Royal Families Vs. Historicals

“Don’t you dare—” she began, but he was already touching her, and that was its own alchemy.

That fire that only burned hotter by the day exploded between them, the way it always did, wild and bright. He saw her pulse accelerate in her neck. He saw that white-hot heat make her eyes go glassy.

“You little fool,” he bit out, but this wasn’t temper, he understood. Not any longer. There was that bittersweet pang of jealousy at the thought of her with other men, but everything else was pure, sensual menace that he had every intention of taking out on her delectable body. Until she took his point to heart. “Do you think this happens every day?”

“I assume it must,” she fired back at him, so busy fighting him she didn’t seem to notice the way he was backing her across the room, to the nearest wall. “Or every popular song I’ve ever heard is a lie.”

She let out a small, surprised noise when her back came up against the nearest brocaded wall, and then another when Rihad merely leaned closer and pressed his forehead to hers, holding her that simply.

“This is the sex you seem to think you can get anywhere,” he told her, and her mouth was a serious temptation, but he ignored it, concentrating on pulling that long skirt of hers up and sliding his hands beneath. “This is the chemistry you imagine is so run-of-the-mill.”

He felt that shudder go through her and then his hands were on her soft thighs, and it was his turn to let out a long breath when he found she was completely bare beneath her dress. There was nothing but the heat of her skin, the touch of her soft curls, and then that molten core of her, all his.

Only and ever his.

“Rihad…” she whispered.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he told her.

He angled his head back so he could look at her, even as he plunged a finger deep into her heat. He watched a flush spread over her cheeks and knew that was the truth of things between them. The only truth that mattered, and it always would be. That dark, bewitching fire. That endless well of need.

“If you have something to say to me, Sterling, say it. Don’t poke at me. Don’t pretend.”

She stiffened at that. “Pretending is the problem. It’s what we’ve—I’ve—been doing this whole time!”

“I don’t think so.”

He pulled his finger from her depths, then held her gaze as he licked it clean, her taste as intoxicating as ever on his tongue. He felt his mouth curve as her lips parted at that, as if she was finding it difficult to breathe regularly. He reached down between them to handle his robes and his trousers, and then he stepped between her legs as he lifted her up, wrapping her around him and holding her there for a long, hot instant.

This time, he didn’t carry her to a nearby table. This time, as he lowered her against him he slid deep inside of her, so deep they both groaned at the sensation.

Her hands balled into fists at his shoulders and she bit her lip as if she meant to resist him. But then she rolled her hips against his as if she couldn’t help herself, and Rihad smiled.

He took control then. Her ankles were locked tight around his hips and he lifted her up, then brought her down, working her against him slowly. So slowly. Making her shudder and pant. Making it so good she’d forget all this divorce and separation nonsense.

Because she was soft and hot, a revelation around him with every stroke, and she was his.

All his. Always his.

It took him a long while to realize that he was chanting that out loud, like a prayer or a promise, and when he did, he laughed.

“Say it,” he demanded.

But this was Sterling, his Sterling. So even as she writhed against him, even as her hips met his in this wild dance of theirs, she defied him.

And God help him, he loved it. He loved all of this more than he’d ever imagined was possible, more than he’d ever loved anything or anyone. Sterling was his, damn it. All of her. Her body and her heart alike, and he didn’t much care if she thought otherwise. He knew the truth.

He wasn’t giving her up. Ever. Even if his kingdom came down around him. Even if the world followed suit.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t care about his duty. He cared about her.

“Say it,” he told her again. “I can do this all day. And if I can, you will. But you will not come until you admit what we both already know is the truth.”

She let out a sound then, half fury and half need, and Rihad laughed again, because he was as hungry as she was. As greedy for her.

“All yours,” she gritted out, her blue eyes slick and warm on his, and he felt it like a caress. This was who they were. Caress, capitulation, it was all the same thing. It all led to the same place. “Damn you, Rihad, I’m yours.”

