“I will not marry you.”

“Then you will enjoy prison.”

The look on Samarah’s face nearly destroyed what little was left of Ferran’s humanity. A foolish thing—to pity the woman who’d just tried to kill him. And she might have succeeded. He had no illusion of her being a joke just because he was a man and she a woman. He had no doubt that the only thing that had kept him from the end was her moment of hesitation. Seconds had made the difference between his life and death.

He should not pity her. He should not care that he’d known her since she was a baby. That he could clearly picture her as a bubbly princess who had been beautiful beyond measure. A treasure to her country.

That was not who she was now. As he was not the haughty teenage boy he’d been. Not the entitled prince who’d thought only of pursuing pleasure.

Life had hit them both, harsh and real, at too young an age. He had learned a hard lesson about human weakness. About his own weaknesses. Secrets revealed had sent her father into the palace in a murderous rage … one that had, in the end, dissolved a lineage and destroyed a nation.

She was a product of that, as was he. And her actions now had nothing to do with that connection from the past. He should throw her in a jail cell and show her no mercy.

And yet he didn’t want to.

USA TODAY bestselling author MAISEY YATES lives in rural Oregon, USA, with her three children and her husband, whose chiselled jaw and arresting features continue to make her swoon. She feels the epic trek she takes several times a day from her office to her coffee-maker is a true example of her pioneer spirit.

In 2009, at the age of twenty-three, Maisey sold her first book. Since then it’s been a whirlwind of sexy alpha males and happily-ever-afters, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Maisey divides her writing time between dark, passionate category romances, set just about everywhere on earth, and light, sexy contemporary romances set practically in her back yard. She believes that she clearly has the best job in the world.

To Defy a Sheikh
Maisey Yates

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Megan Crane, who said “Obviously you have to write this book” when I told her about my idea.

There are few things that are more valuable than the encouragement of friends.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHEIKH FERRAN BASHAR, ruler of Khadra, would not survive the night. He didn’t know it yet, but it was true.

Killing a man was never going to be easy. But that was why she’d trained, why she’d practiced the moves over and over again. So that they became muscle memory. So that when the time came there would be no hesitation. No regret.

She waited by the door of the sheikh’s bedchamber, a cloth soaked in chloroform in one hand, a knife stowed securely in her robe. There could be no noise. And she would have to surprise him.

How could she have regret? When she knew what his legacy had brought onto hers. Tradition as old as their kingdoms demanded this. Demanded that his line end with him.

As hers had ended with her father. With one lone, surviving daughter who could never carry the name. With a kingdom that had lost its crown and suffered years of turmoil as a result.

But now was no time for emotion. No time for anything but action. She’d gotten herself hired on at the palace a month ago for this very purpose. And Ferran had been no wiser. Of course he hadn’t. Why would he ever look at her? Why would he ever recognize her?

But she recognized him. And now, she’d observed him. Learned him.

Sheikh Ferran was a large man, tall and lean with hard muscle and impressive strength. She’d watched him burn off energy in the courtyard, hitting a punching bag over and over again. She knew how he moved. She knew his endurance level.

She would be merciful. He would feel nothing.

He would not know it was coming. He would not beg for his life. He wouldn’t wait in a cell for his life to end, as her father had. It would simply end.

Yes, unlike him, she would show mercy in that way at least.

And she knew that tonight, she would win.

Or she would be the one who didn’t live to see morning. It was a risk she was willing to take. It was one she had to take.

She waited, her muscles tense, everything in her on high alert. She heard footsteps, heavy and even. It was Ferran, she was almost positive. As sure as she could be with footsteps alone.

She took a deep breath and waited for the door to open. It did, a sliver of light sliding across the high-gloss marble floor. She could see his reflection in it. Broad, tall. Alone.

Perfect.

She just needed to wait for him to close the door.

She held her breath and waited. He closed the door, and she knew she had to move immediately.

Samarah said a prayer just before she moved from the shadow. One for justice. One for forgiveness. And one for death, that it would come swiftly. For Ferran, or for her.

He turned as she was poised to overtake him, and her eyes met his. It stopped her, dead in her tracks, the glittering in those dark depths so alive. So vibrant. He was striking, beautiful even.

So very familiar.

In spite of all the years, she knew him. And in that moment, all she could do was stare, motionless. Breathless.

That moment was all it took.

Ferran stepped to the side, reaching out and grabbing her arm. She lifted and twisted her wrist, tugging it through the weak point of his hand where his fingers overlapped, as she crossed one leg behind the other and dipped toward the floor, lowering her profile and moving herself out of harm’s way.

She turned and sidestepped, grabbing his shoulder and using his thigh as a step up to his back. She swung herself around, her forearm around his neck, the chloroform soaked rag in her hand.

He grabbed her wrist, a growl on his lips, and she fought to tug out of his grasp, but this time, he held fast. This time, he was expecting her escape.

She growled in return, tightening her hold on his neck with her other arm. He backed them both up against the wall, the impact of the hard stone surface knocking the air from her.

She swore and held fast, her thighs tight around his waist, ankles locked together at his chest. His hand wrapped around her wrist, he took her arm and hit it against the wall. She dropped the rag and swore, fighting against him.

