Chapter 17 · Chapter 17

The quiet of the private wing did not diminish as the hour deepened. It only grew heavier, settling like fine dust into the deep pile of the carpets and the dark carved moldings above the lintel.

I waited until the rhythm of Turki’s breathing was entirely unbroken. Then, shifting my weight with deliberate slowness, I slipped from beneath the linen. The cold of the polished stone floor met the arches of my bare feet, an abrupt, grounding shock after the heat that had burned between us on the mattress.

My Abaya lay neatly draped over the armchair where he had placed it hours before, folded with an almost clinical care. I did not put it on. I drew only the silk dressing robe from the screen, knotting its cord firmly at my waist, letting the hem drag lightly behind me as I stepped across the threshold of the bedchamber into his study.

The adjoining room was cooler, untouched by the warmth of our bodies. Here, the scent of aged oud was dry, laced with the sharp, clean tannin of leather folios and dried ink.