Chapter 14 · Chapter 14

The gray light came not through the glass, but beneath it, a pale wash sliding over the cold limestone floor of the private wing before the sun had even touched the towers of the city.

Beside me, the mattress shifted. Nawaf did not linger in the heavy warmth between the sheets, nor did he make a sound as he stood. He was already reaching for his white thobe where it hung over the carved back of the chair, slipping into the stiff, uncreased cotton with the effortless discipline of a man whose posture never collapsed, even after midnight.

I pulled the sheet up to my collarbone, watching him through the dimness. My skin still carried the salt and heat of him, the ache deep in my hips a steady, quiet reminder of every breath we had taken in the dark while the house slept beneath us.

He did not speak right away. He fastened the mother-of-pearl buttons at his cuffs, smoothed the collar, and walked past the low cedar chest where my black abaya lay folded beside my tarha.