But her surprise was lost, and while she was a skilled fighter, she was outmatched in strength. She’d forfeited her advantage.

She closed her eyes and imagined her home. Not the streets of Jahar, but the palace. One she and her mother had been evicted from after the death of her father. After the sanctioned execution of her father. Sanctioned by Ferran.

Adrenaline shot through her and she twisted to the side, using her body weight to put more pressure on his neck. He stumbled across the room, flipped her over his shoulders. She landed on her back on the floor, the braided rug doing little to cushion her fall, the breath knocked from her body.

She had to get up. This would be the death of her, and she knew it. Ferran was ruthless, as was his father before him, and the evidence of that was the legacy of her entire life. He would think nothing of breaking her neck, and she well knew it.

He leaned over her and she put her feet up, bracing them on his chest and pushing back, before planting her feet on the floor and leveraging herself into a standing position, her center low, her hands up, ready to block or attack.

He moved and she sidestepped, sweeping her foot across his face. He stumbled and she used the opportunity to her advantage, pushing him to the ground and straddling him, her knees planted on his shoulders, one hand at his throat.

Still, she could see his eyes, glittering in the dark.

She would have to do it while she faced him now. And without the benefit of chloroform either putting him out cold or deadening his senses. She pushed back at the one last stab of doubt as she reached into her robe for her knife.

There was no time to doubt. No time to hesitate. He certainly hadn’t done either when he’d passed that judgment on her father. There was no time for humanity when your enemy had none.

She whipped the knife out of her robe and held it up. Ferran grabbed both of her wrists and on a low, intense growl pushed her backward and propelled them both up against the side of the bed. He pushed her hand back, the knife blade flicking her cheek, parting the flesh there. A stream of blood trickled into her mouth.

She fisted his hair and his head fell back. She tried to bring the blade forward, but he grabbed her arm again, reversing their positions. He had her trapped against the bed, her hands flat over the mattress, bent a near-impossible direction. The tendons in her shoulders screamed, the cut on her face burning hot.

“Who sent you?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.

“I sent myself,” she said, spitting out the blood that had pooled in her mouth onto the floor beside them.

“And what is it you’re here to do?”

“Kill you, obviously.”

He growled again and twisted her arm, forcing her to drop the knife. And still he held her fast. “You’ve failed,” he said.

“So far.”

“And forever,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “What I want to know is why a woman is hiding in my bedchamber ready to end my life.”

“I would have thought this happened to you quite often.”

“Not in my memory.”

“A life for a life,” she said. “And as you only have the one, I will take it. Though you owe more.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m not here to debate with you.”

“No, you’re here to kill me. But as that isn’t going to happen—tonight or any other night—you may perhaps begin to make the case as to why I should not have you executed. For an attempt at assassinating a world leader. For treason. I could. At the very least I can have you thrown in jail right this moment. All it takes is a call.”

“Then why haven’t you made it?”

“Because I have not stayed sheikh, through changes in the world, civil unrest and assassination attempts, without learning that all things, no matter how bad, can be exploited to my advantage if I know where to look.”

“I will not be used to your advantage.”

“Then enjoy prison.”

Samarah hesitated. Because she wouldn’t forge an alliance with Ferran. It was an impossible ask. He had destroyed her life. He had toppled the government in her country. Left the remainder of her family on the run like dogs.

Left her and her mother on the streets to fend for themselves until her mother had died.

He had taken everything. And she had spent her life with one goal in mind. To ensure that he didn’t get away with it. To ensure his line wouldn’t continue while hers withered.

And she was failing.

Unless she stopped. Unless she listened. Unless she did what Ferran claimed to do. Turn every situation to her advantage.

“And what do I need to give in exchange for my freedom?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he said. “I haven’t decided if, in fact, your freedom is on the table. But the power is with me, is it not?”

“Isn’t it always?” she asked. “You’re the sheikh.”

“This is true.”

“Will you release me?”

He reached behind her, and when he drew his hand back into her line of vision, she saw he was now holding the knife. “I don’t trust you, little desert viper.”

“So well you shouldn’t, Your Highness, as I would cut your throat if given the chance.”

“Yet I have your knife. And you’re the only one who bled. I will release you for the moment, only if you agree to follow my instructions.”

“That depends on what they are.”

“I want you to get on the bed, in the center, and stay there.”

She stiffened, a new kind of fear entering her body. Death she’d been prepared for. But she had not, even for a moment, given adequate thought and concern to the idea of him putting his hands on her body.

No. Death first. She would fight him at all cost. She would not allow him to further dishonor her and her family. She would die fighting, but she would not allow him inside of her body.

Better a knife blade than him.

Ferran wouldn’t…

She shook that thought off quickly. Ferran was capable of anything. And he had no loyalty. It didn’t matter what he’d been like in that other life, in that other time. Not when he had proven all of that to be false.

She didn’t move, and neither did he.

“Do we have an agreement?” he asked.

“You will not touch me,” she said, her voice trembling now.

“I have no desire to touch you,” he said. “I simply need you where I can see you. You’re small, certainly, and a woman. But you are strong, and you are clearly a better fighter than I am, or I would have had you easily beaten. As it is, I had no choice but to use my size advantage against you. Now I have the size advantage and weapon. However, I still don’t trust you. So get on the bed, in the center, hands in your lap. I have no desire to degrade or humiliate you further, neither am I in the mood for sex. On that score, you are safe.”