He reached down between them and pressed hard against the taut center of her hunger, and she bucked hard against him, arching her back and digging her fingers hard into his shoulders, then screamed as she plummeted over the edge.

But Rihad was only getting started.

CHAPTER TWELVE

STERLING HADN’T MEANT to eavesdrop.

She’d been enjoying the gala, held in the grand art gallery that was one of the jewels of the new Bakri City, a testament to the country’s bright new future. Or so Rihad had said in his speech earlier, in English, for the benefit of the foreign press. She’d allowed the phalanx of docents to lead her through the first great exhibit, on loan from the Louvre, and had honestly enjoyed looking at the collection of world-class, world-famous art.

It had reminded her of her favorite way to spend a day in New York City: wandering aimlessly around the Metropolitan Museum of Art and losing herself in all the marvelous things collected there for the viewing, from paintings to metalwork to Egyptian tombs. Except here in Bakri City there was the sea on one side and the beckoning desert on the other, reminding her that she was across the world from the things she knew.

It had been ten days since she’d realized that she loved Rihad. Ten long days and longer nights since she’d understood that she must leave him and, worse, Leyla, too. Every day, she’d woken up and vowed that it would be her last in Bakri, that she would find a way to leave the two people she loved most. Yet somehow, there was always another reason to stay.

And here she was on yet another night, dressed in beautiful clothes as befit the queen she still had trouble believing was legitimately her. She’d smiled prettily on command, quite as if she couldn’t see the speculation in every gaze that met hers. As if she couldn’t hear the whispers that followed her around the great courtyard.

As if she wasn’t aware that at least half of the people who spoke to her were thinking the word whore as they curtsied and called her Your Majesty.

“Your daughter is the bright jewel of the kingdom,” professed one Bakrian aristocrat whom Sterling had recognized from her wedding. Where this woman and her husband, both possessed of crisp, upper-crust British accents when they spoke in their perfect English, had gazed back at her as if they couldn’t understand a word she’d said.

“I certainly think so,” Sterling had said.

“One can only hope she grows into her mother’s beauty,” said the husband, and Sterling hadn’t much liked that look in his too-knowing eyes when he said it, or the way he’d leaned closer than was strictly appropriate when he’d continued. “What a blessing it is for a daughter to become like her mother in every way.”

It took a moment for Sterling to understand that this person had, in effect, just called her infant daughter a whore. A potential whore.

She was going to ruin Rihad if she stayed. That much was obvious, no matter how he tried to dismiss it.

But aside from worrying over her biological limitations and the genetic propensity for ruining children she might have inherited from her own terrible mother, Sterling hadn’t really given a lot of thought to how her presence in Bakri would destroy Leyla. She’d thought that as Rihad’s daughter in every way but her biology, Leyla would be safe. More than safe.

You should have known better, sneered that internal voice that she knew came from her foster parents, across all those years, as if she was still standing in the middle of that cold kitchen waiting for the next blow to lay her out on the linoleum floor. You taint everything you touch.

She’d ducked into one of the cordoned-off alcoves for a little breather after that unpleasant last encounter. She wanted to take a moment—only a moment—to let her face do whatever it wished. To drop her public smile. To simply not be on display.

Sterling pulled in a deep breath, then let it out. Then again.

And it was as she was preparing to walk back out and face it all again that she heard Rihad’s deep voice from the other side of the pillar that concealed her.

“I have no worries whatsoever about the union between our countries,” he was saying in his crisp, kingly manner. “Nor can I imagine that Kavian has indicated otherwise, to your publication or to anyone else.”

That meant it was one of the reporters, Sterling understood, and that was why she didn’t reveal her presence. She’d had enough of the press earlier, with their sugary smiles and all those jagged claws right underneath, sharpened on her own skin every time they asked her a pointed question.

“Yet your sister remains at large.”

