by Maisey Yates
She ignored the creeping feeling of dread that coated her skin in ice. The truth was, he was royalty. He was a very powerful man. If she was pregnant, he would probably take the baby from her.
Cross that bridge if you come to it.
It would be another week or so before she knew for sure. She would worry about it then. For now, she would just marinate in her pain.
She heard a very hard knock coming from the front of the house, and instinctively, she crawled in more tightly on herself, gripping the edges of the blanket and drawing her knees up to her chest.
The knock sounded again. She was not going to answer someone else’s door.
She heard a voice, combined with the knock, though she could not make out what the words were. The tone was loud, rough, very male. She found herself instinctively responding to it, uncurling and planting both sock clad feet on the floor.
She stood, and before she knew precisely what she was doing, she was walking out of the bedroom and toward the front door.
She knew who it was before she swung the door open and was met with a heartbreakingly familiar face.
Something inside her had known it was him. She was still connected to him, even though he had broken her. Even though she was angry. Even though she had left him at the altar. She knew that she always would be. No matter how far away she went, no matter how much independence she gained, she would never forget him. She would never truly leave him behind.
Part of her was horrified by that revelation. Part of her cherished it. Held it close. The same part of her that never wanted to let him go.
A foolish, foolish part of herself.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Before she could draw another breath, his arm was wrapped around her waist, and he had drawn her in close, his mouth crashing down on hers. He was kissing her, deep, hard with so much passion. He was putting all of himself into this, and she recognized the difference. Recognized last night for what it really was.
She pulled away from him. “You coward,” she hissed. “How could you do that? To me? To us?”
“Because I am a coward,” he ground out. “I am a fool. I am everything you accused me of being. And I am sorry. Zara.” He cupped her cheek, brushing her hair back from her face. “I am so sorry.”
“Being sorry doesn’t take that kiss away. You touched her. You...you tried to hurt me. You did hurt me.”
“I know,” he said, his voice ragged. “I was so intent on destroying myself that I ignored the fact that I would be destroying you too. I had only just purposed to myself that I would tell you we would be partners. That there would be no feelings because I...I was afraid of wanting more. Then you said you loved me. I didn’t believe you loved me enough, Zara. Not because I thought you were a liar, but because I have never believed anyone could love me. In some ways, I did not think it would truly devastate you. I thought... I thought it might set you free. But I will not pretend it was entirely for you, I will not even pretend that I thought of you even a little bit as I did it. I thought of me. Of all the pain I wanted to spare myself. Of the long years spent watching the light slowly dimming in your eyes as I forced you to fall out of love with me by virtue of the fact that I am unlovable.”
“You are not.”
“I am an adult. I understand that the rambunctiousness of a child should not have the power to drive a mother away, however purposeful it was in the end. I do. But what it doesn’t change is the fact that...I wasn’t sorry when she left. And that feeling... It was much easier to feel that it was my fault since I was relieved that acting out had pushed her away.”
“It wasn’t you. And she was... She made it so hard for you. You were a small boy. Of course it was hard to be anything but relieved.”
“It made me want to test people,” he said. “Kairos. You. To see if I could get rid of you as easily. My brother is stubborn. He would not allow it. You... I am so sorry. No one should have stayed after what I did. I do not deserve your loyalty.”
She blinked rapidly. “Andres, I know what it is to lose people. I lost my family. It wasn’t their choice, but I lost them all the same. I know what it’s like to be afraid of suffering the same loss. It is why I... I was part of why no one ever got close to me in the clan. Because I could not bear to love another person again, out of fear. But you made me love you. Yesterday, I felt very much like I was living the same nightmare over again. But I realized that I was more than the things I had lost. Each person I have loved has added more to me. More to who I am. Including you. The loss of them, the loss of you, did not steal more than you gave. I am stronger for having loved you, and no matter what happens in the future, that can’t be taken away. No matter what happens, it will always have been worth it.”
“Even if you have to live the rest of your life with me?”
Her heart sped up, then stuttered to a halt, sinking down into her stomach. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you wanting me isn’t enough. You marrying me isn’t enough. I need...”
“I love you,” he said, the words coming out rushed, intense. “I love you, Zara. I have not said that to anyone in more years than I can count. I have not once admitted to myself that I desperately wanted someone to love me since my mother.”
“Your mother...”
“I wanted her to love me, but it was always out of my reach. Better to have her gone. I told myself that. And I hated myself for it, but it was easier than admitting that...that I wanted very much to love someone and for them to love me back. That it destroyed me that I could not be what she wanted me to be. So it was easier to stop trying than to keep on and to fail. But I’m admitting it now. Because I’m more afraid of life without you than I am of making myself vulnerable. And that is a first.”
“You love me,” she repeated.
“Yes.” He held her close, his eyes intent on hers. “I do. Almost from the first moment I met you. But I couldn’t admit it. Do you think I routinely wash women’s hair?”