“I would die first.”

“And I would kill you first, so there we have an agreement of sorts. Now get up onto the bed and sit for a moment.”

He moved away from her, slowly releasing his hold on her, the knife still in his hand. She obeyed his command, climbing up onto the bed and moving to the center of the massive mattress. Beds like this had come from another lifetime. She scarcely remembered them.

Since being exiled from the palace in Jahar she’d slept on raised cots, skins stretched over a wooden frame and one rough blanket. In the backs of shops. In the upstairs room of the martial arts studio she’d trained in. And when she was unlucky, on the dirt in an alley. When she’d arrived in the Khadran palace, as a servant, she’d slept in her first bed since losing her childhood room sixteen years ago.

The bed here, for servants, was much more luxurious than the sleep surfaces she’d been enjoying. Sized for one person, but soft and with two pillows. It was a luxury she’d forgotten. And it had felt wrong to enjoy it. The first week she’d slept on the floor in defiance, though that hadn’t lasted.

And now she was on Ferran’s bed. It made her skin crawl.

She put her hands in her lap and waited. She had no reason to trust his word, not when his blood had been found so lacking in honor. And not when he’d carried that dishonor to its conclusion himself.

The execution of her father. The order had been his. And no vow of bonds between royal families, or smiles between friends had changed his course.

As a result, she did not trust his vow not to touch her either.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said. “Who sent you?”

He still thought her a pawn. He still did not realize.

“I am acting of my own accord, as I said before.”

“For what purpose?”

“Revenge.”

“I see, and what is it I have not done to your liking?”

“You killed my king, Sheikh Ferran, and it was very much not to my liking.”

“I do not make a habit of killing people,” he said, his tone steel.

“Perhaps not with your hands, but you did set up the trial that ended in the execution of Jahar’s sheikh. And it is rumored you had part in the overtaking of the Jahari palace that happened after. So much violence…I remember that day all too well.”

He froze, the lines in his body tensing, his fist tightening around the knife. And for the first time, she truly feared. For the first time, she looked at the man and saw the ruthless desert warrior she had long heard spoken of. Thirty days in the palace and she had seen a man much more civilized than she anticipated. But not here. Not now.

“There were no survivors in the raid on the Jahari palace,” he said, his voice rough.

“Too bad for you, there were. I see you know from where I come.”

“The entire royal family, and all loyal servants were killed,” he said, his voice rough. “That was the report that was sent back to me.”

“They were wrong. And for my safety it was in my best interest that they continued to think so. But I am alive. If only to ensure that you will not be.”

He laughed, but there was no humor to the sound. “You are a reaper come to collect then, are you? My angel of death here to lead me to hell?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Very interesting.”

“I should think I’m more than interesting.”

He stilled. “You made me fear. There are not many on earth who have done so.”

“That is a great achievement for me then, and yet, I still find I’m unsatisfied.”

“You want blood.”

She lifted her chin, defiant. “I require it. For this is my vengeance. And it is all about blood.”

“I am sorry that I could not oblige you tonight.”

“No more sorry than I.”

“Why am I the object of your vengeance?” he asked. “Why not the new regime? Why not the people who stormed the palace and killed the royal family. The sheikha and her daughter.”

“You mean the revolutionaries who were aided by your men?”

“They were not. Not I, nor anyone else in Khadra, had part in the overthrowing of the Jahari royal family. I had a country to run. I had no interest in damaging yours.”

“You left us unprotected. You left us without a king.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You had the king of Jahar tried and executed in Khadra,” she spat, venom on her tongue. “You left the rest of us to die when he was taken. Forced from our home. Servants, soldiers…everyone who did not turn to the new leader was killed. And those who escaped…only a half life was ever possible. There was no border crossing to be had, unless you just wanted to wander out into the desert and hope to God you found the sea, or the next country.” As her mother had done one day. Wandered out into the desert never to return. At least, in recent years it had eased. That was how she’d been able to finally make her way to Khadra.

“I am not responsible for Sheikh Rashad’s fate. He paid for sins committed. It was justice. Still, I am regretful of the way things unfolded.”

“Are you?” she spat. “I find I am more than regretful, as it cost me everything.”

“It has been sixteen years.”

“Perhaps the passage of time matters to you, but I find that for me it does not.”

“I say again, I did not give the order to have your people killed. It is a small comfort, certainly, as they are gone, but it is not something I did. You aren’t the only one who doesn’t believe. I am plagued by the ramifications of the past.”

She curled her lip. “Plagued by it? I imagine it has been very hard for you. I’m not certain why I’m complaining about the fate of my country. Not when it has been so hard for you. In your palace with all of your power.”

“It is hard when your legacy is defined by a human rights violation you did not commit,” he bit out. “Make no mistake, I am often blamed for the hostile takeover of your country. But I did not send anyone into the palace to overthrow your government. Where have I benefited? Where is my hand in your country? What happened after was beyond my reach. And yet, I find I am in many ways responsible for it.”

