by Marian Tee
“To make you proud.” A part of her had expected the sheikh to be pleased with her answer, with the way she was being more forthcoming than usual, but instead she was stunned to see disappointment flash in his eyes.
“You already make me proud, qalifa.”
“It’s n-not enough.” Harper found herself stammering, and she hated herself for it because she didn’t even know why she was doing it. “I want you to be prouder, so you’ll see I’m a good queen—-” But still the disappointment lingered in his gaze, and she bit her lip.
A moment later, the sheikh seemed to take her silence as the end of their conversation, and she didn’t protest when he made her turn around. He soaped her body and washed her hair, his touch painfully tender.
Before she knew it, the words were already out—-
“What exactly do you want from me?”
Her voice shook in frustration. Was he really blind to all the things she did for him, to the way she bent backwards to be a proper queen? She had lost count of the times she had swallowed her pride for him, had bitten her tongue so many times that if it had literally happened, she would’ve already punched holes in it. For this damn sheikh, she had gone to bed, her jaw aching from too much smiling and faking, and all of this was for the sake of pleasing him.
And it still wasn’t enough?
Tears began to prick her eyes as the silence continued between them, but when she made a move to stand up, the sheikh captured her wrist—-
“Let me go,” Harper snarled under her breath even as she fought back tears. Damn sheikh.
And still he kept pulling back, closer and closer—-
Until she felt his lips touch her bare shoulder.
“I trust you, malikta, to discover the answer on your own.”
Chapter Fourteen
The palace’s reception hall once again rang with the sound of gaiety and clinking glasses, with attendants going around to offer free-flowing champagne. And as was customary, the sheikh greeted his guests one by one, but now instead of his vassals flanking him it was Harper, his queen, who stood by his side.
As the guests extended their greetings to the sheikh and thanked the royal couple for the invitation, Harper only nodded and spoke when directly addressed. Otherwise, she kept her Mona Lisa smile in place while cursing the man beside her to perdition.
Why did he always have to answer her in installment, she fumed silently to herself. Why couldn’t the damn sheikh just give it to her straight instead of bullying her all the time? She wanted him to be proud of her. That was huge, coming from a commitment-phobe like her, and still it wasn’t enough.
What else did he want, dammit?
Lunch by the garden followed right after, and Harper strove to shove the sheikh’s irritating traits out of her mind and focus on her job. While the sheikh and his vassals did their rounds among the men, she did hers with the women and the children, doing her best to be approachable rather than her usual cranky self. After a few official events, she had realized for herself that the court tutor was right. People who she thought were snobs were usually just as socially awkward as she was, and one just had to take the first step of breaking the ice, and everything would be fine.
And because you’re the queen, no one will dare take the first step with you, her court tutor pointed out. So you must be the one to break the ice.
But I’m shy!
You’re not.
Socially awkward then!
I used to believe that, until I realized you’re just socially lazy. And her court tutor had glared at her. Which is why I’ll be watching you like a hawk this weekend.
Remembering this made her glance over her shoulder—-
Her court tutor was indeed there, a nondescript figure in gray standing at the edge of the crowd, violet eyes trained on the queen.
Ugh.
Harper hurriedly looked for someone to talk to, lest the damn tattletale report to the sheikh she was being “socially lazy.” Unfortunately, the first woman she chanced to talk to turned out to be a hedge fund manager, and when the other woman started discussing the potential economic ramifications of Brexit, her eyes started to glaze—-
From across the hall, Rayyan’s blue eyes started shooting daggers at her.
Oh, shit.
Harper straightened and forced herself to concentrate on the conversation. It lasted another five minutes before the woman’s husband thankfully called her away. Oh, thank God. Another minute there and her brain might have started hemorrhaging.
Turning around, she bumped into a YouTube vlogger, who then asked her opinion about DCEU vs. MCU but later on appeared surprised when she answered him in all seriousness, saying, “DCEU might win it for me if they let CW’s Arrow join them in the silver screen.” And when the guy’s jaw dropped, she couldn’t help adding, “But what I’m really more interested in is seeing who wins the Chris Wars.” She had only meant this as a joke, then a hand suddenly curved around her waist from behind, and Harper almost yelped.
Oh, shit, she knew that touch.
Turning around, she saw that it was indeed the sheikh, along with all four of his vassals.
Shit, shit, shit.
Had they heard—-
Tarif was openly smirking. Altair was shaking his head. Malik was grinning, while Rayyan, as always, was glaring at her.
Harper slowly looked at the sheikh, her husband.
One dark eyebrow arched at her. Are you certain you want to talk about other men?
OH SHIT.
He inclined his head to the side. Because if you do, I’ll start talking about Wonder Woman and the Black Widow—-
SHIT.
Since having the sheikh merely think of another woman was already unimaginably tortuous for Harper, she backpedaled immediately, turning to the vlogger as she stammered, “I w-was, umm, just joking. Whoever wins the Chris Wars would never compare to my husband. He’s the hottest of them all.”
She could feel the sheikh’s gaze boring through hers, and she nodded vehemently, stressing with all the piousness of a devoted wife, “The hottest, ever.”
