Possessing the Princess

“You will do your duty, Roya.”

I will gouge a knife through Hamzah’s flabby neck the first goddamn chance I get.

On the fifth day, my betrothed came for a visit.

How special.

To make me presentable for his arrival, I’d been preened over and prodded. I’d been dressed in a formal abaya, the long gown concealing all but my head, hands, and feet. My cheeks had been pinched for color since I’d grown wan. The hijab carefully arranged although I threw it off as soon as my attendants left.

Hamzah lumbered inside, all but licking his chops.

He didn’t seem to mind my lack of headdress or my direct gaze, his double chins wobbling as he rubbed his meaty hands in front of his enormous stomach.

“The Sheikh has explained the unfortunate circumstances that have led to my good fortune.” Gluttonously leering, he actually licked his lips.

Fat lips that reminded me of slimy slugs.

“I must say I am most pleased with what I can see so far.” Trundling closer, he let his avid gaze drift and then cling to my bosom. “Very pleased indeed.”

Splendid.

A tea tray had been sent up and sat in front of me, complete with sweet cakes and savory confections. I hoped to lure him into partaking of the calorie-rich food instead of me.

With all my etiquette working overtime, I poised the silver teapot over a dainty china cup and saucer. “How do you take it?”

“Sweet and sugary, just like you, my dear.” He then snorted like a pig at a trough, very amused with himself.

I poured his tea, tempted to hurl the cup of steaming liquid in his face. I stifled the urge, added two cubes of sugar then one more as his wiry eyebrows rose.

Hamzah did not sit across from me, rather he squished himself onto the settee next to me, swamping me in fetid heat and the sickly stench of whatever he used for cologne.

Perhaps he’d bathed in a trough of it.

I almost let my own laugh ring out.

“Would you care for a treat? A cake?” I played hostess to the hilt, knowing I’d just have to get through this charade.

And then the wedding.

And then the consummation.

And then the rest of my long, lifeless days . . .

“Your father has generously said I can sample some of the fruits that will soon ripen just for me.” Disgustingly amorous and full of his food analogies, he placed a large heavy hand on my thigh.

I startled, hot tea from the spout missing my cup and drenching the linen cloth covering the tray.

I battled the urge to chomp his pudgy fingers off until only bloodied stumps remained.

“Now, now, child. Not the full buffet as it were.” He chortled at his own witticism, sending rolls of neck flesh and jowls jiggling. “My appetite is roused though.”

“I think that is quite enough.” Staring at his thick, ugly face, I pasted a false smile on my mouth. “You wouldn’t want to spoil that appetite before the main course, would you? Besides, anticipation makes the pleasure taken that much better.”

“Surely a kiss is not too much to ask of my bride.” He started his descent toward my lips, suffocating me in more of his nauseating cologne.

I halted him with a stinging slap to his face, and he pulled back. Blatant shock crossed his heavy features before a frown wrinkled the extra flesh on his forehead.

“When I come to you, I will be pure and my virtue intact. Including from you, Hamzah.” A bold lie, but he’d never find out.

His brows lifted and then he chortled.

“I have not had one so spirited since my first wife.” After squeezing my thigh, he released it. “Bed sport is such fun.” He wheezed with every breath he took. “I cannot wait to introduce you to it.”

With any hope, maybe he’d just expire before the nuptials.

At any rate, I didn’t foresee Hamzah living too much longer, he had to have one foot in the grave already.

Hope springs eternal . . .

I escaped the rest of his visit without any more groping, but he left me with a sinister warning. That my slap would be the one and only time I ever raised a hand to him, the consequences of my spirited behavior would be swift and painful.

Going to bed that night, my last as a single woman, I lay as still as a corpse. The extravagant wedding outfit hung in readiness. I could slash the gown as someone had done to my own modern clothing, but even ruining the dress wouldn’t stop the unthinkable from happening.

As always, thoughts of Aris intruded. I was unwilling to acknowledge the burn in my chest or the slowly trickling tears dampening my pillow. I curled over on my side, wishing I’d never met him. Wishing I was someone else.

Wishing, as ever, that I had a choice.

Later, long after the moon had reached its zenith in the black sky, a series of muffled thuds out in the hallway pulled me from a fitful slumber. Rising, I slid into a robe and had just tied the belt when my door busted open. Wood cracked and splintered, and several men in what appeared to be stealth uniforms breached the entrance.

I scrambled to put the bed between us, wincing as the beams of bright flashlights blinded me.

Dread sent a wild beating through my heart, and I seized the nearest thing I could use as a weapon. A heavy gold clock. Two men stationed themselves inside the door, but one advanced. He padded quickly across the carpet, and something metal flashed from one hand.

A blade.