Chapter 2 #3
Fisting her hands, she waited. Wondered why he’d brought her up here.
Whose room was this? But when her legs started tingling, she fisted her hands.
Braved another look. Then a quiet call. “Hello?” She cringed at how loud her voice felt in this empty room, how it echoed over the marble floor of the bathroom to her right.
Slowly, she traced every shadow and cornice.
Bathed in creams, golds, and powder blue, the room was simple compared to the lavish overkill throughout the palace.
A queen bed dominated the open space and sat between dark, wood end tables with lamps.
Flanking the bed, Middle Eastern scalloped arches set off a gilt floor-to-ceiling mirror on one side and an inset settee on the other.
A chair sat nearby, almost within reach of her right hand.
Beyond the bathroom door and shower within, there seemed to be a closet back there.
Whose room was this? Why am I here?
As the minutes fell away, so did restraint. Her imagination took over, working through what she’d change. Not much—the décor was tasteful and pretty, though…extravagant still. That mattress seemed as high as her waist.
Oh, the thought of sleeping on a real bed nearly tempted her across the room. It must be glorious. The pillows looked dreamily soft. Her aching body begged for a reprieve.
But she dared not.
Except, after what felt like hours, she did—well, not the bed.
But she allowed herself the nearby chair because her legs were growing numb.
The relief was acute as she perched on the edge, ear trained on the door and marble floor beyond—anxious for the clip of shoes on the marble—ready to bolt to her feet again when they returned.
Had Asim forgotten her? With the passing minutes, she began to sag. Yawned.
“Get up, girl!”
The smack across her face jolted Leighton awake. She shot upward, her legs tangling in the thick fog of sleep. She landed on all fours, but scrambled back to her feet with a hurried apology.
“You mongrel—what are you doing?” Hands on her hip, the woman seethed.
“Waiting, ma’am,” Leighton murmured, limbs trembling from the rude awakening.
“Waiting for what?”
“For…whoever stays in this room to come.”
The woman barked a laugh. “It’s your room, ya hamar!”
Leighton started. Her head came up—but she remembered herself and studied the carpet. “I think there is a mistake, ma’am.”
“Save the ma’ams and sirs for the royals. I’m Zayna.” She motioned Leighton into the bathroom. “Come in here. I need to fit the abayas to you.”
Though she complied, Leighton expected a trap. Her steps across the room were silent and tentative. When no more punishment came, she peeked to the side where the woman had vanished. She’d been right—there was not only a closet but a dressing room through there.
“On the dais,” Zayna snapped, pulling out two brown, beaded garments. “Wear the abaya over the pants. Keep your head covered at all times, unless you are in your room. Understand?”
Leighton nodded, her mind racing. But, no… “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand about keeping your head—”
“No, I—” Frustration twisted her words and thoughts. “I mean the room…the clothes… Why? I do not live here. I—” She better not say she was a prisoner, though it was true. “I do not have a room—not like this one.”
“Thank Princess Daria for changing that. She’s especially gracious now that her wedding plans are in full swing.”
Shock rooted her to the floor that the princess had any say in how Leighton was treated or where she stayed. Why would the king listen to a woman? Especially about a prisoner?
“She has decided you are a part of the wedding party.”
“Me?” Leighton squeaked. “I don’t—how—why?”
“That does not matter. You will attend and remain silent. Speak only when asked a direct question.” Zayna began stripping the smelly clothes off Leighton, then produced a tape measure from a pocket in her dress and measured her.
“You are painfully thin. I’ll need to adjust everything.
” She clucked her tongue in disapproval.
“And if I were you—which I am not, thank Allah—I would keep every answer simple. I warn you, while she might see you as a pet now, Her Highness bores quickly and easily. You are a novelty today; tomorrow, an annoyance. Yes?”
Leighton nodded.
The rest of the fitting continued in silence, then Zayna ordered Leighton to shower. Once cleaned and changed into simple clothes that still bordered on luxurious, Leighton emerged from the bathroom to find the woman tidying up.
Zayna went to the round table in the corner and tapped a pad of paper. “These are all the royals and their names. Learn them. Memorize them. After this great gift you have been given in having a room up here, the last thing you want is to insult them by not knowing their names.”
Right. Because this was her idea of fun, being kidnapped and held hostage by ultra-rich royals. And yet, she recognized this gift of a clean, dry room with access to a bathroom—not a hole—and shower.
“Food will be delivered as it was in your cell. Stay away from the windows or they will board them up.” Zayna gathered the dirty clothes and towel. “Now—anything else?”
She’s asking me?
Zayna huffed when she did not answer. “Do you need anything, child?”
Yes, my home! My parents! My freedom!
But…for Ummi…
Positive those answers would earn a slap, Leighton had no idea what to say. But when the woman remained there, expression growing more angry, Leighton knew they’d never give her a phone or device, but perhaps… “May I have some books to read?”
“Books—tsk.” Zayna stalked to the door and gave it a distinctive rap—apparently to signal Asim—as she looked at Leighton. “I will bring the Salat. That is all you need.” When the door opened, she stepped aside.
Asim entered with a food tray and dropped it noisily onto the small round table next to the list of names. His gaze struck her. He scowled. “Cover your head!”
Heart pounding, she ducked, looking for a covering.
Zayna tossed one at her, then left with the guard.
Nerves flailing, Leighton jerked at the loud clap of the door slamming.
Then flinched at the lock. And mercies, she hated it—hated being a prisoner.
Hated how every little thing sent her nerves into overdrive.
She dropped onto the chair and cried into the headscarf. How long, God? How long must I do this?
It was hard. So very hard. Yet…if it kept Ummi alive, so be it.