She nodded. Flushed the toilet again.
“I’ll escort you to the reception.”
Surprised that he knew, she supposed this was her confirmation that he was who he claimed to be. That meant— She took a step forward. “He’s okay?”
Tariq held her gaze for a minute. “Bad infection, but he’ll live.”
She wilted, feeling her knees go weak. “I was so sure they’d killed him.”
“Yeah, trouble’s not over. The assassin we feared might come for you is here.”
Stomach quailing, she felt a wave of nausea that an assassin was here.
“We’ll go down. I’ll stay close, then?—”
Sharp raps came at the door.
The lock rattled.
Leighton caught Tariq’s hand and hurried him back to the main room. Indicating for him to move near the door, she went to the table and bent over it, as if she were looking for something.
The door opened. “Nour—” Prince Rayan’s eyes darkened as he spotted the new guard. “Madha tafeal huna?” he barked, asking what the guard was doing in here.
Realizing Tariq likely did not know this was a prince, she straightened. “Ah?—”
“Sumukam.” Tariq snapped a bow of his head. “Laqad qil li ’an ’ahdur al’amirata.”
Well. She supposed he did know whom he addressed if he called him “Your Highness.” And quite a good ruse, saying he was instructed to bring her down.
“Biwasitat min?”
Tensing as Rayan demanded who sent him to escort her, she resented how he acted like he owned her.
“Almalaku.”
“The king” was the only answer Tariq could’ve given that would stay Rayan’s commanding-but-dour mood, and she was glad the Omen guy knew that.
“Is there a problem?” Nouri asked in Arabic, since that seemed to be the flavor of the day.
Rayan’s gaze finally fixed on her. His gaze swept her from head to toe in slow, ardent appreciation of what he saw. He closed the gap between them, hands extended to her. “You are radiant!”
A blush filled her cheeks. Not at his compliment, but out of concern that Tariq stood there watching. It was humiliating. “Daria chose well,” she said as she forced herself to place her fingers in his hands.
“Indeed!” Rayan laughed. “She has had every detail planned down to the glitter on the banners.”
“No doubt.” She looked down to lift her long abaya, which dusted the carpet, and when she straightened, Rayan moved in. Planted a kiss on her temple. She drew in a quick breath, feeling a cascade of sickening heat wash down her body at the unwanted gesture. “Rayan.” Her gaze slid to Tariq, who jerked his gaze away.
“Forgive me, but I could not resist your beauty.”
Uncomfortable, she swallowed. Felt paralyzed.
A thunk behind Rayan drew his attention to Tariq, who had knocked over a small figurine that had been on the side table. “Give care with the princess’s things!”
Leighton nearly smiled—there was no way that was accidental. The piece had been in the center. On a tray. She appreciated his effort to save her from any more awkwardness. Too, nothing in this room was truly hers. The suite had been fully furnished and decorated when Leighton arrived.
“Come.” Rayan moved between her and Tariq, motioning to the door. “Time for the wedding. The Zaffa is done.”
She imagined what it must have been like to see the procession by which the groom and his male attendants marched to the bride’s quarters to claim her. They left the suite and made their way down the open concourse surrounding the open atrium to the lower level. A hum of conversation roared through the cavernous space. The complexity of the Saudi Arabian wedding left her confused, yet in awe. It was customary for men and women to celebrate separately. The reception, however, had been adjusted on order of the king to accommodate their many international guests, among which were royalty, nobility, and wealthy alike.
