Midnight on the Sands. Оливия Гейтс
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He hadn’t pretended there was no way she could have accomplished what she had.
“For that, and because it’s the light at the end of the tunnel.” She couldn’t believe for a moment she’d truly said it. Because it was something she’d hardly acknowledged to herself. She’d been too afraid to. Afraid that if she admitted she was becoming unhappy with a purely duty-filled life she would find herself unable to complete the tasks set before her.
“In what way?”
“After our marriage ends … Alexander will be king. And I’ll be … I will always feel responsibility for my people, loyalty to my family. I will always work for the improvement of my country, but … It won’t have to be my sole focus anymore.” Maybe then she would be free of that feeling. That gnawing sensation that no matter what she did, she wasn’t doing enough.
He only looked at her, his expression unreadable.
“What about you?” she asked. “Do you have a light you’re aiming for?”
His hands curled into fists again and his gaze shifted slightly, his throat working. “I’m glad you see a light, Katharine. For me, there is only darkness.” He looked down then, shifted his focus to the computer screen that sat on his desk. “Now that we have all that settled, I have work do to.”
KATHARINE hated being at a loose end. She never was back in Austrich. Her days were packed from start to finish. She reviewed their budget for charitable contributions, went to committee meetings and spent time volunteering at the largest hospital in the country. She never had a moment of her own, and that was fine with her. It made her feel … it made her feel useful.
But in Hajar there was nothing to do. No, specifically, in the palace there was nothing to do. She could only read for so long during the day before her eyes felt scratchy, and it was too hot in the middle of the day to do anything in the garden. She’d been out earlier, cutting flowers to add to the vacant vases she’d noticed when she’d first arrived. But the weather had moved past the point of sweltering, so now she was wandering the halls, staying cool thanks to the thick stone walls and that lovely air-conditioning they’d put in when they’d brought the palace out of the dark ages.
She was used to much cooler weather, crisp mountain air, not air that burned your lungs like fire when you sucked in a breath. Another part of the arrangement she hadn’t calculated. Not back when she’d been intending to marry Malik in the true sense of the word, and not when she’d come and proposed to Zahir.
Everything was so different. And she was starting to feel different.
A loud curse and shattering porcelain broke the lull of boredom she’d fallen into.
She quickened her pace, weaving through the labyrinthine halls until she saw Zahir, standing in front of the massive stone table that was placed against the wall there, the antique vase she’d place flowers in earlier shattered into uncountable, unfixable pieces. The flowers didn’t look like they’d survived the attack.
He looked up, his eyes black with rage. “Did you do this?”
“Did I do what? Maul those flowers?”
“Did you put the flowers here?”
“Yes, I put them in three vases that were empty. Here, in my room and in the entryway. Is that a dungeon offense these days?”
He walked over the ruined vase, his hard soled shoes grinding the shards of ceramic into powder, his gait uneven, the slight limp more pronounced than normal. “Do not change things like that without my permission.” He spoke slowly, his voice low, deadly. “You had no right to do this.”
A trickle of fear dripped through her, followed by a flood of anger that washed it away with its hot, fast tide. She stood, hands planted on her hips. “Don’t be such a … “
“Beast?” he growled.
“I was going to say bastard, but whatever works best for you. You might not mind living in that dark, sparse palace but I do. And it’s my home now, per your royal command, and it’s going to be my home until the end of our arrangement. I am not asking your permission to make changes in my own home.”
“It is not your home, latifa, make no mistake.”
“Is this some kind of stupid testosterone thing? Have I impinged on your territory there, lone wolf?” Anger was controlling her now, making her reckless, making her heart pound hard.
“Do not mock me.”
“Then don’t behave in a way that’s so … mockable.”
“You don’t understand. If you move things … “
“I didn’t move anything I … “
“You moved this.” He slammed his hand, palm down, onto the stone table.
“And?”
“And I ran into the damn thing!” he roared.
His words echoed in the corridor, hanging there between them, the reality slowly sinking into her mind. It stopped any response she might have had cold in her throat.
He lifted his hand from the table and she noticed, for the first time, that his palm was bleeding. Both of his palms were bleeding.
“What … ?”
“Stay back.”
“Zahir … “
He swallowed. “I know where things are in my home. I should not have to worry about anything being misplaced.”
She felt dizzy, mortified. A heavy weight crushed her chest. She had moved the table out from the wall, maybe two inches, so that the blossoms wouldn’t be squished. Such a stupid, shortsighted thing.
Now it made sense. Now she could picture it. Him coming out of his room, turning left. It would have been in the line of his blind eye, where he could not see. And he would have no reason to think anything had changed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muted. “Your hands …” She almost choked. He had fallen into the glass after knocking the vase over. What if he had hit his head? All because she’d wanted to add flowers to the room.
“Don’t move things,” he said again, a tremor running through his rough voice as he stood looking at her, black eyes fierce, his chest rising and falling sharply.
She tried to speak again, to say more impotent words of apology, but he turned and left her there, alone in the hall, pain spreading through her chest.
Not exactly a stellar way to start the day.
The best thing to do would probably be going after him But she didn’t want to. She wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from her own uselessness. From the whole situation. She hadn’t ever resorted to that tactic before, and she wasn’t going to do it now.
On a shaky breath, she bent down, careful to avoid the glass, and gathered the flowers back up. She felt sick, defeated. Like the kind of idiot woman her father imagined her to be. Although, failing at household tasks like decorating might make her even lower on his personal totem pole.
For one, terrifying moment, she believed it. She believed she couldn’t really do anything right. That she couldn’t do this.
No. You have to. You will do this.
Her own personal pity party wasn’t the important thing here anyway. What did matter was what that had cost Zahir.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the empty space, her throat tightening over the words.
He didn’t want to hear it from her, she knew that. He walked with a slight limp, one he did his best to mask, but she had noticed it. And she knew that something like this, something that