by Maisey Yates
“I suppose they will simply be happy to have you in my monarchy, rather than establishing a new one there. I suspect it will keep you much safer than a prison cell might. If you are engaged to marry me, your intentions are clear. If you are in jail…who knows what your ultimate plans might have been? To overthrow me and take command of both countries?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, her voice deceptively soft. “At best, I’m a lone woman. Just a weak, small ex-royal, who is nothing due to her gender and her gentle upbringing. At worst…well, I’m a ghost. Everyone believes me dead.”
“I am holding a knife that says you’re far more than that.”
“But no one will believe otherwise.”
“Perhaps not. But it is a risk.”
“What do you have to gain?” she asked.
It was a good question. And the main answer was balm for his guilt, and he had no idea where that answer had come from. The past was the past. And yes, he had regretted her death—a child—when he’d thought she’d been killed. But it had not been at his hand. He would have protected her.
He would protect her now. And in the process, himself, and hopefully aid the healing of a nation too long under a shadow.
“Healing,” he said. “What I want is to heal the wounds. Not tear them open again. I will not have more blood running through this palace. I will not have more death. Not even yours,” he said, a vow in many ways.
Sheikha Samarah Al-Azem was a part of a past long gone. Tainted with blood and pain. And he wanted to change something about it. He wanted more than to simply cover it, and here she presented the opportunity to fix some of it.
Because it had not been her fault. It had been his. The truth of it, no matter how much he wanted to deny it, was that it was all his fault.
It was logic. It was not emotion, but a burning sense of honor and duty that compelled it. He didn’t believe in emotion. Only right and wrong. Only justice.
“What’s it to be, Samarah?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Prison,” she said.
Anger fired through him, stark and hot. Was she a fool? He was offering her a chance to fix some of this, a chance at freedom. And she was opting for jail.
She was not allowing him to make this right. And he found he didn’t like it.
“So be it,” he growled, throwing the knife to the side and stalking to the bed, throwing her over his shoulder in one fluid moment.
She shrieked. Then twisted, hissed and spit like a cat. He locked his arms over hers, and her legs, but she still did her best to kick his chest.
“I think, perhaps, habibti, a night in the dungeon will cool your temper.”
He stalked to the far wall of his room and moved a painting, then keyed in a code. The bookshelf swung open. “We’ve modernized a bit here in Khadra, as you can see,” he bit out, walking through the open doorway and into a narrow passageway. “Though these tunnels are quite new.”
“Get your hands off of me!”
“And give you a chance to cut my throat? I highly doubt it. You were given another option and you chose not to take it. No one will hear you scream, by the way. But even if they did…I am the sheikh. And you are an intruder.”
He knew every passage that ran through the palace. Knew every secret. A boy up to no good would have to know them, of course, and a sheikh with a well-earned bit of paranoia would, naturally, ensure the passages were always kept up. That he knew the layout of the castle better than anyone, so that the upper hand would always be his in the event of an attack.
He had lived through one, and he was the only member of his family who had. He felt he had earned his feelings on the matter.
In any case, he was well versed on where every dark, nondescript tunnel in the palace led. And he knew how to get down to the dungeon. It wasn’t used. Hadn’t been in ages, generations. But he would be using it tonight.
Because if he left her free, she would no doubt kill him in his sleep. And that he could not have. Either she formed an alliance with him, or he put her under lock and key. It was very simple. Black-and-white, as the world, when all was in working order, should be.
“I will kill you the moment I get the chance!” she spat, kicking against his chest.
“I know,” he said. “I am confident in that fact.”
He shifted his hold on her, his hand skimming the rounded curve of her bottom as he tried to get a better grip on her. The contact shot through him like lightning. This was the closest he’d been to a woman in…much too long. He wouldn’t count how long.
You know just how long. And if you marry her…
He shut off the thought. He was not a slave to his body. He was not a slave to desire. He was a slave to nothing. He was ice. All the way down.
He took them both down a flight of stone steps that led beneath the palace, and down into the dungeon. Unused and medieval, but still in working order.
“Let me go.”
“You just threatened to kill me. I strongly doubt I’m letting you go anytime soon.”
He grabbed a key ring from the hooks on the back wall, then kicked the wrought iron door to the nearest cell open. Then he reached down and picked up a leg iron and clamped it around her ankle.
She swore, a violent, loud string of profanity that echoed off the walls.
He ignored her, slung her down onto the bench and moved quickly away from her range of movement before shutting the door behind him.
“You bastard!” she said.
He wrapped his fingers around the bars, his knuckles aching from the tight grip. “No, I am pure royal blood, Sheikha, and you of all people should know it.”
“Is the leg shackle necessary?”
“I didn’t especially want to find myself overpowered and put in the cell myself.”
She closed her mouth, a dark brow raised, her lips pursed. A haughty, mutinous expression that did indeed remind him of Samarah the child.
