by Ana Adams
Rawnie stared into her soup like she’d seen a ghost. “Okay.”
“If Anwar Jr is my biological son, which we know he is…then he must be formally added to the lineage. It’s the law of my country. And the only way to legitimize this union, and our son, is if we marry. As soon as possible.”
Her expression turned neutral. He squeezed her hand softly, hoping this might prompt a response.
“I know this is hardly ideal. Ever since you showed up, my world has made a complete one-eighty. I can barely believe it sometimes. But this is how it is. My biological son must join the lineage.” He swallowed hard, prickles of sweat emerging at his collar. “And so must you.”
Rawnie’s gaze didn’t move from the soup. “And what if I say no?”
Fear surged through him. This performing, wandering artist couldn’t be contained. He was crazy to think she’d ever agree to it. “If you say no…then I think we should decide that immediately so that other measures can be taken.”
“Like what measures?”
“I’d have to destroy the test results. I would not be able to acknowledge the boy. You’d have no connection or welcome here.”
Rawnie’s brow knitted—the first sign of a response. “So it’s marriage or nothing, huh?”
Anwar stirred his soup listlessly. He didn’t like it any more than she did. “When you put it like that it sounds quite stark.”
“Can I think about it, at least?”
“I suppose.” He scooped up a spoonful of soup, blowing on it. “But I should know by tomorrow this time.”
She sighed. “Fine. I guess that’s how arranged marriages work, huh? Time sensitive business deals.”
He hefted with a curt laugh. “Welcome to the royal world.”
She watched him carefully, eyes shining dark and mysterious. “So if I married you, what would my obligations be?”
His eyes drifted to the far wall of the dining room, where a portrait of his parents on their wedding day hung, gilded frame and all. He knew so little of his mother and her role in the palace, except what he was told. “You would appear at all the royal functions; you would raise our son at my side; you would work with the organizations and nonprofits of your choosing; you would provide counsel and support to staff and family.” He paused, a strange thrum appearing in his chest. “And you would be my wife, in whatever capacity you might choose.”
“Whatever capacity?”
“I’m trying not to be unrealistic. If we marry, it can be whatever arrangement we like best. I’m not interested in being unhappy for forty years, as I’m sure you aren’t either.” He’d offered it as an attractive benefit—let her take the reins and decide what their dynamic might be. Her not being attracted to him was a possibility. He couldn’t promise to keep himself off her if she chose a platonic route, but he’d have to make do with her choice, whatever it was. But please, God, let her still want me as much as I want her.
She took a delicate sip of soup. “I’m not interested in being unhappy ever.”
He squinted at her. “Is that possible?”
She shrugged. “I’ve lived a strange life, Anwar. I’m sure you have, too. But what I’ve come away with is that there’s no time to waste. I won’t be miserable in this life. I might be unhappy at times, as is normal. But what I’ve learned from my family throwing me out is that I must go where the happiness is. Where the life is.”
“And where is that?”
“Wherever my son is.” She smoothed her napkin, face scrunching in thought. “He’s the only family I have now. That’s the priority.”
Anwar took a few more sips of his soup. “So if he’s obligated to stay…you’d stay with him.”
“You said I have until tomorrow?” She leveled him with her gaze.
“Right. Of course.” He offered a small smile. “Our lives have changed a lot in the last few days, haven’t they?”
“My life changed over a year ago.”
Her words struck him like a spear. “Right.” He paused, spoon halfway to mouth, the weight of what she must have lived through striking him over the head. His cheeks heated up.
“I know this has been a huge shock for you, too.” She reached out to caress his hand. He watched the smooth movement of her fingers overtop his knuckles, the memory of those hands caressing his cock searing through him. He blinked a few times, vison growing cloudy.
“But you’re right.” He cleared his throat, retracting his hand before it did something unauthorized. “So think about the proposal. All of the aspects.” He glanced at her, confusion piling around him. Never, not once in his life, had he faced a woman he couldn’t convince or buy.