“You cannot have it both ways, Sheikh. You did it, or you did not.”

“I had choices to make. To stand strong for my people, for my father, for my blood. Had I foreseen the outcome, as I should have done, my choices might have been different.”

“Are you God then?”

“I am sheikh. It is very close to being the same.”

“Then you are a flawed god indeed.”

“And you? Do you aspire to be the goddess?” he asked, moving to the foot of the bed, standing, tall, proud and straight. He was an imposing figure, and in many ways she couldn’t believe that she had dared touch him. Not when he so obviously outmatched her in strength and weight. Not when he was so clearly a deadly weapon all on his own.

“Just the angel of death, as you said. I have no higher aspiration than that. It isn’t power I seek, but justice.”

“And you think justice comes with yet more death?”

“Who sent the king of Jahar to trial, Sheikh? Who left my country without a ruler?” Who left me without a father? She didn’t voice the last part. It was too weak. And she refused to show weakness.

“I did,” he said, his tone hard, firm. “Lest we forget the blood of the king of Khadra was on his hands. And that is not a metaphor.”

“At least Khadra had an heir!”

His expression turned to granite. “And lacked an angry, disillusioned populace. Certainly the loss of the king affected Jahar, but had the people not been suffering…”

“I am not here to debate politics with you.”

“No, it is your wish to cut my throat. And I must say, even politics seems preferable to that.”

“I am not so certain.” She looked away for a moment, just a moment, to try and gather her thoughts. To try and catch her breath. “You left a little girl with no protection. A queen without her husband.”

“And was I to let the Jahari king walk after taking the life of my father? The life of my mother.”

“He did not…”

“We will not speak of my mother,” he said, his tone fierce. “I forbid it.”

“And so we find ourselves here,” she said, her tone soft.

“So we do indeed.”

“Will you have me killed?” she asked. “As I am also an inconvenience?”

“You, little viper, have attempted to murder me. At this point you are much more than an inconvenience.”

“As you see it, Sheikh. The only problem I see is that I have failed.”

“You do not speak as someone who values their preservation.”

“Do I not?”

“No. You ask if I aim to kill you and then you express your desire to see me dead. All things considered, I suppose I should order your lovely head to be separated from your neck.”

She put her hand to her throat. A reflex. A cowardly one. She didn’t like it.

“However,” he said dryly. “I find I have no stomach for killing teenage girls.”

“I am not a teenage girl.”

“Semantics. You cannot be over twenty.”

“Twenty-one,” she said, clenching her teeth.

“Fine then. I have no stomach for the murder of a twenty-one-year-old girl. And as such I would much rather find a way for you to be useful to me.” He slid his thumb along the flat of her blade. “But where I could keep an eye on you, as I would rather this not end up in my back.”

“I make no promises, Sheikh.”

“Again, we must work on your self-preservation.”

“Forgive me. I don’t quite believe I have a chance at it.”

Something in his face changed, his eyebrows drawing tightly together. “Samarah. Not a servant girl, or just an angry citizen. You are Samarah.”

He’d recognized her. At last. She’d hoped he wouldn’t. Not when she was supposed to be dead. Not when he hadn’t seen her since she was a child of six.

She met his eyes. “Sheikha Samarah Al-Azem, of Jahar. A princess with no palace. And I am here for what is owed me.”

“You think that is blood, little Samarah?”

“You will not call me little. I just kicked you in the head.”

“Indeed you did, but to me, you are still little.”

“Try such insolence when I have my blade back, and I will cut your throat, Sheikh.”

“Noted,” he said, regarding her closely. “You have changed.”

“I ought to have. I’m no longer six.”

“I cannot give you blood,” he said. “For I am rather attached to having it in my veins, as you can well imagine.”

“Self-preservation is something of an instinct.”

“For most,” he said, dryly.

“Different when you have nothing to lose.”

“And is that the position you’re in?”

“Why else would I invade the palace and attempt an assassination? Obviously I have no great attachments to this life.”

His eyes flattened, his jaw tightening. “I cannot give you blood, Samarah. But you feel you were robbed of a legacy. Of a palace. And that, I can perhaps see you given.”

“Can you?”

“Yes. I have indeed thought of a use for you. By this time next week, I shall present you to the world as my intended bride.”

CHAPTER TWO

“NO.”

Ferran looked down at the woman kneeling in the center of his mattress. The woman was, if she was to be believed, if his own recognition could be believed, Samarah Al-Azem. Come back from the dead.

For surely the princess had been killed. The dark-eyed, smiling child he remembered so well, gone in the flood of violence that had started in the Khadran palace, ending in the death of Jahar’s sheikh. What started as a domestic dispute cut a swath across the borders, into Jahar. The brunt of it falling on the Jahari palace.

It was the king of Jahar who had started the violence. Storming the Khadran palace, as punishment for his wife’s affair with Ferran’s father. An affair that had begun when Samarah was a young child and Ferran was a teenager. When the duty to country was served by both rulers, having supplied their spouses with children. Or so the story went. But it had not ended there. It had burned out of hand.

And countless casualties had been left.

Among them, the world had been led to believe, Samarah.

Was she truly the princess?

A girl he’d thought long dead. A death he had, by extension, caused. Was it possible she lived?