By now, even the YouTube vlogger had caught on with her little tête à tête with the sheikh and was doing his best to keep a serious face. When she was done singing praises to the sheikh’s hotness, the vlogger coughed, saying, “I’ll, umm, make sure to let all the fans of Chris Wars know that, ma’am.”
He would? The words caught her off-guard, and Harper cringed before she could stop herself.
Behind her, the other sheikhs burst into laughter.
Khalil pulled his wife close, murmuring smoothly, “See that you do. My queen will appreciate it.” He looked down at Harper. “Won’t you?”
She bared her teeth at him. “Oh, I will.” Not! Never! Ever!
The sheikh’s dark eyes laughed at her, telling Harper that he knew perfectly what she truly meant to say.
When the vlogger left, she muttered, “I should go,” but the sheikh only pulled her closer, and Harper stiffened. “People are loo—-” Her voice trailed off. A quick look around them told her that this wasn’t the case for the other sheikhs, along with the AFK this time, had once again formed a circle around them, preventing anyone from seeing them.
“Still angry with me?” the sheikh asked softly. When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Is that a yes then?”
Slowly, she shook her head.
The sheikh tipped her chin up. “But you’re hurt.”
Harper didn’t say a word.
There was a moment of silence, and then the sheikh said roughly, “Everyone thinks I’m being hard on you.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t think—-”
“It’s true.” His voice was flat.
Oh.
“But I’m doing it because I know you can do more—-”
Harper didn’t know whether to be hurt or pleased by the sheikh’s words, and she cut him off, saying stiffly, “I’m already doing what I can—-”
“But not for the right reasons
.”
Here we go again, Harper thought. Frustration seethed inside of her, and she burst out in a low voice, “Why can’t you just tell it to me straight? And what do you mean I’m not doing it for the right reasons? I want to make you proud and—-mmph.”
The sheikh had covered her mouth with his, and she stiffened even more when she felt his tongue slip between her lips.
They were in public!
Her hands automatically moved up his chest to push him away, but the sheikh retaliated by kissing her harder.
Oh. My. God.
Her fingers unclenched against his chest.
The sheikh started sucking on her tongue.
And she ended up clutching his thobe.
The moment she started kissing him back, the sheikh pulled away, and Harper whimpered in protest. Unfair!
The sheikh stared down at her for one moment, his gorgeous face inscrutable. The circle his vassals formed around them broke away, revealing the couple once again to their audience, and the noise in the reception hall increased tenfold.
Harper crashed back to reality, and she turned red in an instant. Ah, damn. God knew what their guests must be thinking, Harper thought with a cringe. She managed to tug her hand out of the sheikh’s hold but just as she turned away, the sheikh wrapped his arm around her waist from behind.
What the—-
He bit her ear, and a whimper escaped her.
“Don’t do it for me.”
The whispered words landed so softly on her ear that she could almost believe she had imagined them. She whirled around to demand what the hell he meant by that, but the sheikh and his vassals had already walked away—-
The world’s most arrogant warrior squad, Harper couldn’t help thinking. Ever.
A moment later, she heard a sudden rush of fingers tapping on their keyboards, and Harper realized in a flash that those damn sheikhs had left her to deal singlehandedly with the aftermath.
She turned around to face the crowd of guests and their faces said it all –
Despite them being members of royal families, the most powerful politicians, and the most influential celebrities – none of them were immune to the temptation of sharing a photo that had the potential to go viral.
And it should go viral, Harper realized in horror, since—-
Sheikh. Bites. Ear. Queen. Whimpers.
“Don’t tweet!”
The words were out before she could stop herself, and the crowd laughed.
“I didn’t,” Farica de Konigh said with a grin. “I used Instagram Stories instead.”
“Traitor!”
And the guests laughed again.
From the other side of the hall, the sheikh smiled at the way the crowd reacted to his queen. Their early morning talk had made Harper unconsciously aloof with his guests, and when people had started to talk, he knew he had to do something to make her loosen up.
Rayyan shook his head at the look on Khalil’s face. “Stop congratulating yourself.”
Khalil shrugged. So he enjoyed the fact that the world would see his queen the way he had always seen Harper: a woman who was too adorable not to tease. That was not a crime, surely?
“What happened to the man who says he wanted a queen who could slay her own dragons?” Tarif asked slyly.
“It is still what I want,” Khalil answered calmly. And his queen would become that tonight, for the sheikh had already set things in motion.
Chapter Fifteen
Dinner took place in the ballroom, a multi-course extravaganza that had the palace’s guests oohing and aahing on every dish that was served. This time, the king and queen were seated on opposite ends of the table, with about fifty guests on each side separating them.
Harper normally hated this type of setup, but tonight she welcomed it, the distance between them allowing her to mull over the sheikh’s words feverishly.
Don’t do it for me, he had said.
Then that meant – she should do it for herself?
It made sense, she supposed. She should take pride in her own work as his queen, and she could see why he would want that. But something still didn’t feel right, and the thought continued to nag at her even as dancing commenced and Harper and the sheikh were called to perform the first dance.