Rawnie was the first woman in his life who made him sit up and wonder. Even with their son in the mix, he couldn’t guess what she’d choose. He didn’t hold power over her with sex or fame—maybe at their first meeting, yes, but those powers had long since shriveled. And since money and authority weren’t magnets to her like they were to other women…then what did he have left?
The genetic link to their shared son was his only gambling chip.
Would that be enough to convince her to marry him? Against everything he thought he knew about himself, he hoped she would agree to it. Because if he was honest with himself, the idea of Rawnie as his son’s mother didn’t inspire fear or dread like he’d always expected.
Something about her promised a real shot at happiness in life. If only she’d say yes.
***
Rawnie hung from the silks off her balcony in a makeshift hammock, sighing as she watched the tiny dots of stars in the inky sky. Her breath came out in white puffs in the crisp night air; Anwar Jr. had fallen asleep a half hour ago, so she relished the chance to creep off into silence and mull.
Marry the prince or not?
She hated how the first answer to leap to mind was Yes, marry him! It was like entering into captivity, or maybe even slavery. Who knew what sort of strange traditions and obligations she’d be forced to assume? How could she say yes to that?
But the answer slunk out of her, like a thief in a quiet museum, as she pondered the night sky and asked herself over and over again. Yes. Marry him. He’s your new family now. Whether you like it or not.
Life at the palace couldn’t be so bad. Sure, she’d have to dress up in some weird clothes probably, and make appearances at cultural events. It wasn’t the worst that could happen. As long as she had her boy, her bars and her silks—and the chance to perform here and there—she’d be fine.
With Anwar Jr. and Daddy Anwar at her side, life couldn’t be horrible…right?
But she’d make him wait until the last minute for the answer, even though part of her wanted to go seek out his bedchambers and tell him now. No, she’d make him sweat. It seemed fair, in the grand scheme of things.
The only thing that mattered to her was her son. And her son’s father was an integral component to that happiness, too. She didn’t want to spend her life giving excuses for why she’d separated him from his father, or why he’d never been around.
She certainly hadn’t chosen this turn of events, but she’d find a way through them.
And everything inside her was telling her to run with it.
The next day, Rawnie practiced the words she’d say to Anwar like she would deliver them to a theater. I’ve decided to stay with you. Our lives are intertwined now—forever. We should be together to raise our son, come what may.
But the words that refused to appear on her tongue were the most pressing. How would she respond to the whatever-capacity-of-wife issue? It was clear what he was proposing: they could have an open marriage if needed. They didn’t necessarily need to sleep with one another again, if she chose not to.
While the offer was a sweet gesture, she’d been desperate to correct him. She had no problems picking up where they’d left off that night over a year ago. Her body craved it with him so near again.
Anwar rang for lunch. After feeding baby Anwar and passing him off to Fati
n with a hopeful smile, she glided toward the dining room humming a tune. She’d never imagined stepping into an arranged marriage might feel so light and exciting.
When she breezed into the dining room, Anwar stood at the far wall, looking out the window facing the gardens. He turned to greet her, face clouded and eyes dark. Tension spiked in the room and she straightened her back.
“Rawnie.” He approached her cautiously, worry crossing his face. “Do you have an answer?”
She lifted the corner of her mouth, sauntering coolly his way. “Jeez, I don’t even get a ‘hello’?”
Anwar relaxed a little, shoving his hands into the pockets of his crisp black slacks. “My apologies. How are you today? You look lovely.”
She grinned, stepping so near to him that the heat of his body reached her in waves. “That’s better. I’m fine. How are you?”
“Tense. I need to know your decision.”
She sighed dramatically, gaze wandering over the buttons of his shirt. She straightened the crease of his collar though it didn’t need adjusting. The tension broke then and he watched her hands, his own reaching for the curve of her waist.
Their eyes met and the air was electric between them.
“Do you have an answer?” His voice came out more like a murmur, one that made her eyes flutter shut.