“I imagine you probably don’t.”
“Never.” He kissed her lips lightly. “And you imagine I am often captivated by small, burrowing creatures?”
“I am not a creature.”
“If you are, you are a creature I love very much. You are unlike any woman, anyone, I have ever known. You wanted to know me. Not the man I pretended to be. You wouldn’t allow me to be false with you. You have stripped my defenses, and that is why you are so dangerous to me. That is why I ran from you. Why I had to push you away. But as I stood there today, outside the church, alone, realizing you wouldn’t be there, I wanted to take it all back. I’ve never wanted to take back one of my actions more in all of my life. Not what I did when my mother left, not what I did to my brother. Your loss. Yours. That was the one I could not survive.”
“Andres.” She said his name because she could think of nothing else to say. She leaned in and kissed him. In that kiss she poured every word she couldn’t speak, every feeling she couldn’t fully identify. Everything she wanted him to understand.
When they parted, they were both breathing heavily.
“Marry me,” he said. “Not because you have to. Not because I have to. But because you want to. Because I would be lost without you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
“You are the best Christmas present I could ever have received. But I don’t want to own you. I simply want to love you. So, as you were given to me, I give myself to you.”
“I accept,” she said. “And I couldn’t ask for anything better. I love you, Andres. Now and forever. If I had every choice in the entire world open up to me, I would still choose you. Every time.”
“And I you.”
“I do hope, though, that this isn’t the only Christmas present I get.”
“Really? What else do you want?”
“I was thinking maybe a fruit basket.”
He let his head fall back, a smile crossing his face, his laughte
r genuine and perfect and everything she had ever wanted. “That can be arranged. I think, also, that while it might be too late for us to get married with the entire country present, we can still have a Christmas wedding.”
EPILOGUE
DARKNESS HAD FALLEN by the time Princess Zara, now of Petras—still not heiress to a throne, but feeling quite happy about the whims of one particular man—walked across the courtyard in her lace gown that glittered like the snow, toward her groom. Her dark hair was left loose and wild, swirling around her in the wind, gold paint dotting her forehead, and beneath her eyes. Only family and close friends of Andres and Kairos were there, but no one mattered to Zara or Andres but each other.
Soft light was filtering through the stained-glass window in the church, shining out onto the snow, casting colors around their feet. More flakes were falling softly around them, catching in Andres’s dark hair, on his black suit jacket.
The air was thick with silence, but they weren’t alone. They never would be again. Even when they were apart they would carry their love for each other in their hearts, and with that, emptiness could never have a chance to grow.
The priest began to speak their vows, his voice piercing the stillness. Zara closed her eyes and let the words wash over her.
“Do you, Princess Zara Stoica, give yourself to this man?”
She released her hold on one of his hands, taking a step forward and placing her palm against his cheek, making sure her eyes met his. “I do. I give myself to him, of my own free will. To love, from now to forever.”
“And do you, Prince Andres Demetriou, give yourself to this woman?”
“I do,” Andres said, his voice suspiciously rough, his dark eyes shining in the light. “I give myself to her, not out of a sense of honor, or duty to my brother or country, though I love them both. I give myself to her, to you, Zara, because I love you. Now and forever.”
“Then I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Andres didn’t wait for permission to gather her in his arms and kiss her. He had never been very good at waiting for permission, but Zara considered it one of his charms.
One of his many charms.
When they parted, she smiled. “When I was a child I lost my home. I lost my family. And today, you have given me both. You are my home. You are my family.”
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. “And you are mine. You are mine.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE SHEIKH’S CHRISTMAS CONQUEST by Sharon Kendrick.
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The Sheikh’s Christmas Conquest
by Sharon Kendrick
CHAPTER ONE
LIVVY WAS HANGING mistletoe when the doorbell rang. Expensive, mocking mistletoe tied with ribbon the colour of blood. The sudden sound startled her because the heavy snow had made the world silent and she wasn’t expecting anyone until Christmas Eve.
Go away, whoever you are, she thought as several white berries bounced onto the floor like miniature ping-pong balls. But the doorbell rang again—for much longer this time—because whoever was outside had decided to jam their thumb against the buzzer.
Livvy wished the unwanted caller would vanish, because there was still so much to do before the guests arrived, and the snowfall meant that Stella, her part-time help, hadn’t turned up. But you couldn’t run a successful business and behave like a prima donna—even if it was only four days before Christmas and you didn’t have any room vacancies. She climbed down the ladder with a feeling of irritation that died the instant she opened the door.
She was unprepared for the man who stood on her doorstep. A stranger, yet not quite a stranger—although it took a moment for her to place him. He was famous in the horse-racing world she’d once inhabited. Some might say infamous. He was certainly unforgettable with eyes like gleaming jet and rich olive skin that showcased his hawklike features. His hard body spoke of exercise and discipline, and he was the kind of man who would make you take a second glance and then maybe a third.
