of as requested. And Ambassador Rycroft says he will not be put off any longer. He insists you call him as soon as you are in residence.”

“Which, I suppose is now,” Zafar said, his voice hard, emotionless. “Take the horse.”

“Yes, Sheikh.”

If any of his men were perturbed by the change in status they didn’t show it. But then, she imagined that Zafar had always been the one in charge. That he had always been sheikh to those who followed him.

Questioning him wasn’t something anyone would do lightly. He exuded power, strength. Danger. Everything that should have repelled her. But it didn’t. It scared her, no mistake, but it also fascinated her. And that scared her on a whole new level.

“Your things?” the other man asked.

“I have none. Neither has she. Remedy that. I want the woman to have a wardrobe of new clothing before the end of the day. Understood?”

The man arched one brow. “Yes, Sheikh.”

Oh, good grief. They were going to think she was the starter to his harem. Or at least they would think she was his mistress. But there was no way to correct it now. This was an unprecedented point in Al Sabah’s history. Zafar was taking over the throne, and the entire palace clearly had new staff. Zafar would be an completely different sort of leader to the one they’d had before, that much was true.

And it would be such a relief, not just to the people here, but to Tariq’s people. She knew that things had been strained between Shakar and Al Sabah, that Tariq had feared war. He’d called her late one night and expressed those fears. She’d valued that. Valued that he cared enough to tell her what was on his mind, his heart.

It was part of why she’d fallen in love with him. Part of why she’d said yes to his engagement offer. Yes, her father had instigated it. And yes, he was a driving force behind it, but she wouldn’t have said yes if she wasn’t genuinely fond of Tariq.

Fond of him.

That sounded weak sauce. She was more than fond of him. Love was the word. No, theirs wasn’t a red-hot relationship. But so much of that was to be expected. Tariq was old-fashioned and he’d courted her like an old-fashioned guy. It was respectful.

Plus, he was so handsome. Smooth, dark skin, coal eyes fringed with thick lashes, strong black brows...

She looked back at Zafar and the memory of Tariq and his good looks were knocked completely from her head.

Faced with Zafar, the sharp angles of his face, black beard covering most of his brown skin, obsidian eyes that were more like a dark flame and his lips...she really was quite fascinated by his lips...well, it was hard to think of anything else.

He wasn’t smooth. His skin was marked by the sun, by wind. There was nothing refined about him. He was like a man carved straight from the rock.

She wasn’t sure handsome was the right word for it. It seemed insipid.

“Shall we go in? It is my palace, though I have not been back here in fifteen years. I was born here. Raised here.”

Which meant he’d come into the world like everyone else, rather than being carved from stone, so there went that theory.

“Must be...nice to be back?” She watched his face, saw no expression change. If she hadn’t caught that moment of intense, dark emotion at the gates, she would think he felt nothing at all. “Strange? Sad?”

“It is necessary that I’m back. That is all.”

“I’m sure you feel something about being back.”

“I feel nothing in general, Ms. Christensen,” he said, addressing her by her name, any part of it, for the first time. “I should hardly start now. I have a country to rule.”

“But you’re...human,” she said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement. “So, I’m sure you feel something.”

“Purpose. Every day since my exile there has been one thing that has enticed me to open my eyes each morning, and that has been the belief that my people need me. That it is my duty and my right to lead this country, to care for these people, as they should be led and cared for. Not in the manner my uncle did it. Purpose is what has driven me for nearly half of my life, and purpose is what drives me now. Emotion is unnecessary and weak. Emotion lies. Purpose doesn’t.”

In so many ways, he echoed a colder, harsher version of what she’d always told herself. That doing right was what mattered. That when people stopped doing right and started serving themselves, things fell apart. Utterly and completely.

She’d seen it in her own family. She’d never wished to bring the kind of destruction her mother had, so she’d set out to be better. To be above selfishness. To do the right thing, the thing that benefitted others before it benefitted her.

To take care, instead of destroy. To be a blessing instead of a burden.

But hearing it from his lips, it seemed...wrong. At least she acknowledged emotion; she just knew there were more important things in life than giddy happiness. Giddy happiness was fleeting, and selfish. She felt it was just her mission to make sure she didn’t put her feelings above the happiness of others. There was nothing wrong with that.

“You know what else doesn’t lie? My muscles. I’m so stiff I can hardly move.”

“A bath then. I will have one drawn for you.”

“Th-thank you.”

“You sound surprised.”

“You’re giving me nicer things than my last kidnapper.”

“Savior, Analise. I think the word you’re looking for is savior.”

She looked into his midnight eyes and felt something tug, deep and hard inside of her. Something terrifying. Something that touched the edge of the forbidden. “No, I really don’t think that’s the word I’m looking for.”

“Come,” he said, walking toward the doors of the palace.

