The Sheikh Surgeon's Proposal

“Craniotomy is the worst emergency surgery there is, right?” Jay whispered.

So she wasn’t as firm as she appeared to be. He snapped a look at her and her reddened eyes discharged another chain reaction in his chest. No, not firm, disintegrating with worry and pity but holding up nevertheless, functioning at optimum, to be his support, and Adham’s. It was a marvel that she could.

She might be used to trauma, but trauma surgery was something else altogether. And then she was right. Among all the gory, horrific procedures, opening the skull, exposing the brain, took the cake. And when it was a child, his own personal worst-case scenario, and not any child but one who didn’t have a family to wake up to, a home to go back to.

He gritted his teeth, gave her the support she needed, channeled all the sympathy into his healing abilities.

He could still do nothing about the brain tissue lacerations. It was time to close up.

As he started closure, Jay suddenly talked again, her voice an impeded rasp. “He’s going to be OK now, isn’t he?”

He raised his eyes to hers, felt confident enough to say, “He’s so young, his brain will get over the insult.”

“And what about—about.?”

He had to spare her articulating her anxiety. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll take care of them all. I promise you.”

He could only see her heavenly eyes, kindling with a warmth that spread right to his bones, glittering with unshed tears. One escaped to darken her mask when she gave a vigorous nod.

They fell silent again as they concluded Adham’s procedure. Jay drew the skin over the craniotomy, stapling it and applying dressings while Rafeeq terminated anesthesia.

As their assistants took Adham to IC, Malek took Janaan’s arm, escorted her to the soiled compartment. She swayed against him. He helped her take off her surgical garments. She was pale, her lips blue, her eyes raw, tearing at his insides even harder than the ordeals they’d been through. He took her hands in his, a pressure building inside him. He had to release it.

He cupped her cheek. “Janaan, I can’t express how thankful to God I am that he sent you to my people in their hour of need, and to me to stand beside me in this trial.”

Before he surrendered to the urge to complete the madness he’d started back in Adnan’s restaurant, he closed his eyes then turned on his heel and rushed to plunge himself into the distraction of the ongoing crisis.

Jay stood there, her heart pounding so hard it shook her.

It took Lobna asking if she was all right to shake her out of her trance. Jay blinked, asked the one thing she could think of, “What kind of surgeon is Ma—is Dr Aal Hamdaan?”

Lobna gaped at her as if she’d asked her what kind of vegetable he was. “He is not.”

It was Jay’s turn to gape. “He’s not a surgeon?”

The woman gave an apologetic smile, her eyes brimming with curiosity. “Sorry, but I don’t use English beyond medical terms much. I mean he’s not just a surgeon. Sheikh Malek is our Health Minister, the best Damhoor has ever had, or will ever have.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

JAY STOOD OUTSIDE her tent, surveying the hundreds of multi-sized, waterproofed ones lined up on the arid hill. Something was different about them today. They were dry.

She looked up and the sun zapped her eyes with its 8 a.m. glare. She snapped them away, looked around the waking camp, “sabaah’l khayr”, an automatic good morning, on her lips as she greeted the people passing by.

Things had slowed down in the past three days, with the rain stopping, the injured either back on their feet or at least getting better, and all the displaced people getting used to their temporary but very adequate accommodation until a permanent replacement for their losses was devised.

It had been a week since it had all started. And during that time, when the constant toil and preoccupation had allowed her moments of coherence, she’d only been able to think of one thing.

Malek. And the fact that he wasn’t only a sheikh, wasn’t only a surgeon, but was the Health Minister.

Why hadn’t he told her?

She’d told him everything about herself—everything—and he hadn’t even introduced himself properly. If he had, she would—would.

What would she have done? Not acted like a fool around him?

She doubted she could have done anything differently. He only had to look at her, breathe near enough to fry her restraint circuits, unleash emotions and responses she hadn’t known she’d come into this life equipped with and.

He should have told her!

But he hadn’t. He’d kept her within those three feet throughout the very long workdays, as thoughtful, witty, infuriating, attentive, dominant, accommodating, provocative, appreciative, and just plain overwhelming as he’d been from that first moment. And to add insult to injury, he’d kept milking her for more intimate details about her life. And no matter how she tried to hold back something of herself, he just drew it out of her as if by magic, giving back nothing, until she felt she was standing naked in front of a two-way mirror where he sat in the dark on the other side, watching her unseen, unfathomable.

And here he was, striding towards her, his sight and presence overriding her logic and control. It made her mad. He made her vulnerable. And she couldn’t let herself be. She had to put up resistance, wait it out. It would end all too soon.

“Janaan—you didn’t get any sleep!”

Something alarming thrummed behind her sternum at the concern that hardened his voice, his gaze, made her step backwards when he would have taken her arm.

She covered her reaction in levity. “Look who’s talking.”

His gaze softened, conquering the scolding. “Let’s not look. Shaving is a distant memory, and I’ve metamorphosed into a thug. No, wait—the thug phase was the first three days. I’m now in the pirate one.”

Yeah. Right. And she wondered which phase was even more arrhythmia-inducing. “And look who’s being ridiculous …”

She choked. She had no brakes where he was concerned.

He only laughed, that heart-breaking laugh of his. “That’s my Janaan, the only one I count on to smack me over the head—even if it’s with a compliment this time.” He scratched his beard in a cross between uncertainty and teasing. “I guess.”

It was no use. Her lips spread on sheer pleasure that he was near, that he existed. “Don’t guess. You accomplish Herculean tasks without blinking, but shaving is a big deal?”