“Simple,” said Marissa, smiling like she was delighted at being asked to explain her cold, crisp reasoning. “If you choose to keep Damascus and sacrifice Amir’s unborn child, the Sheikh will never forgive you. He will never even look at you again, let alone marry you!”
“Perhaps. But when he finds out it was you who forced me to drink that abortion-potion, do you think he’s going to put you back on his throne?” Lora countered, crossing her arms and sitting up straight on the uncomfortably firm hotel-room couch.
Marissa shrugged. “Not immediately. But eventually he might. He understands the logic behind joining our kingdoms, the way it would play in the press, what it would mean for both the perception and the economies of our kingdoms for generations to come. He agreed to take me back not because he loved me or because he forgave me, but because he is a king and he understands that sometimes a ruler must choose the good of his kingdom over his personal gratification.” She took a breath and nodded, crossing one long leg over a bony white knee and shrugging again. “And in the end, it has to be you who will make the choice to drink the potion. I will not force it down your throat. And so it will be your choice to kill Amir’s child instead of another man’s child, and whether or not Amir admits it, that will matter. Your choice will mean something. It will mean everything.”
Lora closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. She couldn’t believe Amir would ever take Marissa back under those circumstances, but what Marissa said about Amir being a king and making a decision for his kingdom and not himself made some sense. Perhaps it would play out that way. Certainly Lora couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t play out that way, yes? After all, Amir had taken Marissa back once. And if Lora chose to abort the Sheikh’s child, even under duress . . . who knew what he’d do!
“OK,” Lora said, opening her eyes and blinking. “What if I choose to . . . I mean, what if I choose . . . the other option,” she finally said through gritted teeth even as her eyes darted to the windows and door, hoping against hope that armed men were about to burst in and end this sick joke.
“You will not,” Marissa said confidently. “I am capable of killing Damascus for what I see as my destiny, my future, my responsibility to my kingdom. But you are not capable of giving up your first born, even in exchange for the man of your dreams.” She shook her head again, clearly pleased with herself. “I calculated that the odds are overwhelmingly in favor of you choosing to abort Amir’s child. You really have no other option, Lora. Correct me if I am wrong. Go on.”
Lora blinked, cocking her head slightly as a frown twisted her face. A chill ran through her as she studied Marissa’s expression, her pale skin, her soulless blue eyes, raven-dark hair. Who was this woman? She might be ruthless and cold, but she was also smart and perceptive, and even though Lora still believed Marissa didn’t really feel much emotion about anything, clearly she understood how emotions worked in others.
This woman might make a good queen, came the thought out of nowhere as Lora took slow breaths and tried to unravel the puzzle of Marissa as she felt the clock tick away in the background. Yes, she’d make a damned good queen. An awful wife, perhaps. A terrifying mother, certainly. A treacherous friend, no doubt. But one hell of a ruler if she was secure in her position.
Lora felt the wheels turn in her head as she went over what she knew about Marissa from the little the Sheikh had said about her and from what she’d read on the Internet and in magazines. And then she realized the answer lay in just that: How little Amir had said about her. The only emotion Amir ever acknowledged having was anger about her betrayal: the secret abortion. And Marissa had never acknowledged having any emotional attachment to Amir. She didn’t sound or act like a love-sick ex-fiancée looking for a second chance. She didn’t care if Amir took her back a year from now, so long as he did it. Marissa never wanted Amir for anything but a throne—not three years ago and not now. But now things were different in Monestonia, weren’t they? From what Lora had read, Marissa had a real chance at ascending to the throne, whereas three years ago there were two cousins squarely in line to ascend before her!
And then it hit Lora, and she saw the flaw in the Princess’s plan, the chink in Marissa’s armor, the blind spot: Marissa couldn’t imagine getting that throne on her own. She’d never imagined sitting on a throne alone as queen and supreme ruler! Oh, God, in a way Marissa was trapped by the little girl’s dream of a prince and a castle and a happily-ever-after too—except Marissa’s dream was about the castle and the kingdom. The prince was only incidental.
“Did you ever consider what it would be like to be Queen of Monestonia alone? Without a king by your side? Just you in full control of your kingdom?” Lora said, blinking as she prayed she was playing this right.
Marissa frowned, her head cocking to one side, her eyes looking up and to the left. She froze in that position for what seemed like a long time, and Lora was reminded of a scene from some movie where a robot’s brain gets scrambled because something just does not compute.
“What do you mean?” Marissa said, still frowning.
“I mean, you clearly have no interest in being a mother. I don’t think you’re particularly interested in being a wife. The only thing you seem to care about is becoming queen—and you’re prepared to do anything for it, including kidnapping, blackmail, and murder! You’re also willing to marry a man you don’t love. But listen, what if there was another way! What if you didn’t need to marry Amir to become Queen of Monestonia!”
Marissa shook her head, the blue lights flicking back on in her eyes. “Well, I don’t know any other kings,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s why I came back to Amir after three years. He was my best option. I don’t know any other kings, and a queen needs a king. I can’t expect my aunt and uncle to make me queen if I marry a nobody!”
