Suddenly he was fed up. He hated this. Hated that they had to keep stabbing at each other, deepening the wounds, widening the rift. He’d never wanted any of this. Now he wanted it all to stop.
It wouldn’t be a concession of defeat if he reached out to Rashid. It would be an olive branch to an injured adversary. Who should have never become one.
He inhaled. “A throne is something I never thought about or wanted, Rashid.”
“That’s a famous tactic.” Rashid shrugged. “The sour-grapes maneuver. You were the Prince of Two Kingdoms who could never be in line for the throne of, either. What else can you do but pretend you aren’t interested?”
“No pretense. After a lifetime of watching what kind of pain in the neck, heart and butt being king is from the woeful example of my father, I wouldn’t wish it even on you.”
“I’m so touched that you consider me your worst enemy.”
Wanting to kick himself for the terribly timed joke, when it was certain Rashid had taken it literally, he started to clarify.
Rashid overrode him. “But don’t I now share that status with your pointedly absent semi-demon twin?”
Haidar waited for the mention of Jalal to finish turning the skewer embedded in his gut.
Rashid only stabbed him harder. “I came after you only to tell you how entertaining it will be, watching you two campaign for the throne, adding your arrogance to your uncle’s ineptness, your cousins’ excesses and your mother’s all-round villainy.”
Having inflicted all the injuries he’d wanted to, Rashid turned.
He’d walk away, and any chance to heal their severed bond would be lost.
Haidar lunged after him, grabbed his arm.
Rashid’s gaze lowered to the fingers digging into his abaya-wrapped flesh. Haidar could swear his hand burned.
He didn’t care if Rashid possessed heat vision for real and would burn off his hand. He had to know.
“What happened to you, Rashid?”
After a chilling moment, Rashid calmly removed his hand from his arm, stepped away as if Haidar’s nearness soiled him.
His gaze was opaque. “You were always a self-involved son of a major bitch, Haidar.”
He wasn’t up to contesting the accuracy of that summation, wasn’t sure how it applied here. “I’m trying to get involved now.”
“A bit too late for that. Years too late.”
“B’haggej’jaheem. Stop being cryptic. How did you get this way?”
“You mean the scar? You should have seen it before the corrective surgery.”
Haidar thought his head would burst with frustration. “I mean everything. The visible and…otherwise.”
For a long moment it appeared Rashid wouldn’t bother answering.
Then he said, “I dropped my guard.” His glare could have pulverized a rock. “Trusted the wrong people.”
Haidar staggered back a step. “Are you saying I somehow had a hand in this?”
“It’s so heartwarming to see how you’ve mastered self-deception, not to mention self-absolution, Haidar.”
Now his brain was threatening to liquefy with incomprehension. “That’s insane, Rashid. I know we’ve had our differences in the past years—”
“You mean we’ve been trying to destroy each other.”
“I’ve been trying to stop you from destroying me. And whatever I did in retaliation for your actions, it was only business.”
“This…” Rashid tilted his head, giving him an eyeful, slid a lazy finger down the ridge of disfigurement to the base of his neck. Haidar was certain it snaked lower onto his back. It seemed to have forged all the way to the recesses of his soul. “…was only business, too.”
Haidar stared at him, helplessness and confusion sinking their claws into his gut. “You’re making no sense.”
“Neither are you, if you think you can reinstate any personal interaction between us again. And if you think I’d ever be party to making you feel better about yourself in this lifetime, you have me confused with the wrong Rashid Aal Munsoori. One who ceased to exist long ago.”
Haidar grabbed his arm again as he started to turn. “Rashid, you at least owe me—”
Rashid rounded on him, snarling. “I don’t owe you, or Jalal, or any member of your family a damn thing—”
He stopped, his eyes burning black holes into Haidar’s soul.
Then his lips spread in a sinister parody of a smile, his teeth gleaming eerily against his darkened skin.
Haidar barely suppressed a shiver.
What the hell had Rashid metamorphosed into?
“I beg your pardon, Haidar.” What? “I was inaccurate when I said I don’t owe you and your family a thing. I do owe you. A lot of pain and damage. I always pay my debts.”
