Bound to the Warrior King

by Maisey Yates

  “Men, as a species, are weak. They are fallible creatures who have far too many appetites that demand constant satisfaction. A servant cannot have more than one master. I have learned to live for the service of my country. That means I cannot serve my own appetites, as well. Doing so would make me a weak servant indeed. The fact that I am now sheikh changes nothing. I can desire nothing greater than the desire to serve.”

  His words made something inside her curl in on itself. Something she hadn’t realized had been trying to bloom.

  What was wrong with her? Why did this matter so much?

  Why did it feel so desperately personal to be rejected by a stranger?

  Stop being so needy.

  “I should arrange for your haircut now.” It was automatic for her to get on with the task at hand. Anything was better than lingering in her discomfort and unexpected pain. “And clothing. You need to address your clothing situation.”

  “There is something wrong with my clothing?”

  “What did your brother wear to various events? Did he wear traditional Tahari clothing, or did he wear Western-style suits? This is important. I need to figure out how to handle your wardrobe.”

  “I can see that if I offer you one sweet you will clamor for the whole bag.”

  She smiled widely, trying not to reveal the fact that the potential double entendre in his statement had hit her in a vulnerable place. Yes, it would seem that if all of this was a sexual metaphor, if he gave her one little treat, she would try to devour the whole thing. She cringed internally.

  Rejection stung. Always.

  “That is what I’m here for,” she said, rather than giving in to saying any of the insecure things that were rolling around in her head.

  “It doesn’t matter to me what my brother wore. I would prefer to draw a distinction between him and myself.”

  “That’s a good place to start,” she said, not asking the questions that arose due to that statement. “What sort of ruler do you want to be? That’s a question only you can answer, Tarek. Though the answer is probably also relevant to me.”

  “I do not believe a man is king for his own enjoyment. I believe a man can only serve if he is serving a purpose. A purpose that is beyond himself.”

  “You speak about serving so often.”

  “Bearing the responsibility of a nation is nothing if not service. If your primary objective is simply to rule, to lord over, then you accomplish nothing.”

  She studied him, the harsh, hard lines of his face. “If you disagreed with your brother’s style of leadership, why didn’t you say anything to him?”

  “It was not my task. My task was very specific. And an agreement was struck between Malik and myself some years ago.”

  “What was that?”

  “If he would leave me alone, I would be at his disposal to protect our people,” Tarek said, his words layered with darkness. “A mutual agreement we both respected. He called upon me when aid was needed, and I gave it. Anything else would have been abandonment of my post, of the people I cared for. I am in a different position now.”

  “You have the power now. That’s the brilliant thing about being sheikh. What do you want to wear? Who do you want to be?”

  “I do not have the capacity to care about such a thing as clothing,” he said, “but perhaps there is a connection I am missing?”

  She straightened, indicating the well-fitted white dress she was wearing. “Clothing is important. It presents a certain image. I would like to think mine conveys quiet luxury and sophistication. Something people prize in a queen, or so I was told.”

  “I...I see how that could be.”

  “Good,” she said. “You care about your people. I know you do.”

  “More than my own life,” he said.

  Her stomach tightened, that conviction, that bone-deep certainty of his opening up a cavern of longing from deep within. To have someone care about her with that ferocity. With that strength.

  She swallowed hard. No. Even letting herself think about that was dangerous.

  “We are in a new age in Tahar,” he said, his tone grave. “And I am able to lead us there. I will. Let us show them.”

  “Well, seeing as we can’t put you on the back of a white stallion brandishing a sword, I’m going to go with a power suit. I’ll make some phone calls. We will be in touch.”

  With that, she walked out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, and beat a hasty retreat back to her own quarters. She needed some time alone. Needed some time to think. She had to get a handle on herself, because she couldn’t act in such a stupid, unthinking way again.

  If nothing else, her own response to him, the emotional fallout of it, was reason enough.

  She knew better than to need. Knew better than to depend on anyone.

  She simply needed to remember.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TAREK HAD SUCCESSFULLY avoided being directly involved in Olivia’s machinations for four days. Since coming to the palace, he had craved silence with a severity that bordered on madness. Since Olivia had arrived nearly a week ago it had intensified.

  Since the moment she had touched him in his bathroom it had become even worse.

  He was not innocent of the ways of the world, not a fool, either. He understood what the heat and fire in his blood meant, understood why she had been touching him. But he had made vows. To the earth, to himself. He was a man of singular purpose, and that had meant eschewing earthly pleasures. When it came to food he ate to survive, and when it came to sex...

  It turned out a man did not need it to survive.

  In fact, he had survived thirty years without. As a teenage boy banished to the desert, he had been far too broken to care. As a man grappling with his purpose, with the memories that still crowded in at night, echoes of pain that would push any human to the brink of sanity, he had reminded himself what had brought him through. The only way to withstand torture was to focus on what lay beyond it. The bright spot. The hope. The purpose.

