The Desert Lord’s Bride

want to wring me of the last drop of dignity to placate yours.”

“B’Ellahi, Farah, stop. This isn’t what I…”

“You want to know why I said what I did? Can I give you a list?” She echoed his earlier taunting. “How about a reaction to finding out I was means to an end all along? Or wanting to walk away from the worst degradation of my life with the illusion of being on equal ground? Or needing to make you show your true face, so it would be superimposed on that of the man I loved, erasing it from my heart and mind so I can go on living?”

“Atawassal elaiki, I beg you, ya habibati, let me…”

“I beg you to stop. Your plans worked, you got what you wanted out of me, in every way. So go do your duty and take your pleasure with whomever you want for real, for herself, let her provide the ego strokes you need and leave me alone.”

He tried to reach for her. “I can’t…”

She staggered away. “Not until I give you an heir? Is that why you’ll keep having sex with me? What if I told you-”

“You must listen to me. What I said, how I’ve behaved in the past hours, I was only lashing out after all those ugly things you said. Ya Ullah, you made them sound so convincing, the blast of shock blew away my memory, my knowledge of you. But even before you explained, I remembered, each moment-”

“I remembered each moment, too.” She cut across his desperate words, and he looked on in horror as she seemed to fragment before his eyes. “I’m remembering now, each look, each touch, each word I said to you, each sensation as I listened to you, as I felt you touch me with your eyes and hands and lips, cover me, move inside me. And I play it back and superimpose the truth over the illusion. I see your real feelings and thoughts as you watched me squirm in longing and pleasure and hope, as I fell flat on my face in love with you. I see you as you hid behind your shield of indifference, gauging when to poke me, how to make me beg, pant, and humiliate myself more and more.”

He surged, blind, out of his mind with agony, with the need to absorb hers, clutched her into a frantic embrace. She struggled wildly, tore herself away, quaking on sobs so hard he feared they were tearing her insides apart.

“God…the way you strung me along, the way I looked up to you, thought you unique, a man who cares about a woman’s feelings, not just her body, who cares about me. And all the time you could hold back because I was nothing to you, because you felt nothing. All the time you watched me making a fool of myself, lapping up the crumbs you kept dropping, yelping in gratitude. How pathetic did I seem to you, craving your appreciation, disbelieving my senses and believing in your every lie, bursting into flame without you even trying, writhing in pleasure at your merest touch, begging for more? How ridiculous did you find my insecurities and gullibility and readiness to die for you? How much did you snicker the moment my back was turned? How hard did you laugh when you were alone? How hard, Shehab?”

Her accusations, the realization of the extent of the damage he’d inflicted on her, paralyzed him. For the first time in his life he felt powerless, helpless. How could he undo a wrong of this magnitude? Heal wounds this deep?

He fell to his knees before her, like a detonated building, struck, mute, her tears raining on him, burning away his soul.

He finally heard a thick, unrecognizable voice choking his defense, his plea for leniency. “I did manipulate you, but only because I believed the lies I’d been told about you. By the time I knew they were only that, I couldn’t risk your reaction, so I kept on deceiving you about my identity, but that was the extent of my deception. The magic we shared was real, from the first moment. Ana aashagek. I never lied about my feelings for you. I was going to confess everything, today, but ya Ullah, I left it too late.”

Her tears turned off abruptly, the nothingness creeping back on her face. “It’s really my fault. I was reckless and self-destructive and I got what’s coming to me.”

“No, b’Ellahi, you will believe me, believe that I care about nothing anymore but you, and restoring your heart and faith in yourself, in me. I will spend my life…”

She raised a steady hand. “Just…don’t. It doesn’t matter if your pawn is intact or glued together. I will serve my purpose.”

The rest of the journey was consumed by his frantic efforts to reach her. But it seemed the most vital mechanism inside her, her soul, was damaged beyond repair. She’d opened herself, given of herself so fully to him, and the blow had shattered her.

Shehab felt desperation becoming resignation, that she’d never trust him, or feel the same boundless emotions for him again. And he’d die without her trust. Without her love.

But he didn’t matter now, or ever. Only that he restored her. Only that she would be whole once more. But he no longer knew how he could do that. If he could ever do it.

All the way to the royal palace, she pulverized his heart all over again when she didn’t resist him when he reached for her, stroked and kissed and swore his love over and over.

And he knew. She’d succumb to him, to her duty, to the hold he had on her senses, and she’d die slowly. She was dying now.

And it came to him. What he must do. What he would do.

He’d let her go. Completely.

They were entering King Atef’s court when he finally decided how to phrase his resolution, started to voice it only for her gasp to silence him.

His gaze followed her shock, found King Atef standing between two women-his sister and a tall, slim, blond woman. Anna Beaumont, Farah’s mother. But it wasn’t surprise at her presence that he felt, but trepidation at the expression on their faces.

As they approached, Anna looked at Farah with reddened eyes, mouthed a soundless, “I’m sorry.”

Farah wobbled at his side, and he hugged her to him fiercely, glaring at King Atef. He understood nothing, but he’d give his life not to have her wounded again.

The king had eyes only for Farah as he came forward, the pain on his face portending devastating news.

Then he delivered it. “Farah…I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but it falls to me to divulge a most upsetting fact to you. As much as I rejoiced in finding you, now it crushes my heart to lose you. You are not my daughter.”

Eleven

Farah stared at the man she’d seen only once before.

His face, a desert warrior’s, one who’d weathered the brutality of nature and the tests of power and position, had been carved in her memory, demanding to be acknowledged as her father’s.

He was telling her he wasn’t her father after all.

His eyes were heavy with regret as he elaborated. “Evidence of your paternity was required to introduce you into the royal family, to complete the pact with Judar. We obtained a hair sample from your residence. DNA results were conclusive.”

Conclusive. Just as everything she’d been too upset or hurt to fully register, let alone acknowledge, became.

In spite of her shock and resistance, with her mother so distant and the vacuum of Francois Beaumont’s loss still gaping inside her, she’d been increasingly comforted thinking the king was her father, right up until he’d sprung the arranged marriage on her. And in spite of her pain and humiliation, she’d known she’d have no life without Shehab, had yearned to marry him for whatever reason, had hoped he’d meant even a fraction of his protestations. That one day, what had started as a duty for him might turn out to be a real and satisfying relationship.

Now she had no father.

And Shehab wasn’t duty-bound to marry her.

It was over.

She closed her eyes and begged silently for the pain to just finish her.

But something like a butchered bird flapped inside her chest. She tried to still its struggle, to no avail.

It kept screeching that maybe now that the king had no daughter, the two kingdoms would find another way to