Heir to a Desert Legacy - By Maisey Yates Page 0,43

the vows hadn’t been playing on continual loop in her mind.

If anything but death separates us...

Except sixteen years and the coming-of-age of Aden was meant to separate then. And they were never intended to be joined, not truly. Not on the kind of deep, spiritual level spoken of during their wedding ceremony.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years with the man beside her. Sixteen years away from her home.

Except thinking of Portland, of the green, rain-drenched landscape, didn’t fill her with any sort of longing. Didn’t make her ache with a need to be there. She didn’t even feel a connection anymore. But Attar wasn’t her home, either.

So when her marriage to Sayid was over, when Aden was grown, where would her home be? She already knew she couldn’t go back. Because going back would be living as if this, as if Aden, as if Sayid, had never happened. As if she could be happy with the things she’d wanted before.

She knew she couldn’t be.

The truly frightening thought was, whether or not Attar would be home in the end. If Sayid would be home.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was so handsome, his posture rigid, black eyes fringed with dark lashes focused intently on their guests. His skin was smooth, bronzed perfection, his cheekbones prominent. His lips...curved. Sensuous. She knew they could be cruel, too, she’d been on the receiving end of harsh words and sneers. But she also knew, with a kind of intuition that was born into her, that they would also be soft for a lover. Giving. Demanding.

No. She couldn’t think about him that way. That was just craziness. Illogical on every level.

But no matter how illogical, part of her wanted to draw closer to him. To see if he was as hot and hard as he appeared. To see if his lips tasted as sweet as honey.

She sucked in a sharp breath and looked back down at her empty plate. She hardly remembered eating the lamb and lentils, but clearly, she had.

The drumbeat increased, became louder, the dominant sound in the room now, and one of the tribal leaders seated at the head of one of the long tables stood, speaking loudly in Arabic, his voice carrying over the music.

Sayid leaned in, a translation just for her. “He is wishing us long life. Happiness. Many children.”

Her stomach clenched in anxiety. “Not gonna happen.”

“And he is bidding us a good night, as we go to make the marriage official.”

“What does he mean by that?” she asked.

Sayid stood, extending his hand to her, and she grasped it, allowing him to help her up. He waved and began to walk through the tent, leading her.

“What did he mean by that?” she wondered aloud.

“The vows, the feast, are all a part of the sealing of the marriage. But the marriage is not truly valid until the groom has possessed the bride in the ultimate way,” he said, his voice smooth, deep. His words, however vague, were completely provocative, and she was certain he knew it. Certain he knew the kind of images it brought to her mind. The kind of ache it brought to her body.

“What?” she asked.

They exited the tent and cheers erupted behind them. “They will continue the party long into the night,” he said, ignoring her question.

“In the United States, the marriage is legal when both parties and the appropriate witnesses sign a marriage license. Are you telling me that in Attar we actually have to...”

“That is the custom,” he spoke calmly.

“And you knew,” she said. “You knew. You said we wouldn’t...that you wouldn’t...”

“You are being hysterical now,” he said as they walked into the palace, his words echoing in the empty corridor.

“Where is everyone?” she asked, looking around the empty hall. The palace was always bustling, staff everywhere, but not now. Now it was silent.

“They are enjoying the party, and giving us time to enjoy our private party.” He took a step toward her and she retreated, her back hitting the wall.

“You are not forcing a wedding night on me,” she said.

“No,” he bit out, advancing on her. “I’m not.” He pressed his palm against the wall behind her head, leaning in. “Although, we both know I wouldn’t have to force you to do anything. You want it.”

“I don’t,” she spat.

“Liar,” he said. “I know you feel it. I see it in the way you look at me. Wide, curious eyes. You’re hungry. For me.”

“And you are an egotistical jerk who thinks that