She was small. Dark-haired. At least from what he could tell. A veil covered her head, her brows the only indicator of hair coloring. It was not required for women in employment of the palace to cover their heads or faces. But he was certain she was an employee here. Though not one who had been working for the palace long. There were many workers in the palace, and he didn’t make it his business to memorize their faces.

Though, when one tried to kill him in his own bedchamber, he felt exceptions could be made. And when one was possibly the girl who had never left his mind, not ever, in sixteen years…

He truly had exceptions to make.

He was torn between rage and a vicious kind of amusement. That reckoning had come, and it had come in this form. Lithe, soft and vulnerable. The most innocent victim of all, come to claim his life. It was a testament, in many ways, to just how badly justice had been miscarried on that day.

Though he was not the one to answer for it. His justice had been the key to her demise. And yet, there was nothing he could do to change it. How could he spare the man who had robbed his country of a leader, installed a boy in place of the man.

The man who had killed his family for revenge.

They were two sides to the same coin. And depending upon which side you looked at, you had a different picture entirely.

Also, depending on which version of events you heard…

He shook off the thoughts, focused back on the present. On the woman. Samarah. “No?” he asked.

“You heard me. I will not ally myself with you.”

“Then you will ally yourself with whomever you share a cell with. I firmly hope you find it enjoyable.”

“You say that like you believe I’m frightened.”

“Are you not?”

She raised her head, dark eyes meeting his. “I was prepared for whatever came.”

“Obviously not, as you have rejected my offer. You do realize that I am aware you didn’t act on your own. And that I will find who put you up to this, one way or the other. Whether you agree to this or not. However, if you do…things could go better for you.”

“An alliance with you? That’s better?”

“You do remember,” he said, speaking the words slowly, softly, and hating himself with each syllable, “how I handle those who threaten the crown.”

“I remember well. I remember how you flew the Khadran flag high and celebrated after the execution of my father,” she said, her tone ice.

“Necessary,” he bit out. “For I could not allow what happened in Jahar to happen here.”

“But you see, what happened in Jahar had not happened yet. It wasn’t until the sheikh was gone, the army scattered and all of us left without protection that we were taken. That we were slaughtered by revolutionaries who thought nothing of their perceived freedom coming at the price of our lives.”

“Thus is war,” he said. “And history. Individuals are rarely taken into account. Only result.”

“A shame then that we must live our lives as individuals and not causes.”

“Do we?” he asked. “It doesn’t appear to me that you have. And I certainly don’t. That is why I’m proposing marriage to you.”

“That’s like telling me two plus two equals camel. I have no idea what you’re saying.”

He laughed, though he still found nothing about the situation overly amusing. “The division between Khadra and Jahar has long been a source of unrest here. Violence at the borders is an issue, as I’m sure you well know. This could change that. Erase it. It’s black-and-white. That’s how I live my life. In a world of absolutes. There is no room for gray areas.”

“To what end for me, Sheikh Ferran? I will never have my rightful position back, not in a meaningful way. The royal family of Jahar will never be restored, not in my lifetime.”

“How have you lived since you left the palace?”

“Poorly,” she said, dark eyes meeting his.

“This would get you back on the throne.”

“I will not marry you.”

“Then you will enjoy prison.”

The look on her face nearly destroyed what little was left of his humanity. A foolish thing, to pity the woman who’d just tried to kill him. And she could have succeeded. She was not a novice fighter. He had no illusion of her being a joke just because he was a man and she a woman. He had no doubt that the only thing that had kept him from a slit throat was her bare moment of hesitation. Seconds had made the difference between his life and death.

He should not pity her. He should not care that he’d known her since she was a baby. That he could clearly picture her as a bubbly, spoiled little princess who had been beautiful beyond measure. A treasure to her country.

That was not who she was now. As he was not the haughty teenage boy he’d been. Not the entitled prince who thought only of women and what party he might sneak into, what trouble he might find on his father’s yachts.

Life had hit them both, harsh and real, at too young an age. He had learned a hard lesson about human weakness. About his own weaknesses. Secrets revealed that had sent her father into the palace in a murderous rage…one that had, in the end, dissolved a lineage, destroyed a nation that was still rebuilding.

She was a product of that, as was he. And her actions now had nothing to do with that connection from back then. He should throw her in a jail cell and show her no mercy.

And yet he didn’t want to.

It made no sense. There was no room for loyalty to a would-be assassin. No room for pity. Putting your faith in the wrong person could have a disastrous end, and he knew it well. If he was wrong now…

No. He would not be wrong.

This was not ordinary compassion leading him. There was potential political gain to be had. Yes, Jahar had suffered the most change during that dark time sixteen years ago, but Khadra had suffered, too. They had lost their sheikh and sheikha, they had been rocked by violence. Their security shaken to its core.

The palace had been breached.

Their centuries-old alliance with their closest neighbors shattered. It had changed everything in a single instance. For him, and for millions of people who called his country home.

He had never taken that lightly. It was why he never faltered. It was why he showed her no mercy.

But this was an opportunity for something else. For healing. One thing he knew. More blood, more arrests, would not fix the hurts from the past.

It had to end. And it had to end with them.

