Assad remained still, standing in the shifting shadows of the tent, his gaze fixed on Nahia, asleep in the tangled sheets of their surrender.
The silence was broken only by the slow, fragile rhythm of her breathing. Her half-uncovered body rested in an almost deceptive calm. Her hair, spilled like an ink tide over the pillow, mapped out a delicate chart of who she was: wild, untamed, intensely beautiful.
He leaned in slowly, as if not to disturb the surreal balance of the scene. With a hesitant, almost timid gesture, he brushed a strand behind her ear, then gently touched the soft curve of her cheek.
He wanted her to sleep undisturbed.
To remain a little longer in this world they had created.
A world without promises. Without future. But intensely alive.
Maybe it was foolish. Maybe inappropriate. But he couldn't help it. He felt a primal, instinctive need to protect her. From what? He didn't know. From the world. From himself. From the vows he would never keep again.
He should have left. Fled the tent. Escaped this body, this screaming truth.
But he stayed. Frozen. Unable to look away.
Then an image forced its way into his mind.
Zeyneb.
The woman he was supposed to marry.
Beautiful. Noble. Perfect.
But not her.
And him?
He had just broken a promise.
One made on a fresh grave.
Samir. His brother. His mirror. His best friend.
He had sworn never to smile again.
Never to love.
Never to taste happiness as long as Samir, six feet under, would never have the chance.
And yet...
Here, now, with her...
He had failed.
Because he was happy.
Irrationally. Unforgivably happy.
A lump of guilt rose in his throat, acid, brutal. He clenched his teeth, but the words slipped out, broken:
— Forgive me, brother…
---
**Two days earlier…**
It had been two days since he left the palace. Officially for business.
In truth, to flee.
He couldn't take it anymore. Not the looks. Not the responsibilities. Not the charade with Zeyneb, the perfect future wife, carefully chosen by his family.
He had driven for hours, without a specific destination, to the edge of the desert. Where nothing mattered. Where no one would look for him.
And then there was the tent.
This lost refuge in the sands, relic of a painful past. A place that had seen him fall… then rise again.
That evening, he had simply gone out for air. He didn't want to think, or feel. Just breathe.
And when he returned…
When he lifted the tent flap…
She was there.
Nahia.
Sitting cross-legged, focused on a dish she had served. As if she were at home.
As if she wasn't the woman he had forbidden himself to love.
She looked up.
Their gazes locked mid-air. A note held too long. An invisible wave.
He froze.
So did she.
Then she stood abruptly, like a child caught doing wrong. Her face betrayed fear, embarrassment. She stepped back, confused…
And that's when everything shifted.
Her dress was soaked up to the waist. The fabric clung to her skin, revealing every curve, every shiver. She had likely just come from the nearby spring.
But he didn't care.
All he saw… was her.
Naked beneath the cloth. Unwittingly offered. A magnificent sacrilege.
He held his breath.
She tried to cover herself with her arms, to flee.
But she met his gaze.
And understood.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't judgment.
It was fire.
— Your H..., she began, trembling.
He stepped forward. Slowly. Without a word.
A silence. A hand on her cheek.
And everything exploded.
No title.
No heritage.
No fiancée.
No promise.
Just them, a night, a tent, and a storm.
---
Nahia stirred gently under the sheets, still heavy with sleep. A shiver ran through her. She opened her eyes slightly… and saw him.
Assad.
Sitting beside her, bare-chested, his gaze fixed on her.
He didn't move.
As if he were contemplating an ancient secret.
Embarrassed, she looked away, tried to turn.
But his hand held her, soft, firm.
— We've moved past that stage, he murmured.
She swallowed. Reflexively, she said:
— Your H...
But he placed a finger on her lips.
— No. Call me Assad.
She froze. That name, on her lips, suddenly felt too intimate, too real.
But she nodded slowly.
The silence between them wasn't empty.
It was a sanctuary.
Their breaths mingled. He reached out, brushed back another strand. His fingers traced from her cheek to her neck, down to her collarbone. He was rediscovering her like a territory he no longer dared conquer—but still loved.
She should have pushed him away. Reminded him they weren't free. That they weren't anything.
But the words stuck.
He leaned in. Their lips barely touched.
The kiss was a breath. Then a promise. Then a fall.
When he kissed her, she responded without restraint.
Less urgency than the night before.
More awareness. More truth.
He laid her down, eyes locked on hers.
His hands found her again.
His lips brushed her shoulder, her neck, the curve of her breast.
She arched beneath him, consumed.
Each kiss was a silent declaration.
Each caress, a confession.
And when they joined again, it was no longer a storm.
But a fire. Slow. Persistent.
The kind that never dies.
She whispered his name.
Assad.
And it may have been the most intimate thing she'd ever said.
---
When everything fell silent.
When the hearts slowed.
When the bodies calmed.
They stayed there. Entwined. Bound.
Silence ruled the tent again, broken only by the peaceful rhythm of their shared breathing.
Their bodies still naked, tangled in the humid warmth of night.
No words were needed.
Their eyes said it all.
But even those eyes eventually fled, replaced by thoughts too heavy to share.
Assad, lying on his back, stared at the dark canvas above them. His heart still pounding—but now from anxiety.
How could he live without her now?
How had he ever thought he could protect her from afar, without ever touching her?
He had tasted her.
That fierce tenderness.
That soft fire she carried inside.
And he knew he could never let go.
I can't live without her.
I don't want to live without her.
Beside him, Nahia, her back turned, throat tight, tried to imprint every sensation in her memory: Assad's scent, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his arm still on her waist.
In three days, she'd be gone.
Italy.
A different life.
She and her sister had decided to leave in silence.
No one at the palace knew.
Not even him.
And now?
It was too late to turn back.
What happened in this tent would stay here, forever.
It would be their secret.
Their night.
Our first… and surely our last, she thought, closing her eyes, tears at the edge of her lashes.
So I will live this moment fully.
To the very last second.
And in the thick silence of the tent, two hearts beat in unison—each carrying a goodbye the other didn't yet know.