was a daughter of his father’s oldest friend, and Zufar had been aware of Amira’s existence since he was a boy. But she was several years his junior and had clearly found him intimidating to the point of speechlessness at the best of times. He hadn’t taken much interest in her until his father had informed him of the agreement he’d made with Feroz Ghalib, Amira’s father, for them to marry.
Even then, the wedding had been a distant future event, arranged by others and needing only a handful of meetings for the sake of appearances. Still, he’d taken his duty seriously and ensured during their meetings that she was at ease and not being forced into a union she didn’t want. Her assurances had satisfied him enough to accept that she would be his wife when the time was right.
The medical report that had confirmed that she was healthy enough to bear his children had sealed the deal.
Beyond that, he hadn’t given her much thought, although she’d been peculiarly distracted during their twice weekly dinners recently.
But Amira was close with his sister and Zufar was confident that Galila would have informed him if there’d been a problem with the upcoming nuptials.
Nevertheless, had he dropped the ball somewhere?
He frowned.
The burden of governing his kingdom was his first and only priority. It had needed to be, considering the chaos it had been left in by his father’s sudden abdication.
Tight anger knotted inside him as he strode faster towards the suite of luxury rooms that were reserved for the Queen and other female members of the royal family.
He wouldn’t think of his father today, or the fact that the ex-King had banished himself to the summer palace since his wife’s death and hadn’t spoken to his children in months. Zufar wouldn’t think of the sleepless nights and backbreaking work it had taken for him to keep the kingdom that had already been woefully neglected by his father from falling apart.
Today, this hour, demanded his complete attention. His people yearned for a royal wedding. That was exactly what he was going to give them.
The footmen stationed outside the Sapphire Suite spotted him and immediately threw open the doors.
Zufar entered, then drew to a stop at the sight of the visibly distressed women in the living room. Two were babbling hysterically, and an older female servant was busy comforting another.
‘Which one is she?’ he demanded tersely. Eyes swivelled to him, followed predictably by shocked gasps and hurried comportment before the bows and scrapes and averted gazes commenced.
Marwan hushed them, and then uttered a sharp query to the junior aide behind him. The younger man shook his head, throwing a furtive glance at Zufar. Marwan approached the older attendant and questioned her. Clearly nervous, she pointed to the inner chamber.
Zufar strode towards smaller double doors, his temper frothing furiously in his chest. This time he pulled the doors open himself, bitter memories tossing themselves onto the pyre he was trying to contain as he walked into the huge, lavish chamber that had once been his mother’s domain.
His gaze didn’t linger on the priceless keepsakes, furniture or decoration. He didn’t know which items in this room his mother had treasured and which gifts from his father and her secret admirers had been less favoured. He didn’t know her favourite book or the preferred flower arrangement for her private sitting room because he had never been allowed in here.
On the rare occasions his mother had tolerated him, they had been in public where her pretended adoration could be captured for the world to see and praise and to provide moments of smugness as she perused the gossip rags. Beyond that, she’d never had a kind word for him or his siblings.
But he wasn’t here to dwell on the subject of his mother.
He trained his focus on the figure hunched over near the headboard of the vast bed. She was so slight he almost missed her.
Had it not been for the drab, body-shrouding beige clothes that painfully and distastefully stood out against the gold and cream bed linen, he would’ve mistaken her for one of the pillows or part of the rich drapery that decorated the four-poster bed.
As he advanced towards her he noticed that her slim shoulders were shaking. Another few steps and the small sniffles of her quiet sobs reached his ears.
Zufar stifled his curse before it ripped free.
He didn’t care for weak women. He cared even less for weak, crying women.
Behind him, Marwan clicked his tongue sharply.
The figure jumped up, stumbled over her long, shapeless skirt, and immediately tumbled to the floor in a graceless heap at Zufar’s feet.
He waited, impatient breath slowly spilling through clenched teeth, for her to rise. But she didn’t seem interested in regaining her feet. Instead, she was developing an almost mesmerised interest in his shoes.
He took a step forwards, hoping to dislodge her hypnosis. When that failed to work, he cleared his throat.
‘If that is a shoe fetish you’re exhibiting, may I suggest you indulge in it another time? When the reputation of my kingdom isn’t at stake, perhaps?’ Zufar drawled.
A sharp intake of breath, then, finally, she raised her head.
Large, tear-soaked dark eyes rose from his feet, and plotted an excruciatingly slow journey up his body. By the time they reached his face, her expression was creased into abject horror.
Coupled with a face blotched and bloated with tears and a mouth frozen in an unattractive O, she was the most unsightly girl Zufar had ever seen.
‘What is your name?’ he bit out, praying she could actually string enough words together to answer.
She didn’t respond. She simply stared up at him, her horror intensifying by the second.
‘Do you not hear your King addressing you, girl?’ Marwan demanded sharply.
Her mouth closed. She swallowed noisily, but still uttered no word.
Zufar’s fists started to curl. Almost a year’s worth of meticulous planning hung in the balance because of one tear-streaked, dumbstruck girl.
About to move, he paused as her gaze darted to his fists and she recoiled.
The sight of her naked fear struck an uncomfortable chord in him. He breathed out and slowly unfurled his fingers. There would be no coherent conversation with her unless he found a way to defuse some of her fear, he realised.
He sensed Marwan moving towards her and held up his hand. ‘Leave us,’ he instructed.
Marwan made a small sound of surprise. ‘Are you sure, Your Highness?’
Zufar’s lips tightened. ‘Leave. Now.’
The room emptied immediately. He kept his gaze fixed on the girl crouched before him, and slowly extended his hand towards her. Again, her gaze darted between his face and his hand, as if terrified he would do something unpredictable. Like bite. Or strike.
He
