Tara Pammi - The Last Prince of Dahaar

“I always wondered why you took custody of me when mom died instead of sending me to her brother. Living in Siyaad all these years, being a daughter, a bastard at that, I realized I have no consequence for you, no importance in your life. But now... Is this why? You knew I would come in handy for one of your many obligations toward your country?”

His mouth compressed into a tight line, a flash of anger in his gaze now. “When will you realize that Siyaad is just as much a part of you as it is of me?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

Resignation settled over his features. And suddenly, he was the man who had had two heart attacks in the space of six months. “Whatever I say is immaterial because you’ve already decided the answer.”

He clasped her cheek with his palm, his gaze drinking in every feature, every nuance in her expression. He is remembering my mom. Zohra knew that as clearly as if he had said her name out loud. Ever since he had suddenly reappeared in her life when she had been thirteen and dragged her to Siyaad, she had always understood one thing.

He had loved her mother just as much as her mother had loved him. And yet, he had walked out of their lives and put duty first.

“Ever since you were a little girl, you’ve always been stubborn. Incredibly strong but also stubborn.

“You’ve always decided your own fate, Zohra. You decided why I had left without ever asking me. You decided to hate your stepmother when you came to live in Siyaad, even though she had been nothing but kind to you. You decided you would have nothing to do with Siyaad or your heritage.

“You decided to love your half brother and half sister, you decided to stay in Siyaad for them when you turned eighteen. No one has or will ever tell you how to live your life.

“What you make of this marriage, whether you view it as a cage or your freedom is, as always, up to you.”

Saira came bursting into the room, pink high in her cheeks. “He’s arrived in the Throne Hall.”

Zohra didn’t need to be told again who it was that was waiting for her.

Her gaze anxiously shifting between Zohra and their father, Saira handed Zohra the bouquet of white lilies. Her palms were clammy as though she were walking to her execution rather than her wedding.

As the sweet scent of the flowers tickled her nose, Zohra took her father’s offered hand. For a moment, she couldn’t get her legs to move, couldn’t shake off the sudden fear that descended over her.

In the next, she was standing at the entrance to the Throne Hall, a vast chamber with a high, circular dome ceiling. The moment Zohra and her father crossed the threshold, traditional Dahaaran music blared to life from their left and right. The festive sounds set her heart thumping in tune.

A gasp fell from her lips. The whole setting could have been torn out of her worn-out copy of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Back when she had still been enchanted enough to believe the magical stories spun by her father, before the reality of duty and obligation had shattered her world, before the truth of a princess’s life had forced her to grow up too fast.

The hall was huge with at least a thousand gold-edged chairs on either side, leaving a carpeted path between for her to walk. The floor was cream-colored marble with inlaid jewels.

The carpeted path was strewn with red rose petals. Zohra followed the path with her eyes to the other end of the hall, where there was a wide dais. Sheer gold-and-beige-colored fabrics draped across the dais which was built of steps leading to a gold-edged throne, wide enough for two. Thousands of cream-colored roses, with bloodred roses here and there, adorned every step and surface of the dais.

And standing next to the throne, his navy uniform contrastingly starkly against the richly romantic background, a blur to her panic-stricken gaze, was her bridegroom.

Never for a moment had she imagined such a lavish wedding, or such a forbidding-looking man waiting for her at the end of it. She had imagined the same day with Faisal so many times. A simple wedding free of obligations and duty with the man she loved, both of them able to live the life they had wanted.

How had such a simple dream turned into dust?

Her heart thudded hard against her rib cage, her chest incredibly tight.

Across the vast hall, her gaze met Prince Ayaan’s. And held.

She had expected him to be just as isolated from her as he had been through the parade. And yet, she could swear he was tuned to her every step, every breath, as if they were the only two people in the huge hall.

Her nerves stretched tight at the intensity of that gaze. It burned hot, alive, intense and she realized she was the cause of it. That awareness between them, it had a life of its own across the vast hall.

Was he anchoring her or was she anchoring him onto a path neither wanted to go on?

Sucking in a breath, she severed the connection, and focused on something beyond his shoulder. An uncontrollable shaking took root in her.

She did not need his strength, imagined or real, nor did he need hers.

The setting of the wedding, the festivities and joy around her, it was all getting to her.

This marriage will be whatever you make of it.

For once, Zohra agreed with her father’s practical advice and she intended to set the tone for it from the beginning. And that meant remembering the prince and she were nothing but strangers brought together by duty.

* * *

Ayaan heard Zohra’s answer to the imam’s question, her voice crystal clear with no hesitation in it. The second time and then the third time, she gave her consent to the wedding.

Whatever doubts she’d had, no one would detect even a hint of it in her voice right then.

Or that she was, in any way, not fit to be the future queen of Dahaar. After she had left that night, he had wondered not only at his father’s decision to choose a woman with tainted birth—even if it wasn’t her fault—but even more, someone as impulsive and hotheaded as her.

But had his father seen the strength and poise she radiated with her very presence as she did now? Had he seen the assertiveness, the intelligence that shone from her gaze? Had he thought Ayaan needed an educated, even an unconventional wife to compensate for...

Suddenly it was his turn to give consent and the imam’s words washed over him.

He gave his consent, his promise to cherish, protect and love Zohra Katherine Naasar for the rest of his life, the words sticking in his throat.

Protecting her—that was the only promise he could keep and to do that, he needed to keep his wife as far from the reaches of his darkness as possible. He slipped an emerald ring, seated among tiny diamonds, onto her finger. And extended his own hand for her to do the same.

Her fingers trembled when they touched his, her movements betraying the anxiety she hid so well.

From everything he had learned about her, his bride belonged in a category of her own. And despite every warning aimed toward himself, he couldn’t tamp down his curiosity about her. Especially as, for the first time in eight months, he could remember every sensation, every scent—every minute of his encounter with her in exquisite detail.

His days, especially hours spent in someone else’s company, were usually a blur to him. Yesterday’s groom’s ceremony that his mother had observed with happiness glittering in her every movement was already a vague memory.

He’d had only silence to offer when his mother had told him how happy she was that he had accepted this alliance. For every hundred words she said, he had only one.

This morning had been the first time he’d faced Dahaar’s people since his return.

He had choked in the face of the joy, in the expectations of the people of Dahaar and the crushing weight of it. They cheered him on, they called him a survivor, a true hero when the truth was he was fighting every waking and sleeping moment to stop his reality from turning into a nightmare.