The moment she said it Lora knew she was on the right path. She could short-circuit this Barbie-doll psycho’s robotic brain by breaking her out of that fairytale fantasy that all little girls grow up with—even psychotic little girls.
“But what about just marrying . . . nobody?” Lora whispered, leaning forward and looking into Marissa’s eyes as deeply as she dared. “Think about what’s going on in the world today with the Women’s Rights movements! You’re so conscious of how things would play out in the press, aren’t you? So you think it through and tell me, Marissa: How would it play out for a smart, gorgeous, articulate, and photogenic European Princess to take over as Queen. Just Queen. A Queen without a king. Supreme ruler. All powerful. A woman on her own. How would that play in the press? How would it play out if you started talking about it right now in interviews with the New York Times and CNN, Marissa? Do you think your aunt and uncle might pay attention? Do you think that might sway them just as much as marrying Amir might? And you could achieve that without having to threaten or kill anyone! How does that compute? How do those probabilities add up? Tell me, Marissa. Go on, tell me! Speak now, or forever hold your tongue!”
30
“You told her that?” the Sheikh said quietly, his green eyes narrowed as he clenched his fists and stared at Lora. Mostly she’d seen rage in his eyes, pure anger at what Marissa had done, what the woman had come so close to doing. But now she saw a hint of something else: admiration, it felt like. “You told her she would make a great queen? Ya Allah, I do not know how you talked your way through it so she would believe you, but I thank the angels you found the strength and conviction to do it.” He paused, looking her up and down, glancing at Damascus perched on a high-chair beside them at the breakfast table in the private courtyard just outside the Eastern Wing of Johaar’s Royal Palace, with the sun rising in front of them as if to remind them a new day was here. A new era. Old lives transformed. New life on the way. “Though I am not surprised. Clearly it is you who is going to be a great queen, Lora. A Sheikha for the ages.” He paused again, clenching those heavy fists as he stared at the silver cup full of thick Arabian
coffee. “But Marissa . . . ya Allah, I cannot let this pass. She will pay for taking you and my son.”
Lora frowned as she touched her belly, which was beginning to show in a way it hadn’t when she was pregnant with Damascus. They hadn’t found out whether it was going to be a boy or a girl yet, and at first she assumed Amir was hoping for a boy—which was why he said what he said about Marissa taking his “son.” But then she realized he was talking about Damascus, and her heart leaped when she saw the genuine emotion in the Sheikh’s eyes. Yes, the emotion was mostly anger right now, but it was still genuine. A real, true protective instinct, primal and raw. For his woman and child. But the emotion was elevated and refined, broadened to include his adopted son. There was no doubt that Damascus was now the Sheikh’s true son, that they were truly a new family.
But Lora blinked away her joy and shook her head, focusing on the topic at hand. “No,” she said. “I gave her my word, Amir. She walks away, and we walk away. There will be no ‘making her pay’—whatever the hell that means.”
“We shall see,” muttered the Sheikh, staring at his coffee and shaking his head.
“Sorry. We are going to keep my promise to her, Amir. There is no argument. Besides, although I was negotiating for my children’s lives and our future together, I can’t help but think the reason I was so convincing is because I actually had a point.”
Amir snorted, finally picking up the silver cup of coffee and taking a sip. “That Marissa will make a great queen? Of some alien race of genocidal maniacs, perhaps.”
Lora laughed and shook her head, sipping the herbal tea she’d been drinking ever since she got pregnant with Amir’s child. “Perhaps. Yes, she’s a bit lacking in basic human empathy, but she makes up for it with the way she can dispassionately think through a situation and make the optimal decision. If she was truly a psychotic loose cannon, she might have had both Damascus and myself killed, you know. Just for spite or anger or jealousy or whatever. But there was none of that, and when I presented her with a scenario that made more sense than the one she’d thought of, she went with it. She was able to put aside her ego and choose the better solution, no matter who presented it. That’s one of the qualities that marks a great leader, you know. So who knows . . . Queen Marissa might someday be on the cover of Time, Newsweek, and Vogue—all in the same month!”
Amir finally cracked a smile. “She would like that. Her dream come true—so long as they photograph her good side.”
Lora laughed, reaching across the smooth black marble tabletop and touching the Sheikh’s hand. They were to be married in a week, her children were safe, and the sun was rising in the East like it had for a million years. Things couldn’t be better. But something still felt unsettled for Lora. Something Marissa had said which had triggered some of those old doubts—doubts about both herself and Amir. Not about their love for each other, but about something perhaps bigger than just that.
“Amir,” she said as a soft, warm breeze flowed over the strange little Arabian family sitting alone at a black marble table, fountains of blue sandstone surrounding them, golden sand dunes rising high against the horizon beyond the domes and minarets of an Eastern city that was just waking up. “Why did you ever agree to marry Marissa?”
“Which time?” he said, rolling his eyes and looking away, clearly trying to avoid the question. “Please, Lora. You cannot be jealous of her. You looked into her eyes, did you not. You know she never was, and never will be, a threat to you.”