“You do not deny you would have.” He walked to the side of the cell so that he could stand nearer to her. “Do you?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“Come to the bars and I will undo the leg shackle. It is unnecessary now that you’re secured.”
“Do you think so?” she asked.
He stared at her, at those glittering eyes, black as midnight in the dim lighting of the dungeon. “Perhaps I do not now. You truly need to work on your self-preservation. I would have made you more comfortable.”
Her lip curled, baring her white teeth, a little growl rumbling in her chest. “I will never be comfortable in your prison.”
“Suit yourself. Prison is in your future, but you may choose the cell. A room in the palace, a position as sheikha, or you may rot in here. It is no concern of mine. But you will decide by sunset tomorrow.”
“Sunset? What is this, some bad version of Arabian Nights?”
“You’re the one who turned back the clock. Pursuing vengeance in order to end my bloodline. Don’t get angry with me for playing along.” He turned away from her, heading back out of the dungeon. “If you want to do it like this, we will. If you want to play with antiquated rules, I am all for that. But I intend for it to go my way. I intend to make you my wife, and I doubt, in the end, you will refuse.”
CHAPTER THREE
FERRAN PACED THE length of his room. He hated himself in this moment, with Samarah behind the secret passage doors, down in the dungeon.
She did not deserve such treatment. At least, the little girl he’d known had not.
Of course, if they were all paying for the sins of their fathers, she deserved the dungeon and then some. But he didn’t believe in that. Every man paved his own road to hell. And he’d secured his sixteen years ago.
And if he hadn’t then, surely no
w he had.
Marriage. He had no idea what he’d been thinking. On a personal level, anyway. On a political level he’d been thinking quite clearly.
But Samarah Al-Azem, in his life, in his bed, was the last thing he’d been looking for. In part because he’d thought she was dead.
Though he needed a wife, and he knew it. He was long past due. And yet…and yet he’d never even started his search. Because he was too busy. Because he had no time to focus on such matters.
Much easier to marry Samarah. Heal the rift between the countries, ensure she was cared for. His pound of flesh. Because it wasn’t as though he wanted this for himself.
But then, it was better that way. He didn’t allow himself to want.
This was about atonement. About making things right.
Want didn’t come into it. For Ferran, it never had. And it never would.
* * *
Samarah woke up. She had no idea what time it was. There was no natural light in the dungeon. If there had been a torch on the wall, she wouldn’t have been terribly surprised.
But then, that might have been a kindness too many. Not that Ferran owed her a kindness at this point.
Not all things considered.
But she hadn’t been looking to repair bridges. She’d been looking to finish it all.
You can’t finish it from in here…
“No,” she said out loud. “Fair enough.”
But the alternative was to agree to marry him. Or to give the appearance of an alliance.
Anger, revulsion, burned in her blood.
She could not ally herself with him. But…
But every predator knew that in order to catch prey successfully, there was a certain amount of lying in wait involved.
She squeezed her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms, the manacle heavy on her ankle. Diplomacy was, perhaps not her strongest point. But she knew about lying in wait. As she’d done in his room last night.
This would be an extended version of that. She would have to make him trust her. She would have to play along. And then…then she could have her revenge before the world if she chose.
The idea had appeal. Though, putting herself in proximity with Ferran, pretending to be his fiancée, did not.
She lay back down on the bench, one knee curled into her chest, the chained leg held out straight. She closed her eyes again, and when she opened them, it was to the sound of a door swinging open.
“Have you made up your mind?”
She knew who the voice belonged to. She didn’t even have to look.
She sat up, trying to shake out the chill that had settled into her bones. She looked at Ferran’s outline in the darkness. “I will marry you,” she said.
* * *
The room Ferran showed her to after her acceptance was a far cry from the dungeon. But Samarah was very aware of the fact that it was only a sparkling version of a cell. A fact Ferran underlined as he left her.
“You will not escape,” he said. “There are guards around the perimeter. And there will be no border crossing possible for you as my patrol will be put on alert. You will be trapped in the country should you decide to try and leave, and from there, I will find you. And you will have lost your reprieve.”
He was foolish for worrying, though. She had nothing to go back to. No one waiting for her. And she had arrived at her goal point. Why would she go back to Jahar with nothing accomplished?
It was true that Jahar was not as dangerous for her as it had once been. In the past five years there had been something of an uneasy transition from a totalitarian rule established by the revolutionaries, who had truly only wanted power for themselves, into a democracy. Though it was a young democracy, and as such, there were still many lingering issues.
Still, the deposition of the other leaders had meant that she no longer had a target on her back, at least. But she had no place, either.
That meant she was perfectly happy to stay here, right in Ferran’s home, while she thought of her next move.
Well, perhaps perfectly happy was an overstatement, but it was better than being back in an old room in a shop in Jahar.
She looked around, a strange tightness in her chest. This was so very familiar, this room. She wondered if it was, perhaps, the same room she’d sometimes stayed in when she and her family had come to visit the Bashar family. In happier times. Times that hardly seemed to matter, given how it had all ended.