  He had stripped back his needs to one thing so long ago that he could not remember a day when his desires had been layered. When he had relished the feel of a soft bed, enjoyed the flavor of a meal or fantasized about what it would be like to touch the lush curves of a woman’s body. Memories lost to him, desires destroyed.

  Every single one of them had flooded back to him the moment Olivia had placed her soft fingertips on his bare chest.

  For the first time in years he had craved something sweet to eat, a sumptuous, well-appointed bed. And to see what was beneath her clothes.

  That was why he had pushed her away. Contained in that one simple touch had been a weakness so complete, so repellent, he had no choice but to turn away from it.

  Though she spoke the truth. Were they to be married, there would be no turning away from his duty as a husband. His duty as a sheikh.

  He needed an heir.

  Still, all would be possible. It was simply a matter of refocusing his purpose. And he was in the process of doing just that. They had spoken about his intentions as a ruler the other day, and as much as he would like to do nothing more than resent her presence, he had to acknowledge that she was helping. He scarcely recognized the man he saw in the mirror now. Far from the beast he had been when he had first arrived here, he now resembled someone he could imagine sitting on the throne.

  His hair had been cut short. He was still getting used to the feel of it.

  He felt like a man who had been pulled up out of the pit. Still orienting to the sunlight. To being aboveground.

  Of course, his ability to avoid Olivia and continue to regain his equilibrium would end today. She had arranged for him to be dressed. As though he was a doll. She had been insistent that clothing was important, and when she had applied it to herself, he could well see
her point.

  She wore thin dresses made of luxurious fabrics that settled over her sleek, fascinating curves in an easy manner. It was difficult to look away from her, in part because of the cut of her clothing, he was convinced. She did indeed convey authority, a sense of belonging. She could have materialized from the gems and gold in the walls of the palace, precious metals come to life.

  In that way, she would make a wonderful sheikha. At least one of them would look as though they had been born to serve in a palace.

  For his part, he would protect his people. That much he knew.

  The doors to his bedchamber burst open wide and in came the object of his thoughts, followed by another woman he had never seen before. That woman was pushing a rack full of clothing, her expression of determination mirrored by Olivia.

  “This is Serena. She is now the official dresser here in the palace. You will make use of her. Starting now.”

  “Hello, Olivia. It has been a few days since we’ve spoken,” he said.

  “Hi,” she said. “I assume that screen over there will do for you to dress behind.”

  He looked between the two women, processing the idea that he would need to change behind a screen. He had no modesty to protect. He imagined, therefore, that it was for their own comfort.

  He thought back to the other day. To Olivia placing her hand on his chest.

  Perhaps the screen would be wise.

  Serena moved the rack to the ornate divider and Tarek followed suit. He stepped behind it, grabbing the first bundle of clothing from the rack and set about undressing, and redressing. He could hear Olivia and Serena speaking in hushed tones. He had no real desire to know what it was they were discussing.

  He paid no attention to what he was putting on. He had no way of assessing suitability. He simply had to trust Olivia’s senses.

  Serena approached him, the measuring tape in her hands, a determined expression on her face. She placed her hands on his shoulder, stretching the tape across them. And he waited. Waited for a feeling similar to the one he’d had when Olivia had touched him. But it didn’t come.

  There was no heat. Nothing but the cool pressure of the tape and her touch buffeted by the layers of clothing.

  Olivia moved nearer to him, her hand on her chin, her expression assessing.

  “Do you have a comment, my queen?”

  “This works for you. Though it definitely needs to be fitted.”

  “I suppose it’s the kind of thing I should wear to the coronation party?”

  Her blue eyes flew wide. “You have a coronation party?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is it that you haven’t mentioned this before?”

  “We have only had two conversations. Possibly three. One of which ended poorly.” Serena knelt down in front of him, drawing the length of the tape down the inside of his leg. Olivia looked down, then back up at him, her pale brow arched. She said nothing. “Did you have something to say, Olivia?”

  “Are you comfortable?”

  “Do you really care?”

  She pursed her lips, looking as though she was chewing her words thoroughly. “Of course I care. As your prospective fiancée. But then, as your prospective fiancée I also might have wanted to know about a major public event. There is media to consider, Tarek. We must decide whether or not we should appear together as a couple. I, for one, vote that we should.”

  “We have not decided what to do about our union, or lack of one.”

  “You have not decided,” she said, her voice determined. “My decision is made. This is...where I need to be.”

  “Is this all about power for you?” His chest tightened, rage bleeding through him like a hemorrhaging wound. “Power corrupts, my queen. The need to rule simply for the sake of it destroyed my country once, and I will not allow that to happen again.”

  “That isn’t what I mean. You told me once that you were a weapon. I am a queen. It chafes when you are not used as you ought to be.”

  “Perhaps you could fill your time as head of some sort of committee.”

  “That isn’t what I want.”

  “Do you have some sort of emotional attachment to Tahar? To its success?”

  She fixed determined, blue eyes on him. “I could create it.”

  “I don’t think that’s good enough, Olivia.”