“The Princess Amaya’s schedule remains private for obvious security reasons.” Rihad’s voice was so cold then it made Sterling’s stomach clench tight. “But I can assure you that no member of the royal family is ‘at large.’ Your information is faulty.”

“Neither Kavian nor Amaya have been seen—”

“His Royal Majesty Kavian ibn Zayed al Talaas, ruling sheikh of the desert stronghold Daar Talaas, is certainly not in hiding of any kind, if that is what your impertinent suggestion is meant to imply.” Rihad’s voice held dark warning then. “But he no more clears his schedule with me than I do with him. He certainly does not clear it with you. I would advise you to step away from this subject.”

“Certainly, Sire.” The man’s voice made Sterling feel dirty. Tarnished. “My congratulations on your recent marriage.”

Sterling winced then, at the thunderous silence that told her all she needed to know about the expression Rihad was likely wearing.

“Tread carefully,” Rihad all but growled. “Very carefully.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty, you must be aware that there is mounting concern among your subjects that a woman like that—”

“A woman like that?” Rihad’s voice turned mild, which was her husband at his most volatile, even as that same old phrase knocked around inside of Sterling, leaving marks. New bruises to join the old. “By all means, enlighten me. A woman like what, exactly?”

That was when Sterling moved. She swept out from behind the pillar and hoped it would be assumed she’d simply taken herself off to the powder room.

Rihad stood squared off against a small, toad-like creature Sterling recognized as one of the paparazzi who had followed her every move in New York. She had no doubt that he was responsible for a great many of the horrible narratives that circulated about her to this day, as he’d taken after her as if Sterling was his pet project. He’d always looked at her as if he could see that truth buried deep inside of her. As if he knew how flawed and unwanted and ruined she truly was.

Part of her wanted nothing more than to leave him to Rihad’s scant and rapidly eroding mercy, but she didn’t dare. Not now, after all the recent bad press and a museum filled with more reporters. She was already enough of a stone draped around Rihad’s neck, dragging him down. There was no need to add an assault-and-battery charge on her behalf to the list of her sins against this man.

“Sterling,” the awful little man oozed at her. “We were just talking about you.”

She didn’t know which part of that offended her more—the way the man looked at her, the way he spoke to her with such unearned familiarity or the way he sidled closer to her with his hand extended as if he planned to put it on—

“Ancient Bakrian law states that if another man touches my queen without my permission I am not only permitted to rend him limb from limb with my own hands, but must do so to protect the honor of the crown,” Rihad said conversationally, and the reporter froze. Rihad’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Barbaric, is it not? And yet so many of my subjects find comfort in the old ways.”

He did not say, myself included, but Sterling felt certain she was not the only one who felt as if he’d shouted it from the rooftops.

The little man’s eyes glittered with a sort of impotent fury that Sterling knew—she knew—would translate into yet another revolting piece about her in the morning papers. She could practically read the article now as it scrolled across the man’s dirty mind.

To this man I will never be anything but a woman like that, Sterling thought miserably, but she only smiled at the reporter as she moved past him to take Rihad’s arm. The Queen Whore herself, parading around like so much pollution.

“You shouldn’t antagonize him,” she said softly as Rihad drew her out onto the dance floor, the elegant crowd parting all around them to let them take its center, as if the tense exchange had never happened. “Not him or any of his little cronies.”

“Must I introduce myself to you all over again?” Rihad’s voice was arrogant, and his dark gold eyes still glittered furiously. “I am the King of Bakri. He should not antagonize me.”

“You are the king, yes,” she agreed, trying to keep her smile in place and her voice low, as befitted such genteel and public a place. “And you should not condescend to notice a man like him. That you do at all is my fault.”

Sterling felt one of his hands tighten against the small of her back, and the other where his larger one gripped hers, and her curse was that she felt all of this like light. It was as if he poured straight into her, banishing all the darkness.

But she knew that wasn’t true. She knew nothing could.