But it wasn’t just his appearance or his undeniable charisma that made Livvy blink her eyes in disbelief—it was his lofty status. Because it wasn’t just any man who stood there surveying her so unsmilingly—it was Saladin Al Mektala, the king of Jazratan. A real-life desert sheikh standing on her doorstep.
She wondered if there was some sort of protocol for greeting one of the world’s wealthiest men, especially when they also happened to be royal. Once upon a time she might have been intimidated by his reputation and his presence—but not anymore. She’d had to do a lot of growing up these past few years and her experiences had made her strong. These days she lived an independent life she was proud of—even if currently it felt as if she was clinging on to that independence by her fingernails.
‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you,’ she said, tipping her head to one side, ‘that it’s polite to wait for someone to answer the first ring, rather than deafening them with a repeated summons?’
Saladin raised his eyebrows, unable to hide his surprise at her feisty response. It was an untraditional greeting to receive, even here in England where the demands of protocol were less rigid than in his homeland. But even so. His royal presence was usually enough to guarantee total deference, and although he sometimes complained to his advisors that people were never normal around him, he missed deference when it wasn’t there.
He narrowed his eyes and studied her. ‘Do you know who I am?’
She laughed. She actually laughed—her shiny ponytail swaying from side to side, like the tail of a chestnut horse.
‘I thought that was the kind of question B-list celebrities asked when they were trying to get into the latest seedy nightclub,’ she said.
Saladin felt a flicker of annoyance and something else. Something that was a little harder to define. He had been warned that she was difficult. That she could be prickly and stubborn—but these were qualities that were usually melted away by the sheer force of his personality and his position in society. And, not to put too fine a point on it, by his impact on the opposite sex, who usually melted like ice in the desert whenever he was around. His instinct was to bite back a withering response to put her in her place, but Livvy Miller had something he badly wanted so that he was forced to adopt a reasonable tone, something that didn’t come easily to him. ‘It was a genuine question,’ he said. ‘I am Saladin Al Mektala.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘And my office have been trying to contact you.’ He paused. ‘Repeatedly.’
She smiled, but Saladin noted that the smile did not reach her eyes.
‘I know that, too,’ she said. ‘In fact, they’ve been bombarding me with emails and phone calls for the past week. I’ve barely been able to switch on my computer without a new message from [email protected] pinging into my inbox.’
‘Yet you chose to ignore them?’
‘That is my prerogative, surely?’ She leaned on the doorjamb, her unusual eyes shaded by their forest of lashes. ‘I gave them the same answer every time. I told them I wasn’t interested. If they were unable to accept that, then surely the fault lies with them. My position hasn’t changed.’
Saladin could barely disguise his growing irritation. ‘But you don’t know what it is they were asking of you.’
‘Something to do with a horse. And that
was enough for me.’
She drew herself up to her full height but he still towered over her. He found himself thinking that he could probably lift her up with one hand. When he’d heard about her ability to soothe huge and very temperamental horses, he’d never imagined she could be so...petite.
‘Because I don’t have anything to do with horses anymore,’ she finished gravely.
Dragging his gaze from her slender frame to eyes that were the colour of honey, he fixed her with a questioning look. ‘Why not?’
She gave a little clicking sound of irritation, but not before he had seen something dark in her eyes. A flash of something uncomfortable that he stored away for future reference.
‘That’s really none of your business,’ she said, tilting her chin in a gesture of defiance. ‘I don’t have to offer any kind of explanation for my decisions, particularly to people who turn up unannounced on my doorstep at one of the busiest times of the year.’
Saladin felt the first flicker of heat. And of challenge. He was not used to resistance, or defiance. In his world, whatever he wanted was his. A click of his fingers or a cool glance was usually enough to guarantee him whatever he desired. Certainly, this kind of opposition was largely unknown to him, and certainly when it came from a woman, because women enjoyed submitting to his will—not opposing it. His response was one of renewed determination, which was quickly followed by the first sweet shimmer of sexual arousal and that surprised him. Because although Olivia Miller was reputed to have a magical touch when it came to horses, she certainly hadn’t applied the same fairy dust to her appearance.
Saladin’s lips curled. She was one of those women who the English called tomboys—and he didn’t approve, for weren’t women supposed to look like women? Her hair was pale brown, touched by red—a colour named after the great Italian painter Titian and a colour rare enough to be admired—but it was tied back in a functional ponytail, and her freckled face was completely bare of artifice. Why, even her jeans failed to do the only commendable thing that jeans were capable of—they were loose around her bottom instead of clinging to it like syrup. Which made the undeniable stir of lust he was feeling difficult to understand. Because why on earth should he be attracted to someone who sublimated her femininity as much as possible?