Kate Hewitt - The Forced Bride Of Alazar

Quickly Azim stepped away from the window. His stomach clenched and pain stabbed his head in two lightning-like slices. He pressed his fingers to his temples and tried to will it away even though he knew from far too much experience what a pointless exercise that was. So Johara Behwar was disgusted by the prospect of marrying him. It was not really a surprise, and yet...

No, he could not think like that. He had no use for sentiment of any kind, the naïve, youthful longings for some sort of connection with the woman who would be his Sultana. He’d made sure to live his life independently, needing no one. Being dependent on someone, much less actually caring, led to weakness and vulnerability. Shame and pain. He knew it too well and he had no intention of courting those awful emotions again.

This was a marriage of convenience and expediency, to secure an alliance and produce an heir. Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all.

Taking a deep breath, Azim dropped his hands from his temples and turned to face the door—and to greet his bride.

* * *

Each step down the marble corridor felt like a step towards her doom. Johara told herself she was being fanciful, it couldn’t possibly be that bad, but her body disagreed. Nausea churned in her stomach and with a sudden lurch of alarm she turned to the attendant who was escorting her to meet His Royal Highness Azim al Bahjat. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

The attendant backed away from her as if she’d already thrown up onto his shoes.

‘Sick—’

She took a deep breath, doing her best to stay her stomach. She could not lose her breakfast moments before meeting her intended husband. Icy sweat prickled on her forehead and her palms were slick. She felt light-headed, as if the world around her were moving closer and then farther away. Another deep breath. She could do this. She had to do this.

She’d done it before, after all, although she’d been a child when she’d first met Malik, and hadn’t realised the import of what was happening. The subsequent few meetings had been brief and businesslike, and Johara had managed not to actually think about what they were discussing, and its lifelong consequences, a wilful ignorance that in hindsight seemed both childish and foolish.

Now she couldn’t keep from thinking of them. Azim was an utter stranger, and she’d been passed from one brother to the next like some sort of human parcel. The thought made her stomach churn again.

She’d spent the eight-hour flight from Nice telling herself that she and Azim could, perhaps, come to an amenable agreement. An arrangement, which was what all convenient marriages were. She would present him with a proposal, a sensible suggestion to live mainly separate lives that would, she hoped, be to both of their advantage. If she’d had the foresight and presence of mind, she would have done the same with Malik when they’d first discussed their engagement several years ago. Or perhaps she wouldn’t have...it was only since she’d tasted freedom that she’d acquired a desperate appetite for it.

‘Are you well, Sadiyyah Behwar?’ the attendant asked, all solicitude now that he’d ascertained she wasn’t really going to vomit.

Johara lifted her chin and forced a smile. ‘Yes, thank you. Please lead on.’

She followed the man down the hallway, her trailing robes whispering against the slick marble floor. Her father had insisted she wear traditional formal dress for the first meeting with Azim, although she had never stood on such ceremony with Malik. She found the garment, with its intricately embroidered and jewelled hem and cuffs, stiff, heavy and uncomfortable, the unfamiliar hijab hot on her head. One more element of this whole affair that felt alien and unwelcome.

The attendant paused before a set of double doors that looked as if they were made of solid gold. Johara had been in the palace a few times before, for her brief meetings with Malik, but they’d always taken place in a small, comfortable room. Azim had chosen far more opulent surroundings for this initial introduction.

‘His Highness, Azim al Bahjat,’ the attendant intoned, and, with fear coating her insides with ice, Johara stepped into the room.

Sunlight poured from several arched windows, nearly blinding her so she had to blink several times before she caught sight of the man she was meant to marry. He stood in the centre of the room, his body erect and still, his face grave and unsmiling. Even from across the room Johara could see how black and opaque his eyes were, like a starless night in the desert. His dark hair was cut so close she could see the powerful bones of his skull, and a scar snaked from the corner of his left eye to the curve of his mouth, clearly long since healed over although the wounded flesh still looked red and livid. He wore an embroidered linen thobe, the material emphasising his lean, muscular form, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long, powerful legs.

The whole effect was beyond intimidating. Terrifying was the word that came to mind, and she had to fight not to take an instinctive step back towards the doors, towards safety, away from this man whose face even in repose looked frightening. Looked cruel, although perhaps that was simply the darkness of his eyes, the livid red of the scar.

If she looked at his features reasonably, Johara told herself, fighting off the panic, she could see that he was an attractive man, his features even, his nose a straight slash, his mouth a mobile, sensual curve. Underneath his linen thobe his body was powerful and he moved with a graceful fluidity, taking a few steps towards her before stopping to survey her as she was surveying him, those dark eyes sweeping from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, giving away nothing of what he felt or thought.

Then Azim inclined his head in what Johara supposed was a greeting. His voice, when he spoke, was clipped, cold. ‘We will marry in one week’s time.’

CHAPTER TWO

JOHARA’S MOUTH DROPPED open as Azim’s words reverberated through the grand room. Those were the first words out of his mouth—not hello, nice to meet you, or any of the other forms of basic introduction acceptable to civilised society? Just this chilling dictate that the clenching of her stomach made her fear she would have no choice but to obey.

‘I am glad you are agreeable,’ he added shortly, turning away, and Johara realised he’d taken her silence for acquiescence—and was now effectively dismissing her. As far as her future husband was concerned, their conversation was over, and they hadn’t even said hello.

‘Wait—Your Highness!’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper, and Johara cleared her throat, frustrated by her fear. This was too important a moment to act the shocked maiden. Azim turned back to her, his eyes narrowed, his mouth a hard, flat line that looked as if it never saw a smile.

‘Yes?’

‘It is only...’ Johara gulped as she collected her scattered thoughts, the fragments of her dashed hopes. Their conversation—if she could use that word—had been so abrupt she could hardly believe it was over. She hadn’t even had a chance to think. ‘This has all happened so quickly. And we had never met before today—’

‘We have met now.’

Johara stared at him, searching for some glimmer of warmth in those starless eyes, a hint of a smile in the uncompromising line of his mouth. She saw neither. ‘Yes, but we do not know one another,’ she continued, trying to make her tone both light and reasonable. ‘And...marriage.’ She spread her hands, tried for a smile. The pep talk she’d given herself on the plane seemed woefully improbable now, and yet she had no other plans, no other weapon. ‘It is a large step to take for two people who have not laid eyes on one another before this moment.’