“That’s not my question,” Lora said, shaking her head. “This isn’t about jealousy or asking you to tell me you love me. This is about what Marissa said about how a king and queen must sometimes make decisions that put their kingdoms ahead of their own feelings and private desires. In the end, that’s what she did when she let me and Damascus walk out of there unharmed—regardless of what I think about her capacity for normal human emotion.” She paused and took a breath. “And it’s that same sense of responsibility to your people and their future that made you agree to take her back, isn’t it?”
The Sheikh rubbed his stubble as he put his coffee down. He glanced towards the rising sun, squinting and then looking down and nodding. “Yes. So what?”
“So . . . we’re getting married in a week, Amir. In many ways we’ve known each for almost four years now. I feel the love between us—and God, I feel the passion. I’m pregnant with your child, and it’s clear you’ve found it in yourself to accept Damascus as your own. There’s no doubt in my mind that as man and woman we’re solid, a perfect match—and I know you feel that way too.” She swallowed hard, not sure if she could bring herself to ask what she knew she must: “But you aren’t just a regular guy, Amir. You’re a king, and I need to ask: Are you comfortable this is the right thing for your kingdom?”
The Sheikh’s eyes widened as he straightened in his chair. “Is that a serious question? After almost four years of denying ourselves each other, when you are pregnant with my child, when we are days away from our wedding, you ask me this question?”
“That’s exactly why I’m asking you this question, Amir!” Lora said as a flurry of annoying emotions threatened to rise up and set her aflame like the sun that was starting to get blazing hot as it continued its rise above the golden horizon. She glanced out over the city of Johaar, and that feeling she had from years ago, a strange feeling of . . . of . . . responsibility, duty, obligation came rushing back in. She frowned as she tried to gather her thoughts and articulate what she felt, and finally she turned back to the Sheikh and spoke softly. “I’m a commoner librarian pregnant with your illegitimate child, Amir. I know we have a connection that started with that first kiss—God, I know we have a connection that is so real, so true. But you’re a king, with a duty to your people and their future. If I’m going to be a distraction . . . if I’m going to get in the way of ruling your kingdom . . .”
“You are not going to be a distraction but an attraction,” Amir said with a smile. “And from seeing how you handled yourself with Marissa, the way you’re handling yourself now . . . Ya Allah, rather than getting in the way of my kingdom’s future, you will be the way. You will be the future! Now stop with the nonsense and let us finish our breakfast before the sun rises any farther and you slather on that damned sunscreen.”
Lora raised an eyebrow as she finished her tea. “You have a problem with me using sunscreen?”
“Yes,” said the Sheikh, raising an eyebrow himself as he drained his coffee and carelessly tossed the heavy silver cup back onto the marble tabletop. “I do not like how it tastes on your skin.”
Lora turned bright red, and not because of the sun. “Are you going to be having me for breakfast then, Your Highness?” she whispered, crossing her legs and blinking as she glanced down at the blue silk gown she was wearing. She could feel herself tighten in her black panties, and she glanced up at one of the attendants, a veiled woman who was slated to be Damascus’s nanny.
The attendant swiftly took Damascus back to the Palace without making eye contact, and by then Lora was blushing a deep crimson as she felt her wetness flow between her legs, a damp spot already forming at the base of her bottom where she sat.
“Not here,” she whispered. “Someone might see.”
“Good,” said the Sheikh, standing up and almost knocking the heavy table over with his obscenely hard peak. “Then they will know who their Queen and Sheikha is. Now get on the table.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” growled the Sheikh, and with a sweep of his strong arm he knocked everything off the table: plates, cups, glasses, knives, teapots . . . everything went clattering and crashing onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. “Get. On. The. Damned. Table. Now!”
Slowly she obeyed, clambering onto the heavy round table, gasping as she felt the cool black marble under her palms and bare feet. She sat on her bottom, gasping again when the Sheikh pushed her onto her back
and pushed her gown up over her hips, pulling her panties down past her ankles and tossing them over his shoulder while staring in awe at the sight of her dark triangle, its brown curls tinged with the gold of the sun’s pure morning rays.
“My queen,” he muttered as he grabbed her ankles and spread her legs, sitting himself down and kissing the insides of her creamy white thighs until she shuddered and arched her back. “You taste sweet like honey. I cannot have enough. Come here, my queen.”
He pulled her along the smooth tabletop, and the cool black marble felt so erotic against her naked buttocks that she shamelessly spread her legs as far wide as she could, reaching out her arms and clutching the sides of the table as the Sheikh buried his face in her crotch. Amir began to lick her slit lengthwise until she could feel her wetness drip down along her crack and onto the table, and she pushed her mound up into his face and moaned without caring who would hear. She smiled as she did it, and as the Sheikh drove his tongue into her, Lora wondered if that last unsettled feeling was all about her and not the Sheikh. After all, she was three different people in one, wasn’t she: A wife, a mother, and a queen. She already knew she was a good mother and would always be a good mother. She knew she’d be a good wife to him. But a queen . . . perhaps she needed some reassurance that she had a chance at being a good queen, and in a strange way that encounter with Marissa had opened up that side of her. She’d taken care of that situation herself, hadn’t she? And she’d gained insight into what it took to be a great leader.
Privilege for the Sheikh Page 15