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.

Lawrence growled a little. "You are not my slave, Zehra. You're free to come and go as you please. I only ask that you be safe. I can set you up in your own house, supply you with clothes, food, whatever you wish until we figure out what to do next." He cleared his throat. "I ask for nothing in return."

She found the slit in his shirt and rubbed her fingertips along his bare chest, enjoying how warm his skin was. She knew she was tempting him, but she couldn't seem to help herself. He was strong, warm, and utterly masculine. He made her feel feminine and safe in a way she hadn't in many weeks.

"You're killing me," he whispered.

"Am I?" she asked, smiling.

"Touch me anywhere else and I might not be able to stop from touching you back," he warned, but there was a tenderness in the threat that made her burn with new hungers, ones she'd never felt for a man before. "Think of my poor honor."

She continued to brush her fingers over his chest and buried her face in his shoulder. The feel of his arms around her and being tucked against his side was hypnotic. It was lulling her into sleep very, very slowly.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good. Just remember, no nightmares can grow where sunlight blossoms."

"What?" she asked, waking a little. It sounded like something her father might have said.

"It was something my father always said to me as a boy." Lawrence chuckled. "He taught me to picture everything that frightened me as dark shadows and then to imagine that I carried a beam of sunlight in my hands, and I could shine that beam across the shadows, burning them away with the light."

Zehra took a moment to imagine her past horrors, which were already cloaked in shadows, and then cast sunlight upon them in her mind. She couldn't be sure if it worked, but she didn't feel quite as helpless as she had before. The darkness had given these visions power, and imagining the light had given her strength. She only hoped it was enough.

"You are a wonderful man."

Her rescuer brushed his knuckles across her cheek and let out a slow, deep breath, but he didn't speak. She smiled a little but couldn't ignore the lethargy creeping along her limbs as she fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep where she hoped nightmares could not follow.