A Gentleman's Game

36

Saudi Arabia-Tabuk Province, the Wadi-as-Sirhan 17 September 0507 Local (GMT+3.00) Nia's hair had been soft and thick and had flowed over Sinan's stomach and thighs like a whisper, and where her skin had touched his a warmth had blossomed so gently, so different from the jagged heat of the desert that he'd heard himself gasp with the pleasure of it. She had put fingers to his lips, closing his mouth, silently urging him to stay silent, and her lips had grazed his throat, and then he had felt the other heat of her, the grip of her as she mounted him. The rush came all at once, flooding out of him, and it was only then, feeling his seed cooling on his belly, that he realized he was dreaming and forced himself awake.

Matteen snored on his cot, visible in the wash of predawn light seeping into the tent. From outside, Sinan could hear the steps of the sentry as he passed.

He shivered, feeling cold and ashamed, then threw back his blanket. The earth was hard beneath his feet, still warm from the radiation of the day. He pulled off his shirt, then found his canteen and spilled water onto the sleeve. He used the wet cloth to wipe himself clean, then set about changing, wishing for the first time in months that he could shower. With the Prince there had been hot and cold running water, bathrooms with marble and gold, and he had hated it. In the camp, the only water was for drinking.

He would have done anything to be clean then.

Matteen coughed in his sleep, rustling, and Sinan grabbed his boots and his Kalashnikov, slipping out of the tent. The sentry who had passed him by was on his way back and stopped at the sight of him, and Sinan raised his hand in greeting. The sentry nodded and continued on his rounds.

Standing, Sinan pulled on his boots, then made his way from beneath the canopy of camouflage netting, out into the wider base of the wadi. The walls of the little canyon were shallow here, and he scrambled up the side, then settled himself on the ground, sitting with his rifle across his lap. To the east, the sky was beginning to glow with the sunrise, and the stars were already beginning to fade.

He hated himself for the dream, for the weakness it exposed. It wasn't real, of course, it hadn't been real, but that his head would indulge his body while he slept, tease him with a dream of what he could not have, made him angry. At Nia, first, for making him think these thoughts, feel these things, and then at Abdul Aziz, for bringing her to the camp in the first place. But these faded, because he saw them for what they were.

Excuses.

This was nobody's problem but his own.

He had never considered taking a bride, had never thought it would even be a possibility. What man would give his sister or daughter to him, in this place? Abdul Aziz was known to have three wives of his own, all living in Jeddah, and Matteen had spoken of a bride who now lived in Pakistan, but most of the men here were single, wed only to their cause and their war. For a soldier to take a wife would be a cruelty, for he could never be with her, never protect her and provide for her.

Sinan was sure he wasn't cruel, and he didn't want to be selfish.

Sunlight had begun to bleed over the horizon and Sinan sighed, getting to his feet. It was time for prayers and work, and nothing could get in the way of those things. Not sex, not loneliness, not love.

He slung his rifle and dropped back down into the wadi, resolved.

Nia was shahid. She would die a martyr and go to Paradise. He would honor her for that, respect her, even aid her.

But he would not, he told himself, fall in love with her.