“Do not start this again,” he warned her, his voice harsh despite his placid expression. “Not here.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” she murmured, so submissively that it startled a laugh out of him. Which in turn made her laugh, too, when she’d have said that was impossible under the circumstances. And still he spun her around and around that dance floor, as if they were nothing but beautiful. As if all of this was.

And some of the papers the next morning thought so, it was true.

But the others were vile.

There was a list of Sterling’s supposed conquests, spanning the globe and including some countries she’d never visited and many men she’d never met. Another featured a list of her “raciest moments,” which mostly involved skimpy outfits from her more outrageous modeling shoots held up as if she’d paraded around the streets of Manhattan wearing so little.

They didn’t actually call her a whore. But then, they didn’t have to call her anything. The comments section did that for them.

Sterling didn’t mention the articles. Still, she could see the temper crack across Rihad’s face and thought he tried to conceal it from her. Because that was Rihad, she understood now. Duty before all else. And he’d decided she was one of his duties. She cuddled Leyla on her lap and pressed kisses into the sweet crown of her head, and she only smiled when Rihad excused himself.

Because she knew what he refused to accept: this was never going to get better. She was never going to get better, or any less the subject of the repulsive speculation of the public.

And if she stayed here, Rihad and Leyla would rot right along with her.

Sterling might not have known a lot about love, but she knew—deep down she knew—that if she really, truly loved them, she wouldn’t condemn them to that kind of life. Not when it took so little to save them.

So very little.

All she had to do was leave.

* * *

When his chief of security strode into Rihad’s private conference room, scattering the gathered aides and the handful of ambassadors Rihad had been sitting with, he assumed it was about Amaya, at last.

“Has she been found?” he asked when the room was clear.

He thought the feeling that moved in him then was something far closer to regret than relief. But that made no sense. Amaya needed to be found and should have been found months ago. She needed to do her duty, no matter how Rihad might have come to sympathize with her plight. He hadn’t lied to her when he’d told her there were no other options available to them.

But he couldn’t deny the part of him that admired his younger sister for having stayed out of Kavian’s reach all this time. Rihad liked the other man well enough. Respected him, even. But he doubted very much that any other creature on earth had led him on such a merry chase.

“We are tracking her, Your Majesty,” his security chief said, standing at rigid attention, quite as if he expected a reprimand. “We have video of her leaving the palace an hour ago. It looks as if she’s headed for the city limits.”

Rihad digested that statement, and it took him longer than it should have to comprehend that the man was not talking about his sister.

But he couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing.

He was aware that he’d frozen solid where he stood. He heard what his security chief was saying, but he couldn’t seem to move. To react.

She had charmed her way into one of the palace’s fleet of armored vehicles, because she was nothing if not persuasive when she wished. And because she was his queen. Instead of heading for the royal enclosure near the sea, a perfectly reasonable place for her to go without any guards because it was manned with its own, she’d had the driver change direction once they’d left the palace grounds and she’d headed for the far reaches of Bakri City.

There was nothing there, Rihad knew. Nothing save the border.

“My daughter,” he managed to say, over the dark thud that was his heart in his chest. “Where is my daughter?”

His beautiful, perfect little Leyla, who he could not lose, and who, he realized, he’d never called his daughter before. Not out loud. He would not lose Leyla, no matter who her biological father was. She was his.

She and her treacherous mother were entirely his.

His security chief was muttering into his earpiece. Rihad was unnaturally still.

“The princess remains in the palace, Your Majesty. She is with her nurses even now.”

“Excellent,” Rihad bit out, and he started moving then, belting out orders as he went.

If Sterling had left the baby behind that meant he wouldn’t have to temper his reaction when he found her—though he was sure he would have to think about that, at some point. That she’d taken off without her daughter, which was so unlike her as to be something like laughable.

He might have imagined, once, that Sterling was nothing more than a calculating, callous sort of creature. The kind of woman who would have a child for the sole purpose of tying herself to a man and, more to the point, his fortune.