“Can you kill me instead?” she asked.

“You ask for death?”

“Rather than a prison cell?”

“Rather than marriage,” he said.

Her nostrils flared, dark eyes intense. “I will not become your property.”

“I do not intend to make you my property, but answer me this, Samarah. What will this do to our countries?”

“I almost bet it will do nothing to mine.”

“Do you think? Are you a fool? No one will believe one girl was acting alone.”

“I am not a girl.”

“You are barely more than a child as far as I’m concerned.”

“Had I been raised in the palace that might be true, but as it is, I lived on the streets. I slept in doorways and on steps. I holed up in the back rooms of shops when I could. I had to take care of a mother who went slowly mad. I had to endure starvation, dehydration, the constant threat of theft or rape. I am not a child. I am years older than you will ever live to be,” she spat.

He hated to imagine her in that position. In the gutter. In danger. But she had clearly survived. Though, he could see it was a survival fueled by anger.

“If you kill me,” he said, “make no mistake, Khadra will make Jahar pay. If I imprison you…how long do you suppose it will take for those loyal to the royal family to threaten war on me? But if we are engaged…”

“What will the current regime in Jahar think?”

“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 now 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 details. “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.

She doubted anyone dressed Ferran. He didn’t seem the type.

She pondered that while she put the underwear and dress on. He had not turned out the way she might have imagined. First, he hadn’t transformed into a monster. She’d imagined that he might have. Since, in her mind, he was the man who killed her father.

He also hadn’t become the man she’d imagined he might, based on what she remembered of him when he’d been a teenage boy.

He’d been mouthy, sullen when forced to attend palace dinners and behave. And he’d often pulled practical jokes on palace staff.

He didn’t seem like a man who would joke about much now.

Well, except for his ‘when the sun sinks beneath the dune’ humor. She snorted. As if she would be amused.

She considered the light veil that had been included with the dress. She’d chosen to wear one while on staff, but in general she did not. Unless she was headed into the heart of the Jahari capital. Then she often opted to wear one simply to avoid notice.

She would not wear one tonight. Instead, she wandered to the ornate jewelry box that was situated on the vanity and opened it. Inside, she found bangles, earrings and an elaborate head chain with a bright center gem designed to rest against her forehead.

She braided her long dark hair and fastened the chain in place, then put on the rest of the jewelry. Beauty to disguise herself. A metaphor that seemed to be carrying through today.

She found that there was makeup, as well, and she applied it quickly, the foundation doing something to hide the cut on her cheek. It enraged her to see it. Better it was covered. She painted dark liner around her eyes, stained her lips red.

She looked at herself and scarcely knew the woman she saw. Everything she was wearing was heavy, and of a fine quality she could never have afforded in her life on the street. She blinked, then looked away, turning her focus to the window, where she could see the sun sinking below the dunes.

It was time.

She lifted the front of her dress, her bangles clinking together, all of her other jewels moving with each step, giving her a theme song composed in precious metals as she made her way from the room and down the long corridor.

She rounded a corner and went down a sweeping staircase into a sitting area of the palace. There were men there, dressed in crisp, white tunics nearly as ornate as her dress.

“Sheikha,” one said, “this way to dinner.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

She followed him into the next room. The dining area was immaculate, a tall table with a white tablecloth and chairs placed around. It was large enough to seat fifty, but currently only seated Ferran. There were windows behind him that looked out into the gardens, lush, green. A sign of immeasurable wealth. So much water in the desert being given to plants.

“You came,” he said, not bothering to stand when she entered.

“Of course. The sun has sunken. Behind the dunes.”

“So it has.”

“I should not like to disobey a direct order,” she said.

“No,” he responded, “clearly not. You are so very biddable.”

“I find that I am.” She walked down the edge of the table, her fingertips brushing the backs of the chairs as she made her way toward him. “Merciful even.”

“Merciful?” he asked, raising his brows. “I had not thought that an accurate description. Perhaps…thwarted?”

She stopped moving, her eyes snapping up to his. “Perhaps,” she bit out.

“Sit,” he commanded.

She continued walking, to the head of the table, around the back of him, lifting her hand the so she was careful to avoid contact with him. She watched his shoulders stiffen, his body, his instincts on high alert.

He knew he had not tamed her. Good.

She took a seat to his left, her eyes on the plate in front of her. “I do hope there will be food soon. I’m starving. It seems I was detained for most of the day.”

“Ah yes,” he said, “I recall. And don’t worry. It’s on its way.”

As if on cue, six men came in, carrying trays laden with clay pots, and clear jars full of frosted, brightly colored juice.

All of the trays were laid out before them, the tall lids on the tagines removed with great drama and flair.

Her stomach growled and she really hoped he wasn’t planning on poisoning her, because she just wanted to eat some couscous, vegetables and spiced lamb. She’d spent many nights trying to sleep in spite of the aching emptiness in her stomach.

And she didn’t have the patience for it, not now.

She needed a full stomach to deal with Ferran.

“We are to serve ourselves,” Ferran said, as the staff walked from the room. “I often prefer to eat this way. I find I get everything to my liking when I do it myself.” His eyes met hers. “And I find I am much happier when I am in control of a situation.”

