know what?’ Zahir ground out the question, more as a diversionary tactic to stop his hands from travelling to this man’s throat rather than because he wanted an answer.
‘About your new bride. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Princess Annalina is not only as pure as the driven snow, she’s as frozen as it.’ Misinterpreting Zahir’s thunderous silence, Henrik warmed to his theme. ‘Yes, it’s true. Beneath that pretty exterior there lies nothing but a block of ice.’
‘Hold your tongue.’ Zahir bent down, his face just inches away from his prey. ‘You will not speak of my wife in such a way. Not if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Why not?’ Henrik blithely carried on. ‘I’m only telling you the truth. Annalina is the original ice maiden. You will get no satisfaction from her. Take it from me. I should know. I’ve been there.’
Unbidden, Zahir’s hands flew to Henrik’s throat, grasping a handful of shirt and lifting his feet clean off the ground. The fury that engulfed him was so strong he could taste it, feel it rising up his throat, burning behind his eyes. The thought that this man had even touched Annalina was enough for Zahir to wish upon him the most slow and painful death. But to brag about it. To speak of her in that hideously insulting manner... Death would be too good for him.
He looked down at Henrik, now squirming in his grasp. Then, taking a deep breath, he let him go, watching as he fell to his knees before scrabbling to stand upright again.
‘Tut, tut.’ Brushing the snow from his hands, Henrik staggered a couple of steps away. ‘It’s not my fault that you’ve married a dud, Zahani. You should have taken a leaf out of my book and had the sense to try her out first. I had a lucky escape. But you, my friend, have been duped.’
‘Why, you little...’ Raging fury had all but closed Zahir’s throat, grinding his words to a low snarl. ‘Get out of my sight while you can still walk.’
‘Very well. But it won’t change anything. The fact is, pretty Annalina is frigid. If it’s any consolation, I had no idea either—not until she was in my bed, until she was under me, until it came to the actual point of—’
Crack. Zahir’s fist connected with Henrik’s nose, making a noise like the fall of a branch in the forest. With this vilest of creatures now splayed at his feet, his first thought was of satisfaction, that he had finally silenced his revolting words. But rampant fury was still pumping through his body, the temptation to finish what he had started holding him taut, tensing his muscles, grinding his jaw. He looked down at Henrik, who was whimpering pathetically, blood pouring from his nose.
‘Get up.’ He realised he wasn’t done with him yet. He wanted him on his feet again, wanted him to fight back, to give him the opportunity to have another swipe at him. But Henrik only moaned. ‘I said, get up.’ Bending down, Zahir lifted him by the scruff of the neck again, holding him before him like a rag doll. ‘Now put your fists up. Fight like a man.’
‘Please, no.’ Henrik raised a hand, but only to touch his damaged nose, recoiling in horror when it came away covered in blood. ‘Let me go. I don’t want to fight.’
‘I bet you don’t.’ Zahir set him down again, watching Henrik’s knees buckle in the struggle to keep him upright. ‘Call yourself a man, Prince Henrik of Ebsberg?’ He spat out the name with utter revulsion. ‘You are nothing more than a pathetic piece of scum, a vile and despicable low life. And if I ever hear you so much as utter Princess Annalina’s name, let alone defile her character as you have just done, you will not live to tell the tale. Is that understood?’
Henrik nodded and Zahir turned away, taking several steps, inhaling deeply as he did so, trying to purge himself of this man. He was ten or twelve feet away when Henrik called after him.
‘So it’s true what they say about you.’
Zahir froze, then slowly turned around.
‘You really are an animal. The Beast of Nabatean.’ His words slurred into one another. ‘You do know that’s what they call you, don’t you?’ He started to giggle idiotically. ‘Despite your marriage, Europe will never accept you. So you see, you and Annalina, it’s all been for nothing. Beauty and the Beast—you deserve each other.’
The space between them was closed in an instant, even though Henrik was backing away as fast as his collapsing legs would let him.
Zahir’s fist connected with Henrik’s face again—this time it was his jaw. And, when he fell to the snow again, this time there was no getting up.
CLOSING THE DOOR, Anna leant back against it and looked around. The room was empty. She was the first to arrive. Swallowing down the jittery disappointment, she drew in a deep breath. It was fine. She would have time to prepare herself before Zahir came to her. And when he did she would be ready. They would make love and everything would be wonderful. This was the night that finally, please God, she would lose not only her virginity but the terrible stigma that had haunted her for so long.
The room assigned to the newlyweds had been dressed for the occasion. Rugs were scattered over the polished wooden floor, heavy curtains pulled against the freezing night, an enormous tapestry adorning one stone wall. A fire roared in the grate and that, along with the guttering candles in the iron chandelier overhead, provided the only light.
Anna moved over to the bed. Centuries old, the oak construction was raised off the floor by a stepped platform, with four columns to support the heavy square-panelled canopy. Drapes were tied back to reveal the sumptuous bedding, piles of pillows and embroidered silk throws. She sat on the edge, sinking down into the soft mattress, then ran her fingers over the coverlet, her eyes immediately drawn to the wedding ring on her finger. So it was true—she really had married her dashing Arabian prince. There was her evidence.
Being reunited with Zahir today, seeing him again in all his gorgeously taut, olive-skinned flesh, had been both wonderful and agonising. Because it had confirmed what she already knew in her heart. That Zahir was like a drug to her, a dangerous addiction that had invaded her cells to the point where she found she craved him, ached for him. But, just like an addiction, she knew she had to face up to it in order to be able to control it.
Because giving in to her weakness, letting it take over, control her, would be her undoing. Over the years she had learnt how protect herself, to hide her emotional vulnerability. She had had to. Because there had been precious little love in her life since her mother had died. She didn’t blame her father for his coldness. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t love her the way she wanted him to. It was hers. And when she’d tried to please him—agreeing to marry Henrik, for example—she’d ended up just making things worse. The broken engagement, the dreadful shame, the crippling humiliation only served to compound her feelings of lack of self-worth. She feared she wasn’t capable of being loved, in any sense of the word. And for that reason she had to protect her own heart. She had to be very, very careful.
She thought back over the day she and Zahir had just shared, their wedding day. She had been so aware of his presence—every second of every hour—that it had felt almost like a physical pain. Standing rigidly beside her during the ceremony, silently consuming his meal next to her at the wedding breakfast or scowling across at her during the ball, her skin had prickled from the sense of him, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, her nerve endings tingling.
But
