Ruqayyah looked into those eyes, her expression unreadable. “This… is only a pretense, is it not?”
“Silence. This concerns religion. Do not speak so lightly.” Al-Mu’tasim’s voice returned to its rigid cadence. He turned, seized her hand, and led her away without releasing his grip.
Ruqayyah stared at their joined hands. Wonderful. Now I am being dragged about like a sack of grain, she thought dryly.
[Ding! Emergency mission completed!!
New Host Identity: Secret Wife of the Abbasid Prince
Affinity Level: +15
Status: More than mere ‘Scripture’
Reward: Topical ointment for temple wound]
[Host. From this moment forward, any physical contact with a non-mahram outside the necessity of protection will trigger a penalty: lifespan reduced by one week per ten minutes.]
Ruqayyah stiffened. Instinctively, she tried to pull her hand away.
The System chimed in at once.
“Heh… Thou and the Prince art lawful to one another now. There is no cause for alarm.”
“…”
“Would you hold your tongue?” she muttered, irritation sharpening her tone.
Al-Mu’tasim led her to a secluded lodging hidden behind thick clusters of date palms.
They entered without ceremony. The heavy teak door shut with a muted thud. Only then did he release her hand. He turned to face her.
“Hear me well, Daughter of al-Fadl,” he said, his voice low. “What transpired in the granary… must remain concealed.”
“For if those who bear hatred toward thy father learn that we are wed, they shall not hesitate to stir rebellion. Therefore—to thy father and to all others—thou remainest an unmarried maid.”
Ruqayyah rubbed her reddened wrist, her composure cool as ever.
“Think you I delighted in vows spoken amidst heaps of wheat and choking dust?” she replied, summoning what courage she could salvage.
Al-Mu’tasim gave a short, contemptuous breath as he removed his thick leather armor, revealing a dark linen tunic that clung to his solid frame. He stepped closer; his shadow seemed to swallow her smaller figure.
“Now,” he said, extending his hand, “the papyrus.”
She surrendered the worn scroll bearing their signatures. He took it but did not open it. Instead, he studied her.
“If thou shouldst reveal aught of that contract to any soul—even to thy father—I swear by the sky of Baghdad, thou shalt call ruin upon thyself.”
She clicked her tongue, wanting to retort, yet words failed her.
The System stirred again.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
[Host. Threat detected. The Prince places no trust in you.]
Ruqayyah stepped back, keeping distance from the man who was now, by sacred law, her husband.
“I understand, my lord,” she said evenly. “Yet I would lay one condition.”
His brow arched, disbelief plain upon his face.
“Thou art not in a station to bargain, little maid.”
“My request is simple.” She straightened her spine, imitating the dignity of a true noblewoman. “Permit me to aid thee in reading difficult documents. And in return, thou shalt cease threatening me as though I were thy enemy.”
“Dost thou imagine that such words would make me fear thee? Mark me well—we are allies now.”
He fell silent, eyes narrowing as though weighing her worth. Then a thin, cold smile curved his lips.
“Allies?” he echoed. “Very well. But heed this—see that thou dost not play me false when thou readest those papers.”
He threatens me yet again, she thought.
He took a cushion and set it aside, like a child marking the boundary of some imagined territory.
“There is but one bed,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was flat, yet it sent a chill along her spine.
Ruqayyah swallowed and glanced at the carved teak bed draped in deep crimson silk.
“And… who shall claim it?”
He did not answer. Instead, he approached her slowly. She retreated until her back met the cold stone wall. He stopped close enough that she felt the warmth of his body and the faint scent of leather and steel.
She shut her eyes briefly. “By God… such closeness is vexing,” she murmured.
He raised a hand. For an instant she thought he meant to touch her face. Instead, he tugged at the edge of his cloak still wrapped around her shoulders.
“Return my cloak,” he said curtly. “Thy face is pale. Take the bed. I shall keep watch from the chair.”
She blinked in surprise and handed the wool garment back.
“Thou wilt not sleep?”
“I sleep not soundly when a stranger abides within my chamber.”
He turned away and seated himself facing the door.
Ruqayyah climbed onto the bed cautiously. The silk felt cool against her skin—so unlike the thin mattress of her boarding school dormitory. She lay down but kept her eyes open, watching his rigid silhouette in the dark.
“Amir?” she whispered.
“Hm?”
“My thanks… for saving me.”
He did not turn. Only his shoulders stiffened.
“Spare thy gratitude. Sleep.”
She closed her eyes. This first night bore none of the romance Bela once described. It was woven of suspicion and veiled threats.
Pain throbbed at her temple and along her arms. She remembered the ointment granted by the System, now resting beside her.
Carefully, she uncapped the small tube. The scent of herbs rose faintly. May this suffice, she thought as she applied it to her wounds. Warmth and coolness alternated across her skin.
“Ah—” she hissed softly when it touched a raw spot.
Al-Mu’tasim turned at the sound. After a moment’s hesitation, he stood.
“Let me see thy wound,” he said, his tone unfamiliar—still restrained, yet touched with something human.
She startled. Her heart quickened—certainly not from fondness.
“It is nothing. I have tended it myself.”
He ignored the protest and eyed the ointment. “Whence came this? I have not seen its like.”
She faltered. The medicine belonged to another century.
“I… prepared it,” she said at last. Forgive me, Allah, for the lie.
He raised a brow, plainly unconvinced. “Thou didst fashion it thyself?” A low chuckle escaped him.
“Yes,” she replied flatly.
“Hmph.” He stepped nearer, gaze falling to the reddened wound at her temple. “Then thy remedy is slow in its working.”
“I applied it but now.”
He lifted his hand, pausing in the air as though granting her the choice to refuse. “Be still.”
After a brief hesitation, she handed him the tube.
He took a small measure upon his finger and applied it to her temple. His touch was firmer than she expected.
She winced. “Gently, if it please thee.”
“Move not,” he murmured. “Else I cannot see the wound aright.”
His tone remained even, yet his eyes were intent.
She had never stood so near to a man. Her heartbeat felt unruly.
“Enough. Stand back—I am weary beyond measure,” she said abruptly.
He gave a soft scoff.
“Truly, thou knowest not gratitude.”
Then he turned and left the chamber, the door closing behind him, leaving her alone with the quiet pulse of the night.