She arched a brow and reached for a wooden utensil, dipping it into the couscous and serving herself a generous portion. “That could be a problem,” she said, going back for some lamb. “As I feel much the same way, and I don’t think either of us can have complete control at any given time.”

“Do you ever have control, Samarah?”

She paused. “As much as one can have, Sheikh. Of course, the desert is always king, no matter what position in life you hold. No one can stop a drought. Or a monsoon. Or a sandstorm.”

“I take it that’s your way of excusing your powerlessness.”

She took a sharp breath and turned her focus to her dinner. “I am not powerless. No matter the situation, no matter the chains, you can never make me powerless. I will always have choices, and my strength is here.” She put her hand on her chest. “Not even you can reach in and take my heart, Sheikh Ferran Bashar. And so, you will never truly have power over me.”

“You are perhaps the bravest person I’ve ever met,” he said. “And the most foolish.”

She smiled. “I take both as the sincerest of compliments.”

“I should like to discuss our plan.”

“I should like to eat—this is very good. I don’t think the servants eat the same food as you do.”

“Do they not? I had not realized. I’ll ask the chef if it’s too labor intensive or if it’s possible everyone eat as I do.”

“I imagine it isn’t possible, and it would only make more work for the cook. Cooking in mass quantities is a bit different than cooking for one sheikh and his prisoner.”

“I’ve never cooked,” he said. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I haven’t often cooked, but I have been in the food lines in Jahar. I know what mass-produced food is.”

“Tell me,” he said, leaning on one elbow. “How did you survive?”

“After we left the palace—” she would not speak of that night, not to him “—we sought asylum with sympathizers, though they were nearly impossible to find. We went from house to house. We didn’t want people to know we’d survived.”

“It was reported you were among the dead.”

She nodded. “I know. A favor granted to my mother by a servant who wanted to live. She feigned loyalty to the new regime, but she secretly helped my mother and I escape, then told the new president—” she said the word with utter disdain “—that we had been killed with the rest.”

“After that,” she said, “we were often homeless. Sometimes getting work in shops. Then we could sleep on the steps, with minimal shelter provided from the overhang of the roof. Or, if the shopkeeper was truly kind, a small room in the back.”

“And then?” he asked.

“My mother died when I was thirteen. At least…I assume she did. She left one day and didn’t return. I think…I think she walked out into the desert and simply kept walking. She was never the same after. She never smiled.”

“I think that day had that effect on us all. But I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You apologize frequently for what happened. Do you mean it?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“But do you feel it?” she asked. He was so monotone. Even now, even in this.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“That’s not true,” she said, her eyes locked with his. “You felt fear last night. I made you fear.”

“So you did,” he said. “But we are not talking about me. Tell me how you went on after your mother died.”

“I continued on the way I always had. But I ended up finding work at a martial arts studio, of all places. Master Ahn was not in Jahar at the time of the unrest, and he had no qualms about taking me in. Part of my payment was training along with my room and board.”

“I see now why you had such an easy time ambushing me,” he said.

“I have a black belt in Hapkido. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“A Jaharan princess who is a master in martial arts.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Strange times we live in.”

“I should say. You know someone tried to murder me in my bedchamber last night.”

“Is that so?” she asked, taking a bite of lamb.

“I myself spent the ensuing years in the palace. Now that we’re caught up, I think we should discuss our engagement.”

“Do you really see this working?” she asked.

“I never expected to love my wife, Samarah. I have long expected to marry a woman who would advance me in a political fashion and help my country in some way. That is part of being a ruler, and I know you share that. You are currently a sheikha without a throne or a people, and I aim to give you both. So yes, I do see this working. I don’t see why it shouldn’t.”

“I tried to kill you,” she said. “That could possibly be a reason it wouldn’t work.”

“Don’t most wives consider that at some point? I grant you, usually several years of marriage have passed first, but even so, it’s hardly that unusual.”

“And you think this will…change what happened? You think what happened can be changed?” she asked. And she found she was honestly curious. She shouldn’t be. She shouldn’t really want to hear any of what he had to say.

“Everything can be changed. Enough water can change an entire landscape. It can reshape stone. Why can’t we reshape what is left?”

She found that something in her, something traitorous and hopeful, something she’d never imagined would have survived all her years living in the worst parts of Jahar, enduring the worst sorts of fear and starvation and loss, wanted to believe him.

That the pieces of her life could somehow be reshaped. That she could have something more than cold. More than anger and revenge. More than a driving need to inflict pain, as it had been inflicted on her.

“And if not,” he said. “I still find the outcome preferable to having my throat cut. And you will have something infinitely nicer than a storeroom to sleep in. That should be enough.”

And just like that, the warm hopefulness was extinguished.

Because he was talking as though a soft bed would fix the pain she’d suffered. The loss of her family, the loss of her home.

He didn’t know. And she would have to force him to understand. She would make him look at her pain, her suffering. And endure it as she had done.

“Yes,” she said, smiling, a careful, practiced smile, “why not indeed?”

CHAPTER FOUR

NOT FOR THE first time since striking the deal with Samarah, Ferran had reservations. Beautiful she was, biddable she would never be.

