"Then he must be yours." He pulled out his phone and raised it. "May I take your picture? I can send it to Losham. Let him see your face."
"Yes." Rolenna straightened, smoothing her hair with a trembling hand. "Yes, please."
Lokan snapped the photo, capturing her face in the soft light of the gallery right next to Losham's portrait.
"I'll send it to him the next time I talk to him," he promised.
"Is there a chance I can talk to him?" she asked hesitantly.
Lokan looked at Kian for approval that he doubted would come.
"Maybe," Kian said. "But not just yet. We're still in the negotiations stage, and things are too precarious. One wrong move could jeopardize everything we're working for."
"Negotiations about what?" Rolenna asked.
"It's confidential."
There was a flash of frustration in her eyes, and for a moment, Lokan thought she might argue, but then her expression smoothed out, and she nodded. "I understand. I'll wait until it is convenient."
Lokan's heart twisted. She was so used to accepting the unacceptable, so accustomed to being told she couldn't have what she wanted.
"It won't be forever," he said. "When the time is right, you'll have your chance."
She met his eyes, and in her gaze he saw something that surprised him.
Not resignation. Not defeat.
Hope.
"I've waited over two thousand years," she said. "I can wait a little longer."
17
LOSHAM
The morning sun was just beginning to warm the terrace as Losham settled into his usual chair, the cushions still cool from the night air. The jasmine in the garden was in full bloom, its sweet fragrance drifting on the gentle breeze, and for a moment he allowed himself to simply relax and breathe.
These quiet mornings were precious to him. The days were filled with council meetings, damage reports, suspicious brothers, and the constant pressure of maintaining a fiction that grew more fragile with each passing hour. But here, in the early light, with nothing but birdsong and the distant crash of waves, he could pretend that all was well in his world.
Rami appeared at the terrace door, carrying a silver tray with a steaming pot of coffee and a stack of newspapers, slightly rumpled from their journey.
"Your papers, sir," Rami said, setting the tray on the table beside Losham's chair.
"Thank you, Rami."
The newspapers were a couple of days old, as they always were. Getting anything delivered to the island required routing through the Maldives, and the logistics meant that news arrived with a delay. It didn't matter. The broad strokes of world events didn't change that quickly, and Losham had long ago learned to read between the lines, to see patterns and trends that the daily headlines obscured.
The internet was a marvelous tool, instantaneous, comprehensive, endlessly updated, but there was something irreplaceable about the feel of newsprint between his fingers. Digital content couldn't replicate the tactile pleasure of unfolding a newspaper, of scanning the columns while sipping coffee, or of circling articles with a pen for later consideration.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, dark and strong, the way he preferred it, and picked up the first paper.The Wall Street Journal. He scanned the front page, noting the movement of markets, the political maneuverings, the corporate acquisitions that might affect Brotherhood interests, but mostly his own investments. Nothing urgent. Nothing required immediate action.
TheFinancial Timescame next, thenThe Economist, then a selection of regional papers from Europe and Asia. Losham moved through them methodically, his mind cataloging information even as part of his attention remained focused on the phone sitting silent beside his cup.
They would call soon, Lokan and his clan handlers. The morning call, checking on the excavation progress, probing for information, maintaining their hold on him through that damnable compulsion.
It was nothing new. He was used to his father using the vile mind manipulation on him. But being at the mercy of strangers was worse. He hated the way his tongue loosened against his will, the way words spilled from his lips despite his best efforts to contain them. He had spent centuries learning to manipulate his father's compulsion, finding loopholes and workarounds, saying true things in misleading ways. But this new compeller knew what he was doing. He was direct, precise, and didn't bother with being elegant like his father used to be. The commands left less room for creative interpretation.
Still, Losham was nothing if not adaptable. He would find a way to use this situation to his advantage. He always did.
