The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns. Кейт Хьюит
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away, the cry of a boy, a child, and yet holding the relentless ring of condemnation. ‘Save me…’
The voice rang in his eyes, faint and desperate, and there was nothing Aarif could do. There was nothing he could ever do.
Aarif shifted restlessly on his blanket, his face contorted with both pain and anguish.
‘Aarif…’ Kalila whispered, but he didn’t hear her. Couldn’t. He was locked in a far more terrible world than the one they currently inhabited. Tentatively Kalila reached over to touch his shoulder, wanting to stir him into wakefulness, but Aarif jerked away from her light touch.
‘No…no!’ His desperate scream ripped through the stillness of the tent, the night, and caused Kalila’s hand to freeze inches from his shoulder. That agonised shriek was a sound she would never forget. It was the sound of a man in mental agony, mortal pain.
Aarif let out another shuddering breath, his hands bunching on the blanket, and Kalila saw the faint, silvery tracks of tears on his cheeks.
Her heart twisted painfully at the sight of so much suffering. What kind of dream could hold him in such terrible captivity?
‘Aarif…’ she tried again, her voice stronger now. ‘It’s all right. It’s just a dream.’ Yet even as she spoke she realised it was not just a dream. A mere figment of imagination could not hold Aarif so strongly in its thrall. This was something far more terrible, far more real.
Kalila couldn’t bear to see him suffering so; it cut at her heart and she felt near tears herself. She leaned over him, smoothing the damp hair away from his forehead. ‘Aarif,’ she said again, her voice breaking, and then he opened his eyes.
Their faces were close, so close that when his eyes opened it felt as if he touched her with his gaze. Kalila was conscious of her hand still stroking his hair as if he were a child to be comforted.
Aarif stared at her, the vestiges of his private torment still visible on his ravaged face, and then he let out a choked cry and tried to roll away.
He couldn’t; she wouldn’t let him. She didn’t know why she wouldn’t, only that she acted on instinct. No one deserved to bear that kind of pain alone. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. Her fingers threaded through his hair, drawing his gaze back to hers. ‘What torments you so?’ she whispered. Aarif said nothing. She could feel his racing heart, heard him swallow back another cry. Gently, a movement born still of instinct, she trailed her fingers down his cheek, tracing the path of his scar as if her touch could heal that grim reminder of what—?
Kalila didn’t even know, but she felt it, knew the pain Aarif was experiencing must be a personal memory, a private grief. His hand clamped over hers, his fingers trapping and yet clinging to hers, and he shook his head, trying to speak, but unable to.
Kalila stilled, her fingers on his face, and Aarif closed his eyes. A shudder went through his body, a tremor of remembered emotion, and naturally—too naturally—Kalila put her arms around him and drew him to herself.
His head was on her shoulder, his silky hair brushing her lips, his body, hard and muscular, against hers. His arms came around her, and Kalila realised she had never been so close to a man, every part of their bodies in intimate contact. It felt natural, right, this closeness, their bodies wrapped around each other in an embrace born of comfort and need. It humbled her that a man like Aarif would accept her caress, that he might even need it.
Neither of them spoke.
His still-racing heart pounded against her own chest, and after many long moments where the only sound was Aarif’s ragged breathing she felt it slow. She stroked his hair, felt his fingers tighten reflexively on her shoulder. Still neither of them moved beyond those tiny gestures, neither of them spoke.
Kalila knew that to speak, to even think would break the moment between them, with its precious fragility, its tenuous tenderness. In a day and night of unreality, this felt real. It felt, she thought distantly, before her mind turned hazy and still once more, right.
Another long moment passed and Aarif’s breathing steadied. Now was the time, Kalila knew, for them to roll away, to close their eyes, to forget this brief and wonderful intimacy, this moment of desire stolen from a lifetime of duty.
Yet she didn’t, and she knew with a sudden, thrilling certainty that Aarif wouldn’t. She knew as he lifted his head, his eyes gazing darkly, hungrily into hers, what he would do.
He kissed her.
It was not the hard, urgent kiss she’d been half expecting, something born of the reckless desperation of this stolen moment. Instead it was sweet, tentative, his mouth moving gently over hers until it bloomed into something stronger and sweeter still as he deepened the contact, his tongue exploring her lips, her mouth, his hands reaching to cup her face, to draw her even closer, as if he was seeking something from her—and she gave it.
Kalila gave herself up to that kiss, let it reverberate through her heart and mind, body and soul. It was, she thought hazily, a wonderful first kiss. For she’d never been kissed before, not like this, not like anything.
She’d kept herself apart, pure, as she’d always meant to do, as she’d had to do as a princess betrothed since she was twelve. Yet now her mind drifted away from that realisation, for with it came the ugly knowledge that this was far more wrong and selfish an act than running away in the first place.
This was betrayal of the deepest kind, yet her mind—and heart—skittered away from that word for this felt too wonderful. Too right.
The kiss deepened, lengthened and grew into hands and touch, their bodies a living map to be explored and understood.
Aarif fumbled at first with her clothes, but somehow the buttons and snaps gave way and her skin was bare to his fingers, his hands gliding over her flesh before his lips followed, and Kalila gasped at the intimacy, the exposure that made her feel vulnerable and yet treasured.
Loved.
They moved as one, in silence, the only sound a drawing of breath, a sigh of pleasure, the whispering slide of skin against skin. It felt like a dream, a wonderful and healing dream, as Aarif’s hands moved over her, touching her in places that had known no man’s caress.
She opened herself up to him, parting her legs, arching her back, wanting his touch, needing this new caress, this forbidden intimacy.
And then she touched him, tentatively at first, her hands exploring, seeking, discovering the hard, muscled plane of his chest and stomach, the surprisingly smooth curve of his hip, the ridges on his back—more scars.
Now was not the time to ask where they came from, what terrible memory Aarif kept locked in his heart. Now, Kalila thought, her lips touching the places her hands had gone, brushing over that satiny skin, was the time for healing.
She wouldn’t think about what this meant. She pushed the thought, the implications, firmly away, and let herself drift in a haze of feeling and emotion, let Aarif’s hands and mouth seek her as she gave herself up to him and the maelstrom of pleasure and wonder he caused to whirl within her.
She’d never imagined the feelings to be strong—sharp—she gasped as he touched her, gasped in surprise and wonder, and felt Aarif smile against her skin. She loved that she’d made him smile, that there was a joy to be found here.
And yet a moment came—as Kalila knew it would have to—when they could have stopped. Should have. Clothing bunched and pushed aside, their bodies bare and touching, Aarif moved on top of her, poised to join his body to hers in an act so intimate, so sacred and precious and unfamiliar, and yet so right. His eyes sought and met hers, a silent agreement. They gazed at each other, neither speaking, both complicit, and then their bodies joined as one.
Kalila gasped at the feeling, her hands bunching on his back, the twinge of discomfort lost in the exquisite sensation of this union, the fullness of him inside her, the sense of completion that reverberated through her body and heart.
Aarif buried his head in her shoulder,