The Last Prince of Dahaar by Tara Pammi

Author:Tara Pammi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-03-24T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

AYAAN STARTLED, WIDE-AWAKE, sweat beading on his forehead, the bed sheets tangled around his legs. He pulled on his sweatpants and walked to the veranda of his new suite.

The sky was gray, with dawn’s first light still a little while away. But he could see the hubbub of activity that had begun near the helipad in the grounds behind the palace. The cold air chafed his bare chest and face, settling deep into his pores. But he couldn’t move.

Ground lights illuminated the path, while the lights of buggies used to transport luggage lit the path to the helipad.

One week, all he had to do was to spend one week in the clutches of the desert, in the very place where they had been attacked, where he had seen his brother and sister fall.

Fear fisted his stomach with cold, hard fingers, choking his breath. He gripped the metal balustrade with tight knuckles, reminding himself to breathe through it. It was just his mind playing tricks on him.

But nothing helped. Instead of fighting it, he gave in to the shivers quaking through him and slid to the ground.

He was the crown prince of Dahaar, second son of King Malik Aslam Al-Sharif, a descendant of the Al-Sharifs who had ruled over Dahaar and the desert for ten centuries. Their history was rich, violent, immersed with stories of men who had conquered the desert in all its harsh glory, who had found a way to survive in its unforgiving climate and created a livelihood for their families and tribes.

And he, Ayaan bin Riyaaz Al-Sharif quaked with fear at the thought of a journey into the desert. Shame pounded through his blood.

The conference hadn’t happened in six years. One more year would not matter, his father had said, concern softening his shrewd eyes.

And Ayaan had indulged the idea, had felt relief at the temporary reprieve. Until he had seen the one woman whose very presence reminded him of every weakness he couldn’t defeat, taunted him with the offer he couldn’t accept.

Zohra.

Neither could he wipe the memory of how she tasted. She was a madness in his blood, rivaling the one in his mind.

How many things would he put off, how many duties would he postpone because he feared he was not enough, because he was afraid of what might push him that last step into the darkness waiting for him? He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to know, he had to try, even if he fell over the cliff. He had lost everything in the desert, he had lost himself, but he couldn’t let it take any more from him. When he looked at Zohra next, he wanted to have the knowledge of at least having tried, even if he failed.

Or history might as well erase his name from the majestic Al-Sharif dynasty.

* * *

Zohra hugged herself tight, shifting from one foot to the other. Her long-sleeved tunic and leggings underneath would be too warm in the desert sun, but even with the pashmina she had wrapped around herself, it was not enough for the early morning chill.

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