Zafar didn’t wait for the double doors to open for him. He pushed against them with both palms, flinging them wide, the sound of the heavy wood hitting the stone walls echoing in the antechamber.

He simply stood for a moment, and waited. For what he did not know. Ghosts, perhaps? There were none. None that were visible, though he could almost feel them. The pain, the anguish this place had witnessed seemed to echo from the walls and he felt it deep down in his bones. If he listened hard enough, he was certain he could still hear his mother screaming. His father crying.

The air was heavy. With memory, with a cold, stale scent that lingered. Probably had more to do with the stone walls than with the past.

He’d spent years living in a tent. Hell, it had been over a year since he’d actually been in a building that wasn’t made from canvas. The walls were too heavy. Too thick. Making the air even harder to breathe.

He wanted to turn and run, but Ana was behind him. He felt like an animal being herded into a cage, but he wouldn’t show that weakness. He couldn’t.

So he took another step inside. Into darkness, into the place that had seen so much death and devastation. It was a step back into his past. One he wasn’t prepared to take, but one that had to be taken.

“Zafar?”

He felt a small hand on his arm and he jerked away, looking down at Ana. She didn’t shrink back, but he could see something in her wilt. Unsurprising. She must think him more beast than man, but then, there was truth in that.

“We shall have your bath run for you,” he said, his voice tight, cold, even to his own ears.

He had no choice but to move forward. To embrace this because it was his destiny. And his penance. He gritted his teeth and walked on.

Yes, this was his penance. He was prepared to pay it now.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS ZAFAR’S great misfortune that Ambassador Rycroft was near and insisted on a meeting immediately. With Zafar in his robes, filthy from traveling. He had no idea how he must appear to the immaculately dressed, clean-shaven man who was sitting in his office now. He had very little idea of how he appeared at all. He didn’t make a habit of looking at mirrors.

The man was, per the paperwork he’d seen of his uncle’s, important to the running of the country. At least he had been. Zafar suspected that many of the “trade agreements” ran more toward black market deals. But he lacked proof at the moment.

They’d been making tentative conversation for the past few minutes, and Zafar felt very much like a bull tiptoeing through a china shop.

“This regime change has been very upsetting to those of us at the embassy.”

“I am sorry for that,” Zafar said. “My uncle’s death has inconvenienced you. I’m not certain why he couldn’t postpone it.”

Rycroft simply looked at him, offense evident in his expression. “Yes, well, we are eager to know what you intend to do with the trade agreements.”

“Your trade agreements are the least of my concern.” Zafar began to pace the room, another move that clearly unnerved his visitor. He supposed he was meant to sit. But he couldn’t be bothered. He hated this. Hated having to talk, be diplomatic. He didn’t see the point of it. Real men said what they meant; politicians never did. There was no honor in it, and yet, it was how things worked. “I have stepped into a den of corruption and I mean to sort it out. Your trade agreements can wait. Do you understand?”

Rycroft stood, his face turning red. “Sheikh Zafar, I don’t think you understand. These trade agreements are essential to the ease of your ascension to rule. Your uncle and I had an understanding, and if you do not carry it out, things might go badly for you.”

Anger surged through Zafar, driving his actions before he had conscious thought. All of his energy, seemingly magnified by the feeling of confinement he was experiencing in this place, broke free. He grabbed the other man by the shoulders and pushed him back against the wall, holding him firmly. “Do you mean to threaten me?”

Politicians might use diplomacy. He would not.

“No,” the ambassador said, his eyes wide. “I would not...I would never.”

“See that you do not, for I have erased men from this earth for far less, and don’t forget it.”

He released his hold on Rycroft and stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I will go to the press with this,” the other man said, straightening his jacket. “I will tell them that they have put an animal on the throne of Al Sabah.”

“Good. Tell them,” he said, anger driving him now, past the point of reason. Past whatever diplomacy he might have possessed. “Perhaps I will have fewer pale men in suits to deal with if you do.”

* * *

As she sank down into the recessed tub, made from dazzling precious stone, and the warm water enveloped her sore, dusty body, Ana had to rethink the savior thing.

These bubbles, the oils, the bath salts...it all felt like they, and by extension, Zafar, might very well have saved her life.

She would have liked to stay forever and just indulge, but she knew she couldn’t. She didn’t just relax and indulge. It wasn’t in her. She had to be useful. There was always something to do. Except, right now there wasn’t really anything.

Such a strange feeling. She didn’t like being aimless. She didn’t like feeling out of control. She needed purpose. She needed a project. Something to keep her mind and hands busy. Something to make her feel like she was contributing.

Being kidnapped wasn’t engaging much, except the constant war between her fight-or-flight response. It was terrifying, all of it, and yet she didn’t know the right thing to do.

She’d been working so hard for so many years. The desert trip was her last and first hurrah. Post-graduation, pre-public engagement. She’d wanted a touch of adventure, but nothing like this.