That he didn’t think that of her now, not even for a moment, told him things he was too furious to analyze just then. There was something seismic inside of him, bigger and bolder than anything he’d ever felt before. It was as massive as the desert, expanding in all directions, and he was not entirely certain he would be the same man when he survived it.

If he survived it.

But he had every intention of sharing the effects of it with his wife while he waited to see. Because he wasn’t letting her go.

Not ever.

* * *

The helicopter landed with military precision on the dusty desert road, forcing Sterling’s driver to slam on his brakes to a fishtailing stop—and putting an end to her escape fantasies that easily.

Sterling sat in the backseat and stared at the gleaming metal thing with its powerful rotors as if, were she to concentrate hard enough, she could make it go away again.

But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

For a long, shuddering moment, nothing happened.

The helicopter sat there in the middle of the otherwise empty road. Sterling’s driver, having lapsed into what sounded like frantic prayers as it had landed, was now muttering to himself. And that meant she had a lifetime or two to contemplate the leaping somersault her heart kept performing in her chest, no matter how sternly she told herself that hope was inappropriate.

She wasn’t running away this time. She wasn’t desperate or scared. She wasn’t a fifteen-year-old kid and she was no longer afraid of her best friend’s big, bad wolf.

This time, she was doing the right thing.

The helicopter’s back door opened and Rihad climbed out, his movements precise and furious, and yet still infused with that lethal, masculine grace that made her mouth water. Maybe it always would.

But if so, it would happen from afar. In magazines or on the news.

She was no good for him. She was even worse for her precious daughter. Nothing else mattered

“Stay here,” she told her driver, not that he’d offered to leap to her defense—the man clearly recognized the royal insignia on the helicopter’s sides if not his king himself.

Sterling slammed her way out of the car into the hot desert sun. Memories assaulted her as the hot wind poured over her. Of facing Rihad much like this on a Manhattan street, in what seemed like a different lifetime. Of the dark look he’d worn then and the far darker and grimmer look he wore now.

Sterling didn’t wait for him to reach her.

“What are you doing?” she threw at him across the hard-packed stretch of sandy road that separated them. “Let me go!”

“Never.”

Short. Harsh. A kingly utterance and infused with all his trademark ruthlessness.

She was as instantly furious at him as she was pointlessly, traitorously moved by that.

“It wasn’t a request.”

“You do not give the King of Bakri orders, Sterling.” He was closer then, and she could feel that edginess that came off him in waves, as if he was his own sun. “Your role is to obey.”

“Stop this.” Her voice was a hiss, and she slashed her hand through the air to emphasize it. “You’re not being reasonable.”

He was beyond furious—she could see it in every line of that body of his she knew better than her own now. He was practically vibrating with the force of his temper. And yet he only stared at her for a beat, then another, as if he couldn’t believe she’d said that to him.

And then he tipped back his head and laughed.

He laughed and he laughed.

When he focused on her again, Sterling was shaking, and not from anything like fear. It was need. Longing. Love.

“I am renowned for my reason,” he told her, no trace of laughter remaining in his voice then. “I am considered the most rational of men. My family is filled with emotional creatures who careened through their lives, neglecting their duties and catering to their weaknesses.” He shrugged. “I thought I didn’t have any weaknesses. But the truth is, I hadn’t met you yet.”

Again, she didn’t know how to feel, so she ignored the great, swirling mess inside of her. She balled her hands into fists and scowled at him.

“You’re making my point for me. I’m a weakness and you’re a man who can’t afford any. You need to let me go.”

“Yet when it comes to you, Sterling, I am not the least bit reasonable,” he growled at her. “Why the hell are you running away from me?”

“Why do you think?” she challenged, astonished. “I’m an anchor around your neck, weighing you down. You can’t have this endless scandal and that’s all this is. That’s all I am.”