Lush fabrics were draped over marble walls, the glittering red and jade silks offering a peek at the obsidian and gold beneath. Richness layered over unfathomable richness. The bed was the same. Draped yards of fabric in bold colors, the frame constructed around the bed decorated with yet more.
Divans, pillows, rugs, all of it served to add softness to a room constructed from stone and precious gems.
And the view—a tall, tower room that looked beyond the walls of the palace gardens, beyond the walls of the city and out to the vast dunes. An orange sun casting burning gold onto the sands.
There was a knock on the grand, carved double doors and she turned. “Yes?”
One door opened and a small woman came in. Samarah knew her as Lydia, another woman who worked in the palace, and with whom Samarah had had some interaction over the course of the past month.
“Sheikha,” Lydia said, bowing her head.
So it had begun. Samarah couldn’t deny the small flash of…pleasure that arched through her when the other woman said her title. Though it had been more years gone than she’d been with it, it was a title that was in her blood.
Still, she was a bit disturbed by the idea of Lydia knowing any details of what had passed between Ferran and herself. More disturbing though was just what she’d been led to believe about their relationship.
The idea of being Ferran’s wife…his lover…it was revolting.
She thought of the man he was. Strong, powerful. Broad shoulders, lean waist. Sharp dark eyes, a square jaw. He was clean shaven, unusual for a man in his part of the world, but she couldn’t blame him. For he no doubt used his looks to his advantage in all things.
He was extraordinarily handsome, which was not a point in his favor as far as she was concerned. It was merely an observation about her enemy.
Beauty meant little. Beauty was often deceitful.
She knew that she was considered a great beauty, like her mother before her. And men often took that to mean she was soft, easy to manipulate, easy to take advantage of. As a result some men had found themselves with a sword trained at vulnerable parts of their body.
Yes, she knew beauty could be used to hide strength and cunning. She suspected Ferran knew that, as well.
She had spent the past month observing his physical strength, but she feared she may have underestimated the brilliance of her adversary.
“I have brought you clothes,” Lydia said, “at the sheikh’s instruction. And he says that you are to join him for dinner when the sun sinks below the dunes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did he really say it like that?”
“He did, my lady.”
“Do you not find it odd?”
A small smile tugged at Lydia’s lips. “I am not at liberty to say.”
“I see,” Samarah said, pacing the width of the room. The beautifully appointed room that, like Ferran and herself, was merely using its beauty to cover what it really was.
A cage. For a tigress.
“And what,” Samarah continued, “did he say about me and my change in station?”
“Not much, my lady. He simply said we were to address you as sheikha and install you in this wing of the palace. And that you are not to leave.”
“Ah yes, that sounds about right.” She was relieved, in many ways, that he hadn’t divulged many detai
ls. “So I am to dress for him and appear at this magical twilit hour?”
“I shall draw you a bath first.”
Samarah looked down at herself and put a hand to her cheek, her thumb drifting over the small cut inflicted by her own knife. She imagined she was a bit worse for wear after having spent the night in a dungeon. So a bath was likely in order.
“Thank you. I shall look forward to it.”
Minutes later, Samarah was submerged to her chin in a sunken mosaic tub filled with hot water and essential oils. It stretched the length of the bath chamber, larger than many swimming pools. There were pillars interspersed throughout, and carvings of naked women and men, lounging and tangled together.
She looked away from the scenes. She’d never been comfortable with such things. Not after the way her family had dissolved. Not when she’d spent so many years guarding her body from men who sought to use her.
And certainly not when she was in the captivity of her enemy. An enemy who intended to marry her and…beget his heirs on her. In that naked, entwined fashion. It was far too much to bear.
She leaned her head back against the pillow that had been provided for her and closed her eyes. This was, indeed, preferable to the dungeon. Furthermore, it was preferable to every living situation she’d had since leaving her family’s palace.
And of course he’d planned it that way. Of course he would know how to appeal to certain weaknesses.
She couldn’t forget what he was.
When she was finished, she got out and wrapped herself in a plush robe, wandering back into her room.
“My lady,” Lydia said. “I would have helped you.”
“I don’t need help, Lydia. In fact, and this is no offense meant to you, I would like some time alone before I go and see the sheikh.”
Lydia blinked. “Of course, Sheikha.” Samarah could tell Lydia was trying to decide whom she should obey.
Ultimately, the other woman inclined her head and walked out of the chamber.
Samarah felt slightly guilty dismissing her, but honestly, the idea of being dressed seemed ridiculous. Palatial surroundings or not. She picked up the dark blue dress that had been laid out on her bed. It was a heavy fabric, with a runner of silver beads down the front, and a scattering of them across. Stars in a night sky. Along with that were some silken under things. A light bra with little padding, and, she imagined, little support, and a pair of panties to match.