The Sheikh's Destiny (Desert Nights 3)

Knowing this place, and the power it signified, was what Rashid really wanted and not her was suffocating, literally, and the world started to fade. Cries rang out in the dimness before everything turned to black.

* * *

Exiting a dark tunnel filled with sounds of distress, Laylah opened her eyes to see beautiful faces coated with concern.

She’d fainted. And the ladies had taken her back to her room.

“How are you feeling now, Laylah?” Maram asked, her voice soft and soothing as she continued to massage her hands.

Laylah tried to sit up, found Johara and Aliyah helping her. “I’m fine. Sorry for that.”

“That first trimester can be a pain,” Roxanne said, shuddering, no doubt remembering her own. “Good news is, you’ll feel the best you ever did during the second one.”

Not wanting to inform them her fainting spell had nothing to do with her pregnancy, she went along. “Can’t wait.”

“Wait until you see what we came back to the room to find!” Lujayn exclaimed as she rushed away.

Laylah’s eyes widened as she saw what she came back holding.

Johara sighed. “You remember when Shaheen did this for me? Rashid, even though you’re not ready to forgive him yet, is certainly as thoughtful and his choice is as perfect for you as Shaheen’s was for me.”

Laylah gaped at Rashid’s “choice.” A creation the likes of which she’d never imagined.

A one-piece Arabian/Indian masterpiece, it had a sleeveless bodice that nipped to a waist she was certain was the exact size of hers, with a décolleté that would emphasize her breasts and expose her neck and most of her shoulders and any necklace she would wear. With its base a golden mahogany the exact color of her hair and eyes, it was almost covered in breathtaking hand-embroidery of sequins, beads, pearls, crystals, semi-precious stones and appliqué, from the lightest coral to the deepest vermillion to the most vivid crimson, all intertwined with gold.

A skirt in hues echoing the top’s embroidery cascaded in multiple layers of tulle and chiffon over a shimmering mahogany silk taffeta lining, its embellishments in the range of gold and russet, with ingenious scalloping at the hemline. A veil with heavily embellished borders was crimson where it would rest on her hair, gradually transforming to a luminescent golden-brown where it would trail on the floor.

But it was the patterns covering the whole outfit that robbed her of breath again. Those of Rashid’s house.

It was as if he was...putting his brand on her with that dress, just like he had branded her body and soul.

The ladies interrupted her heavy-hearted musings, clamoring for her to try on the outfit at once. Just as she’d expected, it fit her perfectly. Rashid always knew exactly what he wanted, down to the last detail.

As Maram and Aliyah contacted their husbands to demand jewelry that would match the outfit, from Zohayd’s and Judar’s royal collections no less, Laylah watched the other ladies flipping through catalogues to pick their complementary dresses, and wondered.

If she felt this terrible just preparing for this farce, how would she feel on the day itself?

* * *

The day was here. The minute she had to marry Rashid. And not really marry him.

The distinctive percussive music of her zaffah—her bridal procession—was already reverberating through the palace. Hundreds of voices were raised in the traditional congratulatory songs.

Aliyah and Maram were adorning her neck, arms and head in legendary jewels while Johara, Talia, Roxanne and Lujayn fussed with her veil, hairdo and makeup. They all looked stunning with their glowing beauty and bright spirits, their lithe bodies wrapped in sarilike dresses as exquisite as they were, in reds and golds to complement her own gown.

She almost didn’t recognize the splendid creature staring back at her in the mirror.

Rashid knew just how to package the royal acquisition he’d flaunt to the world tonight. The last piece in his master plan.

Her heavy-hearted musings halted as everyone rushed her out to lead her procession to the ballroom where the ceremonies were to be held. She hadn’t seen any of the preparations as she’d been holed up in her quarters for the past two days. Now she felt she had entered a fantasy setting from Arabian Nights.

Brass lanterns and torches blazed everywhere, infusing the palace with a mystic ambiance. Every other decoration, from banners to veils to flowers, was color-coordinated with her gown and jewelry. Not that she could find any pleasure in her surroundings. Not when she couldn’t forget why Rashid had “rented” the palace for their wedding. Not so that she could reclaim that part of her heritage, as he’d claimed, but so he could rehearse being its liege.

Even in her previous obliviousness, it had pained her knowing so much would be missing on this day—her mother there for her, her father giving her away. Now she knew her groom didn’t really want to receive her, and this wedding was a charade, a sacrifice of her heart and dignity for the one thing that would mean more to her than her very life—her child...

Suddenly, her heartbeat drowned out the thundering music, and air, the world, disappeared.

Rashid stood alone at the wide-open gilded doors of the ballroom, shrouded in shadow even in the blazing illumination, as if he’d absorbed all light.

In spite of herself, her starving senses rushed to devour his grandeur.

His outfit matched hers, only in darker, muted shades. Another detail he’d orchestrated to perfection. A mahogany abaya hugged his Herculean shoulders, adorned in embroidery echoing her gown’s patterns, before cascading to his ankles like a cloak of enchantment. Underneath, burnt-sienna silk stretched across his formidable chest and abdomen, tucking into skintight same-color pants that gathered into darkest brown leather boots. A bronze metal belt hung around his powerful hips, anchoring a ceremonial dagger sheathed in a scabbard worked in bloodred and gold enamel.

This was a man whose legacy was rooted in fables, the embodiment of this harsh, magnificent land, a personification of its might and majesty, a shaper of the world around him.

He was born to be king.

If only he hadn’t used her to claim his destiny.

If only he’d come clean. She would have done anything for him. Would have still had her heart and illusions intact.

But he hadn’t. And she now only survived for their...her baby.

He stood there now, with those darkest-night eyes, searing her with his fake longing, his counterfeit entreaty.

“Laylah...”

The pure passion and anguish he made of her name nullified the din, quivered through her bones. How could it feel so real? How could she still want to throw herself into his arms?