Tonight was a type of wedding reception in the vast hall, festooