Olivia Gates - Midnight on the Sands

“Yes.”

Which told her nothing because she’d already known what his answer would be. “Good.”

The driver pulled the car forward and out of the palace, heading toward the city center. “It isn’t as though I don’t travel,” he said.

“I know you do. A little bit. And I also know you avoid driving near places like the market, where people might crowd the car.”

“I’m not afraid,” he said, his words short. Clipped.

“I never said you were.”

“You think it. There is nothing for me to be afraid of. I have faced death and if it came again, I would fight it, and if I couldn’t fight it, I would embrace it. What I don’t like is having my mind taken over. Having no control over what I see. Over what I do. I would much more happily face death.” His entire body was tense, each muscle tightened. “Do you know what it’s like … to have to spend so much energy keeping the demons at bay? To never have one moment of peace? I relive it. Daily. Not to the degree you witnessed in the market, but it is never truly gone.”

She swallowed, her throat tight. “Why?”

“I … I have to remember it,” he said, his voice rough.

“No, Zahir, you don’t.”

“Everyone is dead, Katharine. Malik, my mother, my father, the guards in the motorcade who were there to protect us. How can I let it go? Should I get over it? They never will. They’re gone.”

The pain in his words burned into her, marking her. In that moment, she understood. He carried the memory of his family’s last moments because he felt that not doing so would diminish the tragedy. She understood, because she felt like she had to shoulder some of his pain. That she had to share. So he wouldn’t be alone.

“They are gone,” she said softly. “But you’re here. And I need you. Your people need you. And that’s why you’ll beat it.”

He focused on his palms. “I thought I had.” He looked away. “No, I knew I had not. But I thought I had them managed. The two I’ve had since you’ve arrived were the first true flashbacks I’ve had in over a year.”

She tried to force a laugh. “So … it’s me then.”

Dark eyes locked with hers. “You make it hard to concentrate, that much is true. And yet somehow—” he looked away again “—your voice … your face … brought me back.”

Emotion rose in her fast and fierce like a tide. “Good. We’ll go with that.” She rested her hand on the seat between them. “Hold on to me if you feel it coming.”

He looked down at her hand, a dark eyebrow arched, his expression filled with pure, masculine stubbornness. It was welcome compared to the bleak, grief-stricken look that had come over him when he’d spoken of his family. “I will block it out.”

“If it were that simple that’s what you would always do.”

His expression was fierce. “It should be that simple. I should be stronger.”

“You should be stronger? You should bear all this weight and somehow heal at the same time? How should you be stronger, Zahir? You survived. Not only that, you’re ruling your country in a way that would make your father and Malik so proud.”

“They were made for this life. They were born to it. Men of diplomacy, men of the people.” He laughed, a sound that was cold and humorless. Laced with a kind of bitter pain that was so real and unvarnished it hurt to hear it. “We both know I am not a diplomat, to say the least.”

“You care for your people. Just because you don’t spend your life in the public eye doesn’t mean you don’t. Just because it isn’t as easy for you doesn’t mean you don’t do just as well as Malik would have.”

“Why exactly do you want to fix me, latifa ?” he asked, ignoring her earlier words.

There it was again. Beauty. The entire sentence was dripping with insincerity, and yet she found herself clinging to that one word, turning it over. She’d been called beautiful so many times, mostly by the press. The same press that might turn around and call her ugly the next day if she wore a shade of yellow that didn’t flatter her skin tone. It had never mattered. If the insult could be a lie, so could the compliment.

Her father used it, too. Sincerely, and yet it always seemed to undermine any value she had as a person. It had become an annoyance. A near insult in its own right.

But for some reason, hearing it from Zahir’s lips made something happen inside of her. A warm kind of tingling that spread through her body, pooling low in her stomach.

She blinked and looked up at him, into his flat, black eyes. “I … because I have to. The wedding. We have to show strength.”

Her words were clumsy. And they were wrong. There was so much more to this now, to what she was feeling. But she didn’t know what else to say. Always, she had worked for her country’s betterment. Even her time in the hospitals had been in service of their military men. She didn’t really know how to separate what she wanted from what she was supposed to do.

Except for those light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel moments where she had some vague, exhilarating sense of freedom. Whatever that meant.

Although now, sitting with Zahir, even with the tension and sadness, she felt peace. A kind of peace she never felt.

The car turned, taking the more densely populated route that would lead them into the heart of the city. She sensed Zahir tensing next to her and stretched her hand out so that her fingertips rested against his. She’d said the wrong thing, but the physical touch seemed like the right thing.

And he accepted it.

The road narrowed and became more crowded with vehicle and foot traffic as they neared the market, and everything slowed to a crawl. She could sense Zahir’s anxiety as the people closed in on the car, weaving around them so they could cross the street.

“Look at me,” she said.

He turned his head, his forehead glossed with sweat, his jaw set tight.

“Look at me,” she said again. “I’m here. So are you.”

His hand drifted closer to hers until it engulfed it, his thumb lightly moving over her knuckles. He tightened his hold on her for a moment, then released, then squeezed again. Her chest felt tight, too tight. Watching him fight like he was, she felt like she was seeing strength beyond anything she’d ever witnessed. Because he was battling inner demons that went well beyond what most men would be asked to face. Beyond what anyone should ever be asked to endure.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she said softly.

“Just keep doing it,” he said, his teeth gritted. “Because it seems to be working.”

Her throat tightened. She was angry. So angry that he was dealing with this. That someone had done this to him. And she didn’t know what sort of help or hope she could offer.

“What did you do last night?” she asked.

He blew out a breath, his jaw loosening slightly. “Caught an intruder in my bedroom.”

She felt the corners of her mouth tug up into a smile. “Before that.”

“I was riding. My horse. She makes up for what I can’t see. And while there are cars with the technology to help with that … it isn’t the same.”

“No, it couldn’t be. Animals have an intuition that technology can’t possess. I like to ride, too.” She took a breath. Took a chance. “I’d like to go out with you. Riding, I mean.”

He nodded slowly. “In the evening sometime,” he said. “When it isn’t too hot.”

“I’d like that.”

They were through the center of town, through the crowd of people. He relaxed, pulling his hand away and placing it in his lap.

“Are you ready to go back?” she asked, wondering if they’d pushed hard enough for the day.

“I’m fine,” he said.