She was descended from a warrior people, and she had transformed herself into a foot soldier. One he’d rather have on his side than plotting his death.

She’d been a little hermit the past few days. But he was under no illusion. She was just a viper in her burrow, and he would have to reach in and take her out carefully.

Barring that, he would smoke her out. Metaphorically. He wasn’t above an ironhanded approach. He supposed, in many ways, he was already implementing one. But the little serpent had tried to kill him.

There was hardly an overreaction to that. Though, there was a foolish reaction. Proposing marriage might be it. And there were the reservations.

He walked up to the entry of her bedchamber and considered entering without knocking. Then he decided he liked his head attached to his shoulders and signaled his intent to enter with a heavy rap on wooden doors.

“Yes?”

“It’s Ferran,” he said.

He was met with silence.

“If you have forgotten,” he said, “I am the sheikh of Khadra and your fiancé. Oh, also your mortal enemy.”

The left door opened a crack, and he could see one brown eye glaring at him through it. “I have not forgotten.”

“I haven’t seen you in days, so I was concerned.”

She blinked twice. “I’ve been ill.”

“Have you?”

“Well, I haven’t felt very well.”

“I see,” he said.

“Because we’re engaged.”

“Did my proposal give you a cold?”

The eye narrowed. “What do you want?”

“I did not propose to you so you could nest in one of the rooms in my palace. We have serious issues to attend to. Namely, announcing our engagement to the world. Which will involve letting the world know that the long-lost, long-mourned sheikha of Jahar lives.”

“Can’t you write up a press release?”

“Let me in, Samarah, or I will push past you.”

“Would you like to try?”

“Let me in,” he repeated.

She obeyed this time, the door swinging open. She held it, her arm extended, a dark brow raised. “Enter.”

“Why is it you make me feel like I’m a guest in my own palace?”

“These are my quarters. In them, you are a guest.”

“This is my country, and in it, you are a prisoner.” Her shoulders stiffened, her nostrils flaring. “Such an uncomfortable truth.”

“I can think of a few things more uncomfortable.”

He arched a brow. “Such as?”

“If I planted my foot between your ribs,” she said, practically hissing.

“You and I shall have to spar sometime. When I’m certain you don’t want me killed.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time.”

“Careful. Some men might consider this verbal foreplay.” He said it to get a reaction. What disturbed him was that it did seem that way. It made his blood run hotter. Made him think of what it had felt like to hold her over his shoulder, all soft curves and deadly rage.

He gritted his teeth. He was not a slave to his body. He was a slave to nothing. He was master. He was sheikh. And with that mastery, he served his people. Not himself. That meant there was no time for this sort of reaction.

Her upper lip curled into a snarl. “You disgust me. Do you think I would sleep with the man who ordered my father killed?”

“For the good of our people? I would sleep with the woman whose father caused the death of my parents.” The man who had wrenched the bars open that held Ferran’s demons back from the world. The man who revealed what it was Ferran could be with the restraints broken.

He ignored those memories. He ignored the heat that pooled in his gut at the thought of what sleeping with her would mean.

She blinked. “I feel as though we have an impossible legacy to negotiate. I have, in fact, been thinking that for the past few days.”

“To what end?”

“To the end that in many ways I understand what you did.” Her dark eyes looked wounded, angry. “But I don’t have to condone it. Or forgive it.”

“Your father killed mine. Face-to-face and in cold blood. My mother…”

“I know,” she said. “And…it is a difficult set of circumstances we find ourselves in. I realize that.”

“Not so difficult. Marriage is fairly straightforward.” It was a contractual agreement, nothing more. And as long as he thought of it in those terms, he could find a place for it in his ordered world.

Both brows shot up. “Is it? As our parents’ deaths were a result of marital infidelity I think it’s a bit more complex than you’re giving it credit for.”

“Passion is more complex than people give it credit for. Passion is dangerous. Marriage on the other hand is a legal agreement, and not dangerous in the least. Not on its own. Add passion and you have fire to your gasoline.”

“Okay, I see your point. But are you honestly telling me you act without passion?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Yes. If I acted based on passion I would have had your pretty head for what you tried to do. Lucky for you, I think things through. I never act before considering all possible outcomes.” He studied her, her petite frame hinted at by a red, beaded tunic that hung to her knees, her legs covered by matching pants. Her dark hair was pulled back again, the top of her head covered by a golden chain that was laced over her crown. He wondered what her hair might look like loose. Falling in glossy black waves over her shoulders.

And then he stopped wondering. Because it was irrelevant. Because her hair, her beauty, had nothing to do with their arrangement. It had nothing to do with anything.

“Are you passionate?” he asked, instead of contemplating her hair for another moment.

She cocked her head to the side, a frown tugging down the corners of her lips. “About some things,” she said. “Survival being chief among them. I don’t think I could have lived through what I lived through without a certain measure of passion for breathing. If I hadn’t felt burning desire to keep on doing it, I probably would have walked out to the desert, lain down on a dune and stopped. And then there was revenge. I’ve felt passion for that.”

“And that’s where we differ. I don’t want revenge, because the purpose it serves is small. I want to serve a broader purpose. And that’s why thinking is better than passion.” Passion was dangerous. Emotion was vulnerability. He believed in neither.

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