Maisey Yates - Forged in the Desert Heat

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.