Читать книгу Hajar's Hidden Legacy - Maisey Yates - Страница 9

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 forced him to acknowledge a weakness, a limitation, was the worst of nightmares. It was his pride that had suffered worst of all.

She just knew it, deep in her bones, as sure as she knew anything about herself.

She’d caused a problem, made a mistake, and now she was going to fix it.

* * *

Zahir took his fury, his humiliation, out on the pool in his gym. At least in the water his movements were smooth. He knew the length, knew just how many strokes it took to get to the end. Here there was no limp, his sight didn’t matter.

He stopped and gripped the edge of the pool cursing loudly, dragging his hand and droplets of water down his face, his palm burning where his flesh had been left raw and cut by the broken vase. But he welcomed that pain. Physical pain meant little to him. He’d survived more of it than any man should be able to.

But making such a fool of himself, showing such weakness, that was a true blow. He never did that. Now he had done it twice with her.

He looked up and saw pale, delicate ankles, then up farther to a set of shapely legs. Had she been any closer to the edge of the pool, he would have been treated to a lot more.

The woman had no sense of boundaries. “What is it you want, latifa?”

He tightened his jaw, grinding his teeth. His towel was across the gym, and she was there, standing, staring. Another chance to shock herself with his ravaged body? She hadn’t run the first time, but he did not go out of his way to show the scars that marred his body. Not out of vanity. But because they shamed him. Reminded him, every day, in every way, that he was less than he had been. That he shouldn’t be here.

Survivor’s guilt, his first doctor had called it. Naming it didn’t change anything. How else was he supposed to feel? Should he forget? Move on from the event that had taken everyone? If he forgot, who would remember? Who would carry it with them? He felt as though he was keeping them here. Anchoring them to this world.

Impossible, he knew. And yet the feelings remained.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

He placed his palms flat on the rough cement surrounding the pool, welcoming the pain it brought, the distraction, as he hauled himself out of the water in one fluid motion, bracing himself for the less than agile feeling that came with having his own two feet beneath him. Putting weight on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to him.

Her eyes were glued to his torso and he fought the urge to cover himself. A strange, weak response. It should not concern him, what she thought of his body, of the scars that marked his skin, the deep groove that showed the loss of muscle and strength in his thigh.

He simply stood for a moment, daring her to look away. She didn’t. But then, she never did anything he expected—why should she start now? He would almost be disappointed if she descended into predictability. Almost.

He reached over to the nearby towel rack to pull off a black towel, dragging it over his chest, then around to his back. She watched him the whole time, and he felt his body responding to the open, female appraisal. It had been so long since he had felt a woman’s hands on his skin, and just as long since one had looked at him as though he were a man.

No one, other than his physician, had ever seen his body uncovered since the wounds had healed. Amarah had seen him when they were fresh. When there had been a hope of healing. They had been too much for her to handle then. Or, perhaps she could have handled the scars if the attack had only stolen his physical attraction. If it had not taken the very soul of who he was. Good that she’d run early so he hadn’t had the chance to bring her down with him.

Of course, unlike his ex, Katharine wouldn’t be running.

“It means beauty,” he said, discarding the towel, crossing his arms over his chest.

She looked slightly surprised to hear the translation. “Oh. Well, I thought it might mean ‘pain in the rear’ or something.”

A sharp twinge of amusement forced a laugh to climb his throat. “Not quite.”

Full, pink lips curved into a smile and cut through the defense he’d put up between them. She appealed to his body, as a woman did to a man. A whole man. And for a brief moment, he felt as though he were.

It only took a sharp, shooting pain from his diminished thigh muscle to remind him that wasn’t the case. Just like the desert would wilt a rose, he would wither Katharine, would steal the life from her.