His Wicked Embrace novel Chapter 7

Zehra sipped her wine, even though her belly quivered with an ache born of days with little to no food. She fought to ignore the beating headache rising in her head by examining the bedchamber of her rescuer. His tall four-poster bed with a dark-green coverlet looked inviting, perhaps too much so. He had a shaving stand, complete with a washbasin, and a chest of drawers. A tall bookcase stood against one wall, and it was filled with books, some old, others quite new. She carried her wine glass with her as she approached the shelf.

"Who are you, Lawrence Russell?" she whispered, reading the gilded spines on the shelves. Gothic novels, poetry, sciences, art, philosophy. He was well-read, it seemed. Surely a man who was well-read was less likely to be a cruel man. At least, she hoped so.

He claimed he had bought her to protect her from other men. But she had learned the hard truth of late that she could trust no one-not strangers, not even friends. Her parents lay dead because they'd trusted a man they thought was their friend.

Zehra closed her eyes. Tears trickled down her face, and the cool spring air drifting through the open window dried the wet streaks. She mastered herself, bearing the pain of her loss. There would be a time to mourn, but not yet, not until she found her mother's family and learned if they would offer her a home or cast her out.

She could almost hear her father's voice. "You must be strong a little while longer, my desert rose, just a little longer." Desert rose. How often he'd called her that. Her mother had laughed with delight at the name whenever Zehra would dance in a puddle of colorful rose petals, breathing in the heady perfume of nature's finest flower.

For a moment, she was borne back into the past, and sunny memories swept her far from this dark, cold island. Her father sat before a fire in a pit, the night sky glittering with stars, as he played the setar, an instrument similar to an Indian sitar. He sang in a haunting voice. Zehra would sit wrapped in her mother's arms, as her mother whispered to her the words of her father's music.

I am a candle burning for you,

My heart is aflame with ardor for you,

Yet you shall never come home,

My gleaming pearl, my dearest heart,

I wait...I wait in the darkness, burning bright into the night,

Hoping against hope you will find your way home.

She had been too young to understand the look between her parents then, the softening gazes, the intimate secrets that lingered in the air unspoken between them.

But that life was over. She would never find her way home because it was her home no longer. All that was left was a burned palace, blood coating the smooth floor tiles. The stain of evil in that place would never fade, not for her. Even if she could go back, she would never return to the palace.

Her eyes flew open when the bedchamber door creaked. She turned, expecting to see Lawrence, but instead saw a dark-haired maid carrying a tray of food. "Excuse me, miss, the master asked for food to be sent to you." The woman smiled, her countenance warm, and Zehra wiped her tears from her cheeks. She took a moment to collect herself, trying to paint a cheery smile upon her lips as she faced the servant.

The maid placed the tray on the table by the fireplace and lifted up a warm blanket. She gestured for Zehra to sit in one of the nearby chairs.

"You look dead on your feet, miss. Why don't you sit here? The master has a fine chair by the fire, and it'll do you some good to rest."

The tall wingback chair did look rather cozy, she had to admit. After she sat, the maid tucked the blanket around her lap.

"For the chill, miss," she explained. "It can get a bit drafty at night."