She pushed up from the bench and stepped out of the bath. There was a plush towel and a robe waiting for her. And she would be lying if she wasn’t enjoying it all a little bit. Premature princess points being cashed in now.

Glamorous in theory. And yet, it would be a lot like an extension of the life she already had. Living for appearances. That was all normal to her. She felt like she was always “on.” Even with her friends. The elite women’s college they’d gone to had encouraged them to be strong, studious and polished. To conform to a particular image. And even when they had personal time, even when they laughed and let the formality drop a bit, that core, that bit of guardedness, still ran through the group just beneath the surface.

She’d always been afraid to show too much of herself. Those tears in the desert had been some of the most honest emotion she’d let escape in years.

She wrapped herself in the robe and wandered back into the bedroom. “Oh, you are kidding me,” she said, looking down at the long, ornate table along the nearest wall. There was a bowl filled with fruit on it. Figs, dates, grapes.

“All I need is a hottie cabana boy with palm fronds standing by to fan me,” she muttered, taking a grape from the cluster and popping it into her mouth.

“I see you’re finding everything to your liking.”

She whipped around and saw Zafar striding through her bedroom doors. He looked...different. He had lost the headdress and heavy traveling robes, in favor of a white linen shirt and a pair of pale dress pants. His long hair was wet, clean and tied back. He had kept the beard, but it was trimmed short.

Somehow, he looked even more dangerous now, with this cloak of civility. Because at least before, he was advertising that he was a hazard. He had danger signs and flares all over him before. This great hairy beast with a full beard and flowing robes. With windburned skin and a thin coating of dirt. And the sweat smell. Not forgetting that.

But now she felt she could see more of him, and it displayed, to her detriment, just how handsome he truly was. Square jawed with a strong chin, and yet again, the lips.

Why was she so fascinated by his lips? Men’s lips weren’t that big a deal.

“Everything is lovely, all things considered.”

“What things considered?”

“Does the phrase ‘gilded cage’ mean anything to you?”

He shook his head. “No. You are comfortable?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes. More or less. But I would feel more comfortable if I could let my father or Tariq know I was safe.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” He started pacing over the high-gloss obsidian floor. A caged tiger. That was what he reminded her of. The thought sent a little shiver of fear chasing down her spine. “I was hardly exaggerating when I said this incident could push us into war. Neither of us want that, am I right?”

“They must be frantic!” she said. “Honestly, can you...can you channel what it might be like to feel, just for a second? They probably think I’m dead. Or sold. Which I was. But...but they probably think I’m in grave peril. I could talk to Tariq. At least give me a chance.”

He shook his head. “Things are far too tenuous for me at the moment. Let me tell you a story.”

“I hope it has a happy ending.”

“It hasn’t ended yet. You may well decide how it does end, so listen carefully. There once was a boy, who grew up in an opulent palace, fully expecting one day to be king. Until the castle was invaded by an enemy army, an enemy army who clearly knew how to get direct access to the sheikh and sheikha. They were killed. Violently. Horribly. Only the boy was spared. He would be king; at sixteen, he could very well have ruled. But there was a problem. An inquiry, suggested by the boy’s uncle, which indicated he was to blame for the death of his parents. And he was found guilty.”

There was no emotion in Zafar’s voice. There was nothing. It was more frightening than if there had been rage, malice, regret. Blank nothingness when speaking of an event like that, total detachment when she knew he was talking about himself...it was wrong. It was frightening, how divorced from it he was.

It made her wonder if she was as safe with the dynamic ruler as she’d initially imagined.

“Exiled to the desert for fifteen years under a cloud. The uncle ruled, the people fell into despair, the country to near ruin. And who was to blame? The boy, of course. A boy who somehow survived those years alone and is now a man. A man who must now assume the throne. You see what is stacked against me?”

“I understand,” she said, shifting, the stone floor cold beneath her bare feet. She suddenly became very conscious that she was wearing a robe with nothing beneath it. “But let me tell you a story about a girl and...and...no, let me just say, I disappeared some six or seven days ago from a desert tour I wasn’t supposed to be on. My friends are probably frantic. My fiancé is probably...concerned.” Devastated might be a stretch. Tariq was a very even-tempered man. “My father...” She nearly choked then. “My father will be destroyed. I am all that he has...you have to understand.”

Even as she said it, she hoped it was true. Strange that she was wishing for her father to be distressed, but...but she was always so afraid that his life was easier without her. It had been for her mother. No child to take care of. No one to break her lovely things.

“And you have to understand this. Inquiries are being made about you. Discreet ones, but it is happening. Kazeem received a phone call with a very clear threat. That the future Sheikha of Shakar was missing, and should she be found on Al Sabahan soil my reign will hold a record for brevity.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling dazed.

“I am all this country has,” he said, his voice hard, echoing in the room. “If there is to be a future for my people, I must remain on the throne. There is no room for negotiation.”