His Wicked Embrace novel Chapter 9

Zehra couldn't wash the blood off her hands. The palace halls were filled with screams, and the night sky was illuminated with fire. Smoke crept along the corridors, prowling for victims. Bodies littered the bedroom and antechamber.

Zehra stared in shock at the two bodies closest to the bed. Her mother lay still, her golden hair spread across the silk sheets, her throat slashed. Blood pooled beneath her neck, and her sightless blue eyes looked through Zehra into oblivion.

A tall dark-haired man lay at her feet, his body still, a scimitar grasped in one hand. He had killed four men before being cut down.

Papa...the word didn't escape her lips, but it was followed inside her head by a piercing scream of anguish.

Later she could move again, and then she was sprinting down the corridor, coughing as the home she'd cherished burned around her.

"The princess!" someone shouted in Farsi. Terror seized her heart, but she didn't stop. She had to escape.

As she reached a large open window that led to the gardens, a dark figure stepped into her path. She ran into him, and he gripped her body with one arm and clamped a hand over her mouth.

"It's Al-Zahrani, my princess. I've come to rescue you. Come with me, quickly."

She followed him out of the window into the night.

Zehra shouted as she jolted upright. The night still held on to the world outside. Had she only been asleep an hour before the nightmare woke her?

Lawrence leapt from his chair by the fireplace, snatching a fire poker and wielding it like a saber. "What is it? What's the matter?" He seemed braced for a fight, legs spread in a crouched stance.

Zehra's blood roared in her ears as she struggled to calm. No, she was not in Persia. She was safe. Wasn't she?

"I..." She swallowed thickly, her throat raw from the scream. "I had a bad dream."

Lawrence relaxed and walked over to the washstand by the bed. He poured her a glass of water from a pitcher next to the porcelain basin.

She accepted the glass, drinking deep until it was empty. Her body was covered in a sheen of sweat, and she lifted her hands, examining them for blood. She knew it wouldn't be there, but she felt it all the same.

"What are you looking for?" Lawrence filled her glass again.

"It's nothing. I'm so sorry I woke you," she whispered.

Lawrence leaned over the bed. She was surprised that she did not instinctively shy away from him.

"Sweetheart, something terrible has happened to you. I see it shadowing your eyes-there's a ghostly glimmer of pain behind them. But if you won't talk to me, I cannot help you." He cupped her face with one palm, and his warm hand felt so good against her skin. There was something about the way he touched her, spoke to her, as though he was too close, yet not close enough. She felt suddenly cold beneath the thin fabric of the chemise and longed for him to wrap his arms around her and warm her. It was madness, craving a stranger in this way, yet she did.

"Perhaps one day I can tell you," she said. "But not today."

His lips curved down into a frown, but he nodded. "I understand. Tell me what can I do. There must be something."

Zehra looked away from him, her eyes studying the plasterwork of the ceiling. Golden light, with painted roundels depicting scenes she recognized from classical mythology. She was more used to geometric patterns than depictions of people and was arrested by the sight of the art she saw above her now. Such beauty in the home of such a roguish bachelor. It was unexpected.

"Zehra?" He spoke her name with tenderness, and she finally met his gaze.

"Would you...hold me?" She knew it was improper, whether in England or in Persia, but being held was what she needed most. Whenever he touched her, the pain and fear of the past seemed to fade to a distant, hazy memory. She knew it was only a temporary solution, but she clutched at any chance, however small, to ease her memories and forget.

Lawrence's eyebrows rose. "Hold you? Are you quite sure?"

"Quite sure," she echoed.

"Er...right." He removed his boots, then eased down onto the bed beside her and opened his arms. Zehra was flooded with a rush of emotions as she slid into his embrace. She was asking so much of this man, a total stranger, and she could give him nothing in return. Her eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face against his chest. His scent enveloped her, and she relaxed almost immediately.

"Better?" he whispered. His warm breath fanned the crown of her hair.

"Yes." Zehra was silent a long moment. "I am not a weak woman." She wasn't sure why she needed him to hear her say that, but she did.