I agreed to this for Aden, but I didn’t agree to this,” she said, waving her hand in the space between them, “so if you’re having a bout of pent-up sexual frustration, I suggest you go and find a willing woman to work it off with.”
“That’s what you want?” he asked, his voice taking on a deadly edge now.
“Yes,” she lied, “it’s what I want.”
“I thought you wanted discretion?”
“Bend her over the balcony for all I care,” she said, letting anger fuel her now, anger and fear, “it won’t bother me.”
She turned and walked back into the palace, fighting against the tears that were threatening to fall. She sat down on the lavish, four-poster bed that had been provided for her in her room and unbuttoned her shirt with one hand, unclipping her nursing bra and guiding Aden to her breast. She was getting used to this. To this part of motherhood. But Sayid…
She’d never been so confused, so afraid of her own body, in her entire life.
And the man who was causing her all this grief was the man she was marrying tomorrow.
There were few guests at the beachside wedding, and none of the usual Attari pre-ceremony traditions were being observed. No three-day feasts, no group dances and the henna party had, blessedly, only included one woman.
Chloe was thankful for those small favors, but she was still nervous about the event itself. Especially after her last encounter with Sayid. And, of course, she hadn’t even bumped into him in the hall since she’d stormed away the evening before, all but commanding he find some other woman to do it with on their wedding night.
Not that it was their wedding night in any way that mattered.
It wasn’t a wedding that mattered. The most important guests in attendance were a few carefully selected members of the press who would write up a nice story about the event and bestow hope upon a nation. In theory. Theirs had to be the most magical lie in history, if it really possessed all that power. But if it did, and the outcome was as good as predicted, she could hardly feel bitter about it.
As it was, for the moment, she felt a little bitter.
Think of Aden. And not of everything you’re leaving behind.
She pressed her hands over her eyes and tried to breathe. It felt as though the sand was sliding beneath her feet, slipping away. Leaving her with nothing to stand on.
She heard the music change, heard her cue to walk down the aisle.
She took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the tent that had been raised on the beach for the dinner that would follow the ceremony, lifting the hem of her dress so that she wouldn’t stumble over the delicate fabric. It was completely plain, a flowing, cream summer dress that brushed over the sand as she walked. A white, silken scarf covered her hair, shielding her from the sun. She didn’t hold any flowers. She didn’t have an attendant to take them from her when she reached her groom. She had no one standing there with her.
Her only family was Aden. The reminder of why she was doing this.
Poles were raised along the aisle, white silks wrapped around them, draped between them, blowing in the wind. It was utter perfection in its simplicity, the waves on the shore the only music, with few decorations to mar the natural beauty of the sand and surf.
She raised her eyes and saw Sayid, standing at the head of the aisle, the wind blowing the silks, partially obscuring him from view. But for a moment, their eyes locked and held. Darkness, heat, crackled between them. She looked down. It was traditional for the bride to keep her eyes down anyway. To keep herself from smiling. To not appear too eager.
Which was good, because not-smiley and not-eager, were coming easily at the moment.
She kept going until she saw his shoes, half-buried by sand, come into her field of vision. Then she looked up. He was dressed like she was, simple, not entirely in the Attari tradition, but not entirely Western, either. His shirt was white, loose over his muscular frame, as were his slacks. His shoes were white as well, simple, embroidered with gold thread.
The strength of his masculine beauty, the impact that it had on her, was shocking. She would have thought that after yesterday, after those bold, awful, yes they were totally awful, things he’d said to her, she would despise the sight of him. But she didn’t.
And part of her didn’t think the things he’d said had been so awful, either.
Part of her had been intrigued. And wanted to hear more. Had wanted him to show her just what he’d meant.
It was so not the time to be having those thoughts. Though, there would never be a good time for those thoughts. Ever.
Sayid stood facing her, but not touching her, the distance between them welcome.
The ceremony started in Arabic and Sayid leaned in, her heart stalling out as he drew near to her. Then he began to translate softly, the words husky, smooth. So unlike the way he’d spoken to her yesterday. And no less impacting. These were words of commitment, of caring not of lust or domination. About the meaning of marriage, the soul deep bond of it. A meaning she had never before witnessed, but that something deep within her ached to have.
When it came time for her to say her vows, she repeated them as best she could, with no idea of what she was promising to do before the officiant and all of the witnesses. She knew her Arabic was clumsy and very likely completely unintelligible, and she just hoped that the headline tomorrow wasn’t about the new sheikha who had garbled her vows.
As soon as she spoke the last word, she nearly sagged with relief.
But then it was Sayid’s turn to take his vows. And he chose to repeat them in English.
“I will not leave you, or turn back from you,” he said, his voice strong, his focus somewhere behind her. And for that she was grateful, because she was certain that eye contact was beyond her at this point. He still didn’t touch her, didn’t reach for her hand. “Where you make your home, I shall make mine. For without you there is no home. Your people are now my people, as mine are yours. Where you die I will die. And there they will bury me. May God deal with me severely if anything but death separates us.”
Chloe tried to breathe, the sea air suddenly too harsh, too salty. Her chest ached, ached with a need so fierce she feared it would choke her.
She wished the vows had stayed a mystery. Wished she had never heard the promises they’d made to each other in a way she could understand. Because when they’d been foreign, it hadn’t felt real. Hadn’t truly felt like vows.
Now, though, now she felt the weight of them. It was as if an invisible thread had been wound around them, binding them together. As if they were linked now, in a way that was completely beyond reason or logic.
And as the bond tightened between them, she felt the ties to her old life being cut away, until all that remained was this. Was Attar, and Aden and Sayid. The weight of it, the sadness, the certainty in it, was almost enough to bring her to her knees.
None of this is real. She tried to remind herself, tried to shift her focus back to the reasons behind the wedding. The practicality of it. Tried to stop the vows from echoing in her mind.
The officiant picked a bowl up from a small table that was between Chloe and Sayid. It was filled with honey. He began to speak, loudly and for the guests, while Sayid translated for her ears only. “It is an Attari tradition, for the bride and groom’s first taste of marriage to be sweet, that our life may always be sweet.” He took her hand in his, and dipped her pinkie finger into the honey, then lifted it to his lips, closing his mouth around it, sucking the honey from her skin.
His lips were hot, his tongue slick. The intimate touch sent a shiver through her body. Violent. Unsettling. It left her shaking, aching.
He lowered her hand, then repeated the action with his own finger, extending it to her, touching his fingertip to her lips, requesting