Undone by the Sultan's Touch

“Surely,” he interrupted when he could take no more, and he wasn’t particularly polite about it, “it is time to count this as a victory.” The old man sputtered. “My cousin is in custody and will be enjoying the hospitality of the palace guard until such a time as it is politically useful to release him. Talaat’s resistance movement has disappeared without their leader to rouse them into action. It would be difficult for us to be more decisive or more successful, would it not?”

He didn’t wait for the inevitable spate of further grievances; he simply did himself a favor and ended the call. And didn’t move for a long moment.

Jhurat lay before him. His choice. His future. His doom.

And if he felt the loneliness of the desert more keenly than he had before, well, he hoped that time would wear that away the way it did the shifting sands, year after year. Until there was only emptiness and the hint of memories, the wind and the sky. Jhurat would endure. So would he, one way or another.

“Is this what brooding looks like? I’ve always wondered.”

Khaled stiffened. Then wondered if he was adding auditory hallucinations to his collection of issues, marking him as unstable as his father, precisely as Talaat had warned—

But no. He turned slowly, very slowly, and his wife—his beautiful Cleo—was sitting in one of the cumbersome chairs that were pulled up before his desk, looking for all the world as if she’d never left.

And, oh, the things he wanted. The things he needed.

He allowed himself none of it. He only studied her, looking for some clue as to why she’d come here. Drinking in the elegant lines of her face, her body, the sleek riot of her multicolored hair. Ignoring that reckless, leaping thing inside his chest.

“Nothing has changed,” he said, breaking the silence when it drew on too long. “In fact, it is worse. I am now wildly popular. It’s bad enough to be a mediocre sultan who can’t govern efficiently, or so my childhood taught me. But I am a hero now. The demands on my time will be excruciating and never-ending.”

“I’m not your mother,” she said, and he rocked back on his heels at that. He moved closer to the desk that separated them, then shoved his hands deep in his pockets because he feared they would do his speaking for him.

The truth was, even this quiet, painful little conversation felt like a burst of sweet, refreshing winter cold in the middle of the desert summer. As though she’d brought all the air back into the palace, and he could finally breathe.

But Khaled knew that this time, he had to let her go. Because he wanted so very badly to tie her up, lock her down and make certain she never left his side again. And that very impulse, he knew too well, would kill them both, sooner or later. He’d already tried it.

“Why are you here, Cleo?” he asked quietly. “I thought New Orleans was enough. Have you come to make it harder?”

“I’m not your mother,” she said again, and she rose then, that lithe grace of hers calling to him as surely as if she’d shouted at him.

She circled the desk, never taking her eyes off him, and she didn’t stop until she was close. Too close. Then she leaned forward and slid her palms along his chest, and it was the sweetest torture Khaled could imagine. He frowned down at her, keeping his own hands firmly planted in his pockets, and pretending he couldn’t feel the arching flames of that wildfire that only she called out in him.

Only she could call it. Only she could quench it. And he couldn’t permit either. He wasn’t sure he’d survive it intact this time. He couldn’t take the risk.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, those eyes of hers so wide and serious. “You have no reason to believe me, but I’m not going to do what she did. I’m not going to make you choose—I married you. I know who you are, despite what I might have shown you over these past months. But I think I know who I am a little bit better now.”

He broke then. He pulled her hands away from his chest and held them in his, unable to stop himself from kissing one, then the other.

“I want to believe you,” he managed to say, though his voice was hollow. “But I can’t.”

“You don’t have to believe me right now,” she said, and he could see that sheen of intense emotion that made her gaze that much more brilliant. He could feel her trembling, slightly, and it nearly undid him. “I want to try again, Khaled.”

He shook his head, and it actually, physically hurt him to do it.

“This won’t last, Cleo.” She started to speak but he kept going, cutting her off. “I’ve watched this happen. I can’t do it again. And especially not if it’s you.”