They met on the dance floor, and her heart swayed at the dashing sight her husband made. He had changed into a tux for the dance, and dear God, he looked so damn sexy she found herself gulping, knowing just how a whole lot sexier the naked body underneath it was.
“You look beautiful.”
“It should,” she muttered, “considering I’m wearing something worth millions.” The gown Harper wore was another creation by a Ramilian fashion designer: a shimmery long-sleeved gown with a full skirt sewn entirely with gold thread and a belt made of diamonds.
The sheikh only smiled. “You know I don’t mean it that way.” And this time, his hot dark gaze caressed her figure, making his meaning very clear.
Harper turned red. “All I know is that you look like you’re about to tear my gown off.”
“Because you were looking at me like that was what you wanted me to do,” the sheikh purred.
She started to retort, but then the sheikh had already twined his fingers with hers while his other hand clasped her by the waist.
And then they were dancing, and it was magical.
For just a few moments, she forgot about the world and everything else. For just a few moments, it did seem like there were only the two of them, and she could lose herself in the sweet tempting darkness of the sheikh’s gaze.
But then the music started to fade, and as the other couples started to join them, the sheikh slowed to a stop, and Harper knew it was time to part.
“I love dancing with you, wife.”
“I, umm, feel the same.” But Harper’s voice was gruff, and she could only make herself stare at his bowtie when uttering the words.
Only when they had already parted and the sheikh and Harper resumed their duties as hosts that the sheikh’s earlier words returned to her—-
Don’t do it for me.
Damn. She had forgotten to ask him about that, and after matching a local artist with a diplomat for a waltz, she moved to the sides, ostensibly to watch the guests dance but really she just wanted a moment or two to think about the sheikh’s words some more.
Her omnipresent AFK immediately closed ranks around her, and her lips twitched, thinking that they’ve certainly come far, considering how they used to disapprove of her unfeminine ways. Now, her guards were resigned to it, and their disapproval had evolved into protectiveness.
It is not the queen’s fault she was naturally unfeminine, was the AFK’s official stance.
Not exactly complimentary, she thought humorously, but it would do.
She was about to tell the AFK to take a break when the sound of laughter interrupted her, and Harper frowned. That was one snide laugh. She started to turn to see who it was when the woman who laughed went on to say, “Oh God, it’s the height of summer, and you’re really wearing that?”
Even with her back turned, Harper – thanks to the rigorous who’s who lessons she had received from her court tutor – immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Jennifer Patrick, a self-proclaimed feminist who made a living off TV guesting.
“I guess you don’t mind the heat since you live in the desert, but don’t you find it restricting for a dance? That – umm, what do you call it again? Abacus?” Jennifer immediately laughed at her joke, and so did several people.
Harper’s eyebrows shot up, and she stared at her guards incredulously. Seriously? Did these people seriously find that funny?
“Do not interfere,” Amir warned under his breath.
“Pick your battles,” Farid advised.
“Remember what you came here to do,” Kamil reminded her.
Harper took deep breaths. They were completely right, but—-
“I don’t feel restricted at all,” she heard a soft voic
e answer, and Harper scowled. She had no trouble recognizing this voice as well. It was none other than Kyria, the young, shy ward of Altair and Malik’s mother, and Harper’s dislike towards the so-called feminist increased. Was Jennifer Patrick actually trying to bully a teenage girl over an abaya?
“I knew you’d say that,” Jennifer was saying, the words followed with another snide laugh. “And it’s okay, really. I mean, compared to other Arab nations, Ramil’s pretty modern. But be honest – do you honestly believe wearing that will prevent things like rape? And I’m just asking here, I’m not being judgmental or anything, but don’t you think it’s stupid that a woman’s modesty is determined by her choice of clothing?”
“I don’t see anything wrong with a woman wearing what she deems proper to wear for herself,” Harper heard Kyria answer in her usual soft, melodic voice.
Bravo, Kyria, Harper thought and by way of the murmurs of assent she heard, the other guests appeared to agree with the young girl.
Unfortunately, it didn’t sit well with the older woman at all, causing Jennifer to sneer, “How very safe. Spoken like a pampered princess who doesn’t know how to think for herself.”
A hush fell over the small crowd at the cruel words, and Harper’s bodyguards shook their heads at her in unison.
Don’t. Get. Involved.
And she shouldn’t. She mustn’t. A proper queen wouldn’t involve herself. Right?
The sheikh’s words returned to her.
Don’t do this for me.
Her teeth gnawed on her lip. If she got herself involved, she wouldn’t exactly be scoring brownie points with the sheikh, but she would at least be proud of herself, that she stood for what was right. Maybe that was what the sheikh had indirectly asked her to do. Don’t do this for me. Do it for yourself. Maybe that was what he wanted her to realize?
Behind her, Jennifer was going on and on about the detrimental effects of the abaya on the overall culture of feminism, and Harper started grinding her teeth.
Don’t do this for me. Don’t get involved. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
Ah, God, this was so confusing.
She thought about the sheikh. Thought about herself. Thought about Kyria.