Читать книгу Bound to the Warrior King - Maisey Yates - Страница 11
ОглавлениеOLIVIA WAS TEMPTED to break into her antianxiety medication before meeting Tarek in his office. But no, she needed to save those for full-on panic attacks. Which, fortunately, only happened when she was boarding planes these days. She should have had one when confronted by a naked man with a sword. But panic had not been the dominant emotion.
She squared her shoulders and raised her fist to knock on his office door. She wasn’t going to dwell. Not on the conflicting, heated feelings that had gone coursing through her veins when she’d seen him out in the corridor last night. Naked, tortured.
She was sick to focus on his nudity. She didn’t know the man. He obviously had a great many issues. He seemed scarcely more than a feral beast.
You came prepared to marry him.
True. Which made his naked body very much pertinent to her and her interests. The idea behind marriage, after all, was for him to produce an heir.
She didn’t consider sex a negative. It was part of marriage, as far as she was concerned. Not an unpleasant part. She’d never been under any illusion that this marriage agreement would mean celibacy. And in the two years since Marcus’s death she had, indeed, been celibate.
She knocked, ruthlessly cutting off her line of thought.
So many things were innocuous in theory and much more daunting in practice. Tarek, his body and what she felt on the subject, was one of those things.
“Enter.” She heard his voice through the door.
She pushed the door open and shut it behind her, the breath rushing from her lungs at the sight of him standing in front of his desk with the posture of a soldier, hands clasped behind his back. There was no bracing for the impact of Tarek. She just needed to recognize that now and move on.
“I have entered,” she said, waving a hand. “Now to get down to business.”
“I am happy to take direction from you when it comes to matters of my civilization. However, that does not mean you will be assuming total control of my daily life.”
“Only for the next twenty-nine days.”
He chuckled, an entirely humorous sound that chilled her. “No. If you are to be my wife, then we must start as we mean to go on. I do not know how your previous marriage was conducted. However, should you become my wife, you must be aware of this one thing—you will not be my minder.”
“I didn’t think I would be,” she said, her stomach tightening painfully. “And the subject of my first marriage is off-limits.”
“You spoke of your husband only this morning.”
She sniffed. “It’s different if I broach the subject.”
“Are all women so difficult?” he asked.
“Only when dealing with impossible men.”
His black gaze was impassive. “Then, this should be interesting.”
“That’s one word for it. I assume that somewhere in the palace you have the proper tools to take care of your facial-hair situation.”
“I’m not certain. We could find out.” He walked over to the door of the office, swung it open and took one step out into the corridor. And then he shouted. Possibly the name of a servant, or just the demand, she wasn’t certain.
“What are you doing?”
“I am investigating the presence of a razor. Is that not what you wanted?”
“I assume you have a telephone on your desk. One that might reach servants in a more direct manner than bellowing like an animal.”
“I did not consider that.” He straightened and stepped away from the door, closing it behind him. Then he walked over to the desk, gazing at the phone situated there.
“Do you know how the phone works?”
“I have used it,” he said, his tone clipped.
“Better idea. We go to your bathroom. I’m certain we’ll be able to find something.”
“I suppose.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Follow me.”
She headed toward the door and felt no sense of movement behind her. She paused. “Are you coming?”
Rather than sensing any movement, she felt his heat behind her, his breath warm on her neck. The proximity, his warmth, burned through her with the ferocity of a spark on dry tinder. “I am not a dog to be brought to heel. Make no mistake, my queen, I am not your pet. You are not training me for your enjoyment. I will do what I must to fulfill the needs of my country. But no matter the trappings I am wrapped in, the man beneath will remain the same. I am not a good man. I’m not a bad man. I am simply a man who does what is necessary. You will do well to remember that.”
She felt the loss of his presence like a physical blow, and she froze for a moment, gasping for breath. In that moment, he moved ahead of her, striding out of the office without waiting. She fortified herself, blinking rapidly, trying to gain control as she went after his retreating figure.
He blazed a path through the palace, leading them both back to the wing that contained their bedrooms. He flung open the doors to his suite wide and she followed dutifully.
I’m not a dog to be brought to heel.
Well, neither was she.
She thought her quarters were quite grand. His surpassed anything she had ever seen before. She had been a guest at many palaces during her tenure as queen of Alansund. They all paled beneath the shimmer of the palace in Tahar.
