Shackled to the Sheikh

* * *

Rashid stood on his terrace, his hands spread wide apart on the balustrade, looking up at the inky sky. Below in the gardens the fountains played and the birds settled in for the night, the world at peace.

While inside him his emotions clashed and raged in a war that had forgotten what peace was. It didn’t seem to matter the decision he’d made today, or maybe his emotions clashed because of it.

Duty.

Self-doubt.

Fear.

Duty.

It always came back to duty.

His heart thumped like a drum, a tattoo cursing the ever-present, inescapable duty. His stomach squeezed tight and he inhaled the dark night air in response to the bite of pain. It didn’t matter what he’d decided out in the desert today, his first session with Zoltan had given him no comfort. There was so much to do. So much he needed to learn. So many doubts about what was possible to best help this country and its people...

Fear.

He wasn’t used to feeling fear.

He had never failed at anything he had put his hand to, but then he had made choices that reflected his desires and wants. He’d decided his path. He’d worked hard and acted on hunches and educated guesses and he’d been successful by taking calculated risks and when those hunches had paid off. But it had always been his choice to do those things and follow that path.

Never before had he been sucked into a bottomless pit from which there was no escaping and where there was no choice.

Duty.

Self-doubt.

Fear.

Together they tangled and churned until his gut felt battered and heaving and one thing emerged victorious from the mayhem, as if that one thing had been lying in wait, ready to step into the void.

Need.

Powerful and insistent, it rose up like a mushroom cloud that reached out to fill every part of him. He turned and looked along the terrace, towards her suite, to where the glow from her lamps spilled into puddles.

Tora.

Talking to her today had been the one thing that had let him make sense of the tangled thoughts in his mind when nothing else had. She had listened and understood. She had shown him the simple fun of paddling.

And he had repaid her by leaving her cold.

And without being aware that he’d made a decision, his feet started walking.

Towards the light.

Towards Tora.

* * *

She should be sleeping. She kept telling herself to put the book down, but she was reading a book about Qajaran, about its treasures and its colourful history and the wars and crusades that had touched its shores and crossed its desert borders, and she was fascinated. And being right here, in the Old Palace that had seen so much of what she was reading, brought it all to life.

Just one more chapter, she promised herself as she glanced at the clock and turned the page anyway.

She jumped at the soft rap on the glass, her heart giving a crazy leap in her chest so that she almost didn’t hear when the tap came again. She slid from the bed, her feet cool on the marble tiles, and pulled on a robe, because, whoever it was, she wasn’t going to be caught on the terrace in just her nightgown again.

‘Tora,’ she heard, and she didn’t know whether to be worried or relieved when she recognised Rashid’s voice. ‘Are you awake?’

The door to the terrace was open to let in the breeze, but she stayed her side of the filmy curtain, just inside the room, an invisible barrier between them. ‘What do you want?’

He shook his head as if he didn’t know why he was here, standing outside her door in the middle of the night. ‘I don’t... No, nothing. I wanted to apologise for how things worked out tonight. For leaving you in the lurch when Zoltan arrived.’

‘It’s okay. I understand. Your friend would be wanting to catch up with you.’

He nodded. ‘And,’ he said, his lips pulling to one side as he struggled with the words, his eyes troubled, ‘I just wanted to see you.’

Her heart tripped and her breath caught in her throat. Her mind told her it meant nothing—but her heart...her heart wanted to believe the words he had said, just a little. ‘I had a good day today, thank you.’

‘Good. I didn’t have a chance to thank you. For your thoughts. I will speak to Kareem tomorrow.’

And she remembered that she’d wanted to talk to Rashid, too, about changing the arrangements for Atiyah, so that she wouldn’t grow too fond of her, but that could wait, because right now the night air wore a velvet glove that stroked her skin, bringing with it the scent of him, warm and musky, masculine and spicy, much like Qajaran itself.