“I do.” This man will be my husband. “But we should eat first, right?”
His jaw steeled and the hand at her waist squeezed the flesh there. Her pussy clenched involuntarily—it had been too long since a man had inspired that reaction in her. No one since him.
“I think I know your answer.” His words were a sultry drawl that warmed her forehead. He cinched her closer.
Her heart raced. “Tell me something true about you.” She blinked up at him, willing his lips against hers.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we met.”
The words echoed painfully inside of her—the truth was hers as well. “Something else.”
“I’m terrified but also thrilled to be a father.”
The grin covered her face. “Tell me one more thing.”
His grip tightened on her hip. “I’d have you right here on top of the table if you’d give me the word.”
His words hung heavy and expectant in the air, like dashes waiting for the conclusion of the sentence. As she opened her mouth to speak, the side door opened, followed by a gasp.
“Prince Anwar, please excuse me! I didn’t realize you were occupied.” The server scurried back into the pantry, the door swinging in her wake.
Anwar loosened his grip on her hip and straightened. Rawnie glanced down, pleased to find the prominent bulge she remembered from their first—and only—night together. Her hand drifted toward it, as though controlled by someone else, but he turned and headed for the pantry.
Poking his head inside, he gave a few curt directions and then returned to the dining room, running a hand through his hair.
“Let’s eat,” he said, avoiding her gaze. He sat in the seat at the right of the head of the table, fanning his napkin over his lap. Rawnie hurried to sit at the head of the table, jittery from the almost-kisses and the almost-sex, mind buzzing with confusion and desire.
Moments later, the same maid came out to deliver large salads. When she disappeared into the pantry again, Anwar spoke.
“Did I misjudge you?”
“No.” She forked salad into her mouth. “Let’s get married.”
His fork clattered to the plate. “And you’re serious?”
“I am.” She chomped happily, grinning at him. “I’ll move in. Actually, I already live here. It works out perfectly.”
He snorted and reached for her hand. “This is phenomenal.” He grazed her knuckles with his thumb, pausing. “Did I misjudge you about…the other thing?”
Rawnie took a measured breath, setting her fork down. Leaning closer to him, allowing the valley of her breasts to slip into view from under the shift, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Anwar, I’ve been waiting for a second night with you since the first one.”
Anwar shot like a bullet toward the pantry, sticking his head inside to bark a command. Then he returned to Rawnie’s side, pulling her to standing, wrapping his arms around her so she lifted off the ground. His lips met hers in a soft, hesitant kiss, exactly like two lovers meeting again after too long apart.
The scent of him ensnared her, took her straight to the night they met like a time machine. She whimpered through the kiss and wrapped her arms around his neck, cinching them closer, pressing her body against his to meet every inch of him.
They kissed furiously and relentlessly, trying to recoup every lost kiss in the span of their time apart. They broke for air when the dining room door opened; Anwar eyed the door, not loosening his grip on her, the pair stopped in the embrace like a movie on pause.
A young man entered the dining room, dressed neatly in expensive clothes just like Anwar. His eyes widened when he saw the two of them.
“Good lord,” the newcomer said. “I had no idea this was your version of lunch.”
“Ra’ees.” Anwar stiffened, pulling away from Rawnie. He cast her an apologetic look and gestured for them to sit down. “What are you doing here?”
“Coming for lunch, clearly.” He strolled to the pantry, obviously uncurious about who she was or what she might be doing there. He addressed the servants behind the door and then came to the table, eying the setup.
“What are you doing in Anwar’s seat?” His voice held a razor edge to it.
“I didn’t—” she began.
“I offered it to her. It’s where the future queen should sit, don’t you think?” He lifted his brows at Ra’ees, whose eyes widened at the news. The queen? The idea sounded strange and foreign inside her head. She’d need time to process it…there were so many changes all at once falling like an avalanche around her.
“Oh my god—you’re the circus chick he banged that one time?” Ra’ees slid into his seat, clearly more relaxed. “I’ve heard so much about you. So the kid is yours, cousin?”