  She took in a sharp breath, her eyes glistening. “I want a...” She looked away, then back up at him. “A home, Tarek. More than anything, I want a home that I belong in. One that isn’t empty. One where I am not extraneous. You need me here. And I want to be needed. Allow me to use my skill. Allow me to be what I can be.” Serena was still going about her work calmly while Olivia stood there, breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling on each indrawn breath.

  “The only way to be what you want is through marriage, Olivia?” He studied her closely as he spoke. “What a frustration that must be for you. You have so little control. Or at least, this requires you to share it. Your future is dependent on my decision.”

  He could see Olivia’s pulse fluttering at the base of her neck. Like a panicked bird trapped in a cage. He had the overwhelming urge to place his thumb over the top of it. To feel the intensity with which it beat, the velvet softness of her skin.

  That simple, brief fantasy did much more to heat his blood than anything Serena was doing with the tape measure.

  “Do I have to try on everything, or will your measurements suffice?” he asked Serena.

  “There is plenty I can do with the measurements,” she said.

  “Then, that will be all. Leave us. Olivia and I have much to discuss.”

  Serena scrambled to obey his command. He was accustomed to such things. To people obeying his word. He functioned in life-or-death situations. And he was the one that the tribes looked to for safety. The one his men watched to ensure that this mission was not their last.

  In this, at least, he was comfortable.

  “I can fetch the suit later,” Serena said. She grabbed hold of the rack and made a hasty exit.

  Once the door closed behind her, he and Olivia were alone. Facing each other.

  He began to undo the top buttons of the shirt, and he watched as her eyes followed the motion. He was fascinated by this. By the fact that the effects he was experiencing were so closely linked to Olivia, rather than just the female form. Serena had been lovely. Dark haired, with more dramatic curves than Olivia possessed. Though he was not entirely certain if that was more enticing to him. He had given it little thought. Still, it was not outside the realm of possibility that Serena’s touch could have set his blood on fire in the same manner that Olivia’s had.

  “From where I’m standing, my sheikh,” she said, her tone icy, “your future, and whether or not you are able to reestablish your nation, is closely linked to me. There was no one else here helping you. Who do you have on your side? Your brother’s old advisers? Those you have recently employed who are new to this position? They were going to let you attend a coronation looking as you did when I first arrived. Your people would have thought you insane. Would have thought you were a man who didn’t know how to dress. One who could not be bothered to shave and represent himself as the face of the nation without looking like an overgrown bush. Have they coached you on how to deal with the press?”

  For the first time, Tarek felt a bit of discomfort. For the first time, he felt lost at sea in a different way. He had been focused on acclimating to palace life. To his new position. But he had a plan. He knew what he wanted for his country, and he was confident that he was morally everything Tahar needed in a leader. But the press, a ballroom full of people... He did not know what he would do under those circumstances. He did not know how to carry on a conversation in a civil manner, much less conduct an interview, much less give speeches. He knew how to s
trike terror into the hearts of his enemies. Could carve a swath of death and destruction through an opposing army with a flick of his sword.

  But these things? They were foreign to him.

  As foreign as the heat he felt when Olivia’s fingertips brushed against his skin.

  He was a man who held command of life and death. A man who had survived bloody battles and great torture.

  But he was, in many ways, not a man. He was all that he had been created to be. But he had not been created for this.

  He would have to be remade. Again.

  Sheikh Tarek al-Khalij had survived immense pain. Had faced down situations that would bring certain death, and triumphed. Very few things frightened him. But the prospect of being melted down again, reformed, did. Ice replaced the blood in his veins, a sick sensation washing over him.

  He looked at Olivia, her slender form, her delicate hands. Hands that had already touched his skin. Before Olivia, how long had it been since anyone had touched him? He had had wounds bandaged at the various Bedouin camps. And before that...before that every touch had been agony. Designed to destroy.

  But he could not remember the last time anyone had ever touched him so gently.

  Perhaps being reformed in Olivia’s hands would be a different experience.

  And perhaps she was correct. Perhaps she was all the hope he had.

  She had been honest with him. Pain had radiated from her blue eyes as she had spoken of having no place. She needed him. Maybe admitting he needed her would not be so terrible.

  “The coronation is in two weeks,” he said. “I do not know what will be expected of me.”

  “You set the precedent. You are the sheikh. But you have to understand that if you forgo certain things, it will appear odd.”

  “Did you aid your first husband in navigating his coronation?”

  “I didn’t have to help Marcus with any of that,” she said, a soft smile on her lips. She softened when she thought of him. “He was born to that life. Created for it. He was an aristocrat on every layer. In a suit, out of the suit, you would never mistake him for anything but what he was. You, on the other hand, will have trouble looking like aristocracy even with the finest suit. I am not being insulting. I am merely stating a fact. No, I didn’t help him. But I did watch him. He, in fact, helped me. I was an heiress from the States, and while I knew plenty about presenting myself at functions, royal functions are entirely different. I’ve walked this road. I daresay it will be longer and harder for you, but I can help you along the way.”