Forged in the Desert Heat - Maisey Yates

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nearly half of my life, and purpose is what drives me now. Emotion is unnecessary and weak. Emotion lies. Purpose doesn’t.”

      In so many ways, he echoed a colder, harsher version of what she’d always told herself. That doing right was what mattered. That when people stopped doing right and started serving themselves, things fell apart. Utterly and completely.

      She’d seen it in her own family. She’d never wished to bring the kind of destruction her mother had, so she’d set out to be better. To be above selfishness. To do the right thing, the thing that benefitted others before it benefitted her.

      To take care, instead of destroy. To be a blessing instead of a burden.

      But hearing it from his lips, it seemed...wrong. At least she acknowledged emotion; she just knew there were more important things in life than giddy happiness. Giddy happiness was fleeting, and selfish. She felt it was just her mission to make sure she didn’t put her feelings above the happiness of others. There was nothing wrong with that.

      “You know what else doesn’t lie? My muscles. I’m so stiff I can hardly move.”

      “A bath then. I will have one drawn for you.”

      “Th-thank you.”

      “You sound surprised.”

      “You’re giving me nicer things than my last kidnapper.”

      “Savior, Analise. I think the word you’re looking for is savior.”

      She looked into his midnight eyes and felt something tug, deep and hard inside of her. Something terrifying. Something that touched the edge of the forbidden. “No, I really don’t think that’s the word I’m looking for.”

      “Come,” he said, walking toward the doors of the palace.

      Zafar didn’t wait for the double doors to open for him. He pushed against them with both palms, flinging them wide, the sound of the heavy wood hitting the stone walls echoing in the antechamber.

      He simply stood for a moment, and waited. For what he did not know. Ghosts, perhaps? There were none. None that were visible, though he could almost feel them. The pain, the anguish this place had witnessed seemed to echo from the walls and he felt it deep down in his bones. If he listened hard enough, he was certain he could still hear his mother screaming. His father crying.

      The air was heavy. With memory, with a cold, stale scent that lingered. Probably had more to do with the stone walls than with the past.

      He’d spent years living in a tent. Hell, it had been over a year since he’d actually been in a building that wasn’t made from canvas. The walls were too heavy. Too thick. Making the air even harder to breathe.

      He wanted to turn and run, but Ana was behind him. He felt like an animal being herded into a cage, but he wouldn’t show that weakness. He couldn’t.

      So he took another step inside. Into darkness, into the place that had seen so much death and devastation. It was a step back into his past. One he wasn’t prepared to take, but one that had to be taken.

      “Zafar?”

      He felt a small hand on his arm and he jerked away, looking down at Ana. She didn’t shrink back, but he could see something in her wilt. Unsurprising. She must think him more beast than man, but then, there was truth in that.

      “We shall have your bath run for you,” he said, his voice tight, cold, even to his own ears.

      He had no choice but to move forward. To embrace this because it was his destiny. And his penance. He gritted his teeth and walked on.

      Yes, this was his penance. He was prepared to pay it now.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      IT WAS ZAFAR’S great misfortune that Ambassador Rycroft was near and insisted on a meeting immediately. With Zafar in his robes, filthy from traveling. He had no idea how he must appear to the immaculately dressed, clean-shaven man who was sitting in his office now. He had very little idea of how he appeared at all. He didn’t make a habit of looking at mirrors.

      The man was, per the paperwork he’d seen of his uncle’s, important to the running of the country. At least he had been. Zafar suspected that many of the “trade agreements” ran more toward black market deals. But he lacked proof at the moment.

      They’d been making tentative conversation for the past few minutes, and Zafar felt very much like a bull tiptoeing through a china shop.

      “This regime change has been very upsetting to those of us at the embassy.”

      “I am sorry for that,” Zafar said. “My uncle’s death has inconvenienced you. I’m not certain why he couldn’t postpone it.”

      Rycroft simply looked at him, offense evident in his expression. “Yes, well, we are eager to know what you intend to do with the trade agreements.”

      “Your trade agreements are the least of my concern.” Zafar began to pace the room, another move that clearly unnerved his visitor. He supposed he was meant to sit. But he couldn’t be bothered. He hated this. Hated having to talk, be diplomatic. He didn’t see the point of it. Real men said what they meant; politicians never did. There was no honor in it, and yet, it was how things worked. “I have stepped into a den of corruption and I mean to sort it out. Your trade agreements can wait. Do you understand?”

      Rycroft stood, his face turning red. “Sheikh Zafar, I don’t think you understand. These trade agreements are essential to the ease of your ascension to rule. Your uncle and I had an understanding, and if you do not carry it out, things might go badly for you.”

      Anger surged through Zafar, driving his actions before he had conscious thought. All of his energy, seemingly magnified by the feeling of confinement he was experiencing in this place, broke free. He grabbed the other man by the shoulders and pushed him back against the wall, holding him firmly. “Do you mean to threaten me?”

      Politicians might use diplomacy. He would not.

      “No,” the ambassador said, his eyes wide. “I would not...I would never.”

      “See that you do not, for I have erased men from this earth for far less, and don’t forget it.”

      He released his hold on Rycroft and stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest.

      “I will go to the press with this,” the other man said, straightening his jacket. “I will tell them that they have put an animal on the throne of Al Sabah.”

      “Good. Tell them,” he said, anger driving him now, past the point of reason. Past whatever diplomacy he might have possessed. “Perhaps I will have fewer pale men in suits to deal with if you do.”

      * * *

      As she sank down into the recessed tub, made from dazzling precious stone, and the warm water enveloped her sore, dusty body, Ana had to rethink the savior thing.

      These bubbles, the oils, the bath salts...it all felt like they, and by extension, Zafar, might very well have saved her life.

      She would have liked to stay forever and just indulge, but she knew she couldn’t. She didn’t just relax and indulge. It wasn’t in her. She had to be useful. There was always something to do. Except, right now there wasn’t really anything.

      Such a strange feeling. She didn’t like being aimless. She didn’t like feeling out of control. She needed purpose. She needed a project. Something to keep her mind and hands busy. Something to make her feel like she was contributing.

      Being kidnapped wasn’t engaging much, except the constant war between her fight-or-flight response. It was terrifying, all of it, and yet she didn’t know the right thing to do.

      She’d been working so hard for so many years. The desert trip was her last and first hurrah. Post-graduation, pre-public engagement. She’d wanted a touch of adventure, but nothing like this.

      She

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