Tarek’s domain could house the average dwelling. Open and vast with a massive bed at the center. The bathroom was not partitioned off from the rest of the space, a sunken tub, shower and gilt mirrors visible from where she stood in the doorway.
“I can see why you haven’t found a razor. You could hide an army in here.”
“Only a small army,” he said. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing, or being literal. It was difficult to say with Tarek.
“Small in number, or small in size?”
“Neither would be terribly helpful.”
She laughed. “No, I don’t suppose. Okay, if I was a razor I suppose I would hide in a cabinet. If I was a very small army, I would probably hide in a cabinet, too.” She checked his face for a glimmer of humor. She saw none. “You’re a tough crowd, Tarek.”
“I’m not a crowd.”
She shook her head and walked into the bathroom area, stopping in front of the mirror and sink, then crouching down in front of the cabinet. There was indeed a shaving kit there waiting. “Found it.” She took the leather case from its position and set it on the mosaic countertop.
Tarek gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, and all Olivia could do was stand there, her eyes wide, her lips parted. She was captivated. By his strength. By the shift and bunch of his muscles. By the acres of golden skin covered in dark hair, and beneath that, an air of violence, of electricity that was barely contained by the flesh stretched over his bones.
He advanced on her, every inch the predator. Something in her went still, quiet.
She was, she realized, the prey. She could not run. She could not hide. And so she waited.
At the point where she saw dark spots in front of her vision she realized her subconscious had taken on a rather dramatic position. She took a sharp breath, placing herself firmly back in the moment.
“Was the strip show really necessary?” she asked.
He looked at her, one dark brow arched. “Yes. It was.”
He said nothing more as he set about unzipping the bag and disseminating the contents.
There was an economy to his movements that she found fascinating. Each movement direct, capable. He was such a large man it would be tempting to think he didn’t possess fine coordination. But he did. He took to readying the shaving supplies with all the skill of a man assembling a weapon.
He looked up and she studied his face as he studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked like a man regarding a stranger, not a man staring at himself.
It occurred to her then that she didn’t have to stay and supervise the proceedings. But she found she couldn’t tear herself away. And he didn’t ask her to.
It was a terrifying feeling, being rooted to the spot like that, unable to focus on anything other than the man in front of her.
Was it so easy to attach to somebody when you had spent so much time in isolation?
Her throat ached suddenly, thinking of the empty halls of her childhood home. Of escaping that kind of solitude, finding friends, finding her place, finding her husband. And then returning to the same life. Alone. In a palace, rather than a mansion in upstate New York, but alone all the same.
Here, she had Tarek. She had a goal. A rock to cling to in a choppy sea, when before she had been adrift.
Was she so simple?
He turned the faucet on, held his hands beneath the stream of water before splashing it onto his face. Water droplets ran down his neck, down his chest. She was suddenly thirsty. Very, very thirsty.
This was just another way she was simple, apparently.
She was mesmerized by the flex in his forearms as he set about his task. He applied the same ruthless efficiency to this as he had done in the prep. The razor was a straight blade, and he wielded it with all the skill with which she had seen him wield his sword.
She had found him compelling with the beard. But the face he uncovered beneath it was simply stunning. It was a fierce kind of beauty, like the desert itself. Harsh, hard. Almost too brilliant to behold. Hard lines and unexpected curves. From his blade-straight nose to his sensual mouth. Without the competition from his facial hair, his brows were stronger, darker, framing his eyes, making them even more arresting. More powerful.
Was it only yesterday she had thought he wasn’t good-looking? So much had changed between that first sighting to that unguarded moment when she’d seen him, stripped bare in every way, outside his chamber. To this moment here, as he scraped away another layer, revealed yet another facet of himself.
When he finished, he pooled water into his hands again, rinsing away the remaining soap and the odd stray whisker still clinging to his skin. He straightened and turned to look at her, and it was almost as if she was seeing a different man.
Except for those eyes. Those eyes were undeniable.
His dark hair was wet, hanging loose down to his shoulders. He would have to get that dealt with as well, but she didn’t expect him to do that on his own. She almost thought it was a shame. There was something arresting about him as he was now, something disreputable about the long hair. A nod to the fact that he appeared to be, in many ways, a relic of the past.
She took a step toward him, and he stayed, immovable as stone.
Her heart was thundering so hard that if he spoke, she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the sound echoing in her ears. She felt compelled to close the distance between them. She knew one moment of hesitation, one moment where she thought she might be better off showing restraint. But why? There was no reason to show restraint of any kind. No reason to suppress the buzz of attraction she couldn’t deny she felt for him.
Maybe she felt it only because it had been so long since she’d been with a man. Maybe she felt it only because she was lonely. But maybe, just maybe, the reasons didn’t matter. Her ultimate goal was to marry him after all.
Chemistry was a very powerful reason for marriage, as far as she was concerned.
There would be no harm in testing that chemistry.
She looked at him, tried to assess what he was thinking. Searched for knowledge deep in his eyes about what would come next. She saw nothing. Nothing but an abyss. And yet, like a child drawn to a bottomless well, she kept on moving toward him.
He smelled like clean skin and the soap he had just used, and there was something about the simplicity, the intimacy of that, she found irresistible.
Somewhere in the back of her mind a logical voice was telling her to think through her actions. Was tapping her shoulder and reminding her that, though she had come here with the aim of marrying him, Tarek was a stranger. That she had waited two months to give Marcus so much as one kiss, and waited until she had been given an engagement ring before she shared her body with him.
That she was dangerously close to exposing parts of herself she should hide for her protection. Because she knew what happened when she stepped out of bounds. When she made waves.
She ignored that voice, because while it spoke the truth, it was telling the truth about the girl she had been. Not the woman she had become.
Tarek was a man. Not a boy barely out of university. And she would appeal to him as a woman appealed to a man.
She reached up, brushing her fingertips over his cheekbone, down along the line of his jaw. His skin was smooth now, the sensation intoxicating. She felt him tense beneath her touch, a muscle in his cheek jerking. “It’s very nice,” she said, drawing closer still.
Her heart was thundering hard, her breasts aching, her nipples tight and sensitive. She lifted her other hand, pressing her palm flat against his chest. He was so hot. So hard. She moved her hand slightly, intent on trailing her fingertips down his abs, but she found herself wrenched away from him, stumbling backward.
Those black eyes were fearsome now, his chest, the chest she had just barely touched, heaving with the force of his breath.
“What are you doing, woman?”
And suddenly the thoughts that had been nothing more than a niggle in the back of her mind blanketed her completely, suffocating her. What was she doing? He had given no indication he wanted this. She barely knew the man.
Belatedly, she snatched her hand back against her chest, holding it in tightly. As though contracting in on herself now would make him forget she had ever reached out to him.
Then she wondered why, why she was allowing herself to feel embarrassed. Why she should bother to cover up the impulse. If they were to be married, they would have to come to an agreement on this. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life pretending to be a different woman. Pretending to want different things than she did. Truthfully, she was a bit shocked she wanted much of anything with him, considering he was a stranger. But she did. And in many ways, it was fortuitous. Being married to a man she wasn’t attracted to would be a hideous fate.
“I was touching you,” she said, her tone hard. “Is that so shocking?”
“For what purpose?”
She stared at him, hard, trying to work out if he was being disingenuous. “Because I wanted to touch you.”
“Don’t.”
“If we marry, that could be a problem.”
“If we marry, we can deal with it then.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s important that we deal with these sorts of things now.” She swallowed hard. “I expect for this to be a real marriage.”
“It could hardly be a fake marriage.” He turned away from her, stalking back to the center of the room, bending over to pick up his shirt. “It will have to be legal, obviously.”
“Paperwork isn’t all there is to it. You have to interact with the person you marry. You have to coexist together. Sexual chemistry and compatibility are important.”
“If it is important to you, then, should I decide that marriage between the two of us is the most advantageous option, I will ensure your needs are met.”
His words were so dispassionate, so disconnected she couldn’t think of how to respond. This was not the language of seduction as she knew it. This was a one-sided conversation. He spoke as though it didn’t matter to him. In her experience, sex mattered a great deal to men. And also, in her experience, having a similar appetite to one’s husband was extremely advantageous.
“It is important to me,” she pressed, mainly because she was so fascinated by his response. Or rather, his lack of response.
“Then, should we decide on marriage, we will deal with it.”
He shrugged his shirt on and she stood there, blinking. “I don’t... I’m not certain I understand.”
“There is nothing to understand.”
Maybe not for him, but she was confused. Never in her life had a man reacted so neutrally to her touch. Not that she was incredibly experienced. Marcus had been her only lover after all. But she had practiced flirting plenty when she’d been at school, and it had usually gone well. Her first forays into looking for attention from those other than her parents had gone well enough. It had never gone beyond very innocent kissing, but even that had been balm for her parched soul.
This was... It was far too close to that horrible, dead feeling of standing there, begging for more and receiving nothing.
Too close to that moment she’d finally told her parents she needed more than walking past each other on occasion in the halls, more than false conversation over a monthly dinner.
She was not going to think of that now.
“I imagined you would have an opinion on the topic. Men usually do.”
“Men, as a species, are weak. They are fallible creatures who have far too many appetites that demand constant satisfaction. A servant cannot have more than one master. I have learned to live for the service of my country. That means I cannot serve my own appetites, as well. Doing so would make me a weak servant indeed. The fact that I am now sheikh changes nothing. I can desire nothing greater than the desire to serve.”
His words made something inside her curl in on itself. Something she hadn’t realized had been trying to bloom.
What was wrong with her? Why did this matter so much?
Why did it feel so desperately personal to be rejected by a stranger?
Stop being so needy.
“I should arrange for your haircut now.” It was automatic for her to get on with the task at hand. Anything was better than lingering in her discomfort and unexpected pain. “And clothing. You need to address your clothing situation.”
“There is something wrong with my clothing?”
“What did your brother wear to various events? Did he wear traditional Tahari clothing, or did he wear Western-style suits? This is important. I need to figure out how to handle your wardrobe.”
“I can see that if I offer you one sweet you will clamor for the whole bag.”
She smiled widely, trying not to reveal the fact that the potential double entendre in his statement had hit her in a vulnerable place. Yes, it would seem that if all of this was a sexual metaphor, if he gave her one little treat, she would try to devour the whole thing. She cringed internally.
Rejection stung. Always.
“That is what I’m here for,” she said, rather than giving in to saying any of the insecure things that were rolling around in her head.
“It doesn’t matter to me what my brother wore. I would prefer to draw a distinction between him and myself.”
“That’s a good place to start,” she said, not asking the questions that arose due to that statement. “What sort of ruler do you want to be? That’s a question only you can answer, Tarek. Though the answer is probably also relevant to me.”
“I do not believe a man is king for his own enjoyment. I believe a man can only serve if he is serving a purpose. A purpose that is beyond himself.”
“You speak about serving so often.”
“Bearing the responsibility of a nation is nothing if not service. If your primary objective is simply to rule, to lord over, then you accomplish nothing.”
She studied him, the harsh, hard lines of his face. “If you disagreed with your brother’s style of leadership, why didn’t you say anything to him?”
“It was not my task. My task was very specific. And an agreement was struck between Malik and myself some years ago.”
“What was that?”
“If he would leave me alone, I would be at his disposal to protect our people,” Tarek said, his words layered with darkness. “A mutual agreement we both respected. He called upon me when aid was needed, and I gave it. Anything else would have been abandonment of my post, of the people I cared for. I am in a different position now.”
“You have the power now. That’s the brilliant thing about being sheikh. What do you want to wear? Who do you want to be?”
“I do not have the capacity to care about such a thing as clothing,” he said, “but perhaps there is a connection I am missing?”
She straightened, indicating the well-fitted white dress she was wearing. “Clothing is important. It presents a certain image. I would like to think mine conveys quiet luxury and sophistication. Something people prize in a queen, or so I was told.”
“I...I see how that could be.”
“Good,” she said. “You care about your people. I know you do.”
“More than my own life,” he said.
Her stomach tightened, that conviction, that bone-deep certainty of his opening up a cavern of longing from deep within. To have someone care about her with that ferocity. With that strength.
She swallowed hard. No. Even letting herself think about that was dangerous.
“We are in a new age in Tahar,” he said, his tone grave. “And I am able to lead us there. I will. Let us show them.”
“Well, seeing as we can’t put you on the back of a white stallion brandishing a sword, I’m going to go with a power suit. I’ll make some phone calls. We will be in touch.”
With that, she walked out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, and beat a hasty retreat back to her own quarters. She needed some time alone. Needed some time to think. She had to get a handle on herself, because she couldn’t act in such a stupid, unthinking way again.
If nothing else, her own response to him, the emotional fallout of it, was reason enough.
She knew better than to need. Knew better than to depend on anyone.
She simply needed to remember.
