Forged in the Desert Heat

“So, what if I try to leave?”

“You will be detained. But I seriously doubt you will try to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a sensible woman. A woman who wouldn’t want blood on her hands.” He looked at her, his eyes taking on a strange, distant quality. “Take it from a man who knows, habibti. Whether you spill it with your own hand or not, blood won’t come clean.”

She believed him. Believed it was true. Believed that he knew what it meant to have blood on his hands. Not for one second would she doubt it.

Could she do it? Could she risk it?

The entire thing made her uneasy, but she hardly had a choice. She could try and run, she could try to find her way back on her own, try to call Tariq, who would storm the castle and...and...oh dear.

She looked at Zafar. Did she really trust this man? That he would release her? That he would do what he said?

She did. Because she’d been alone with him in the desert overnight, and he’d slept with his arm curled around her waist to keep her from shivering. Because when she’d needed touch, no matter whether he understood it or felt it or not, he had provided it. He hadn’t taken advantage of her, had never once touched her inappropriately or in a way that would harm her.

In short, he treated her exactly like a man in his position should treat her, provided he was telling the truth.

“I require an exit strategy, Sheikh,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“When will you release me? Regardless of what is happening. There has to be a set end date. A sell-by.”

“I’m not certain I can give you that.”

“I require it,” she said. “No more than thirty days.”

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