Anwar cleared his throat. “Ra’ees, that’s enough. And yes, the child is mine.”
Ra’ees’ face flushed. “Are you serious? Have you told your father?”
“Not yet—we’re working through the details right now.” Anwar sent a pointed look to his cousin. “Maybe you could give us a minute?”
Ra’ees turned when the pantry door opened. A server came out, holding a plate of meatballs over noodles. “Can’t I finish my food? Look, it’s here already.”
Anwar sighed. Rawnie offered him a small smile, mind spinning since the arrival of Ra’ees. She didn’t know if he liked him yet. Certainly, the two men were close, almost like brothers, but she wondered if Ra’ees—or anyone else in the castle—would ever see her as more than that circus chick Anwar banged once. Apprehension gnawed at her belly, stole her hunger in a flash.
Another server emerged, bringing plates for Anwar and Rawnie—rice with eggplant and slivers of lamb.
“Mmm.” Ra’ees hummed his contentment as he ate. “So, Rawnie. What do you do for a living?”
She lifted a brow. “I’m just a circus chick, remember?”
“Oh, right.” He wiped at his mouth with a napkin. “I thought maybe that was just for fun.”
“My family has been a traveling circus family for generations. It’s fun, but it’s also work.”
“Got it.” Ra’ees took a sip of his water. “So, Anwar—we haven’t had a boy’s night in a while. When’s the next one?”
Anwar tensed beside her. She could only imagine what a boy’s night with them might lead to. “I’ll let you know,” he said. “There’s too much going on right now to take a night out.”
Ra’ees nodded, eating his food quickly. Once he’d had his fill, he moved the plate away and wiped at his mouth again. “All right, then. I’m off to the city. Enjoy the rest of your meal.”
Ra’ees let himself out of the dining room
quietly, leaving a trail of tension behind him. When they were alone again, Anwar turned to her, reaching for her hand.
“We should go speak to my father after lunch.”
Meet the King? Anxiety licked through her. The wheels were turning. This was all going to happen so fast. “Okay. If you think so.”
Anwar tapped out some messages on his phone and then resumed eating. He looked perplexed as he chewed, and then said, “My uncle will be on his way soon.”
“Is he the one who received me?”
“Yes. And he’s particularly unhappy about this, so be forewarned.”
Tension knotted tighter in her belly. “I can’t imagine many people will be happy about this.”
Anwar waved it off. “It’s not their business. But they’ll come around—I promise.”
But isn’t it their business? She fiddled with her napkin in her lap, confusion storming through her. If she knew anything at all, it was that she wanted to be with Anwar. The messy royal relations could be sorted through, but it would take time. And if everyone treated her with the same lifted nose as Ra’ees, then these next few days—or weeks, or years—might be the most uncomfortable of her life.
Chapter Seven
Anwar paused in front of the door to his father’s chambers, heart racing. Excitement mingled with anxiety; with his father’s failing health, the disappointment around Anwar’s lack of commitment had been a growing pressure in his life. Now he could present both a fiancée and a son. While his father was still alive.
“Bow to him when he acknowledges you,” Anwar counseled in a low voice. “He may be a bit…out of it. His health has been worsening recently.”
Rawnie nodded, gathering her hair over her shoulder. “Should I say anything at all?”
“Whatever you want. My father is far easier to deal with than my uncle.”
Someone cleared their throat from behind. Anwar turned; Diaab stood behind them a distance, scowling.
“So you’re ready for this, are you?” Diaab’s face darkened.
“As ready as ever.” Anwar reached for Rawnie’s hand when he sensed her shrink away from Diaab.
“Excellent.” Diaab breezed between Rawnie and Anwar, breaking the clasp their hands had formed. He pushed into the chambers, leading into the expansive, low-lit living room where the king was resting. He lay on a daybed toward the back wall, humidifiers pulsing out sweet air near his head, a quilt covering his body.