This time when he turned away, Haidar let him go.
Before he exited the corridor, Rashid turned with a serene-as-the-grave glance. “Sit tight, Haidar, and wait for your share of my payback.”
Five
I haven’t gotten my share of your payback yet?
What were the past two years all about then?
Haidar struggled not to pursue Rashid, tackle him to the ground in front of everyone and force him to explain.
One thing stopped him. Knowing Rashid wouldn’t explain, not even if he beat him to a pulp. Not that he could. Not without being pulped back. Which wasn’t a bad idea. They could just rip each other to shreds, get the bitterness exorcised and get it over with. Maybe even get back to the way they’d once been.
According to Rashid, that would require a time machine.
But for the present, the opening round was over. Rashid had pulled back to his corner, expecting Haidar to crush his peace offering underfoot as he stomped to his. Instead, he would get informed. He needed knowledge to convince Rashid to call off the fight. Now that he knew Rashid believed he had somehow been party to whatever had happened to him, he would pay any price to learn the truth.
Until then, he had other struggles to handle.
Roxanne. Jalal. Azmahar and its empty throne. Business conflicts with Rashid at their core…ya Ullah, Rashid…
He hadn’t thought anything could be worse than what had happened with Roxanne. Or Jalal. Or their mother. This was. This won the category of heart-wrenching developments, hands down.
He found himself entering the ballroom. Seemed he’d continued his path on Auto. The expansive space, decked like an Arabian Nights bazaar, only peripherally registered in his awareness.
Then something sharpened his focus. A decrease in the overlapping voices and clinking utensils, the cessation of melancholy Azmaharian music. He zeroed in on the cause.
Roxanne.
She was walking up the stage. Straight, brisk, no shadow of hesitation or self-consciousness, no hint of a sway or curves to distract from her purpose or undermine her efficiency. She was dressed sedately, the flame of her hair subdued in a twist at her nape, her face made up in neutral colors that downplayed her vivacious coloring and the sensuality of her features. How different from the mass of passionate fire he’d lost his mind over eight years ago. Or the bathrobe-decked firebrand he’d done the same with a couple of days ago. This facet of her still aroused the hell out of him.
Seemed she dialed the password to his libido no matter what.
It was incredible for someone of her youth and looks to be taken this seriously in a patriarchal society where chauvinistic tendencies survived to this day. Here it remained accepted that certain roles were male exclusive or dominated, with women like Roxanne being exceptions.
And what an exceptional rarity she was. He luxuriated in her every nuance as she took the podium, addressed the now pin-dropping-silent crowd, cordial, confident, in control. Something thrilled inside his chest. Admiration, pride…
He gritted his teeth. He didn’t have to like or appreciate her to give in to his hunger for her. Those sentiments could actually dampen his lust, hamper his plans to satisfy it. This insidious softening had to be curbed. Starting right this second.
He moved out of the shadows. Instead of keeping to the periphery, he cut right through the tables. Might as well get all the staring and exclamations out of the way en masse.
Sure enough, his passage caused a wildfire of buzzing and bustling to sweep through the ballroom.
His progress was unimpeded until he passed by a table populated by his recruiters. Elation replaced their surprise too soon. They pounced on him, eager to show everyone that he was on their coalition’s side. He answered them by insisting he was here to perform independent research, impatience rising as opposing brands of passion and compulsion burned into him. Rashid’s from the entrance, Roxanne’s at the podium.
People rushed to make a place for him at the table closest to her, flipping rabid curiosity between them as if watching an unfolding candid-camera show. She waited in seeming calmness for the disturbance to die down and for him to take his seat. But he sensed her fury.
He would have relished it if he wasn’t too raw to enjoy more hostility, even one fueled by a hunger as vast as his.
He had to deal with it. Just as she had to with his presence.
She did, glossed over the disruption he’d caused, resumed her opening address before turning over the mic to the first speaker.
He watched her descend the stage, walk to the end of the ballroom. She took a seat aligned with his view of Rashid, who stood alone at the entrance like a demon guarding the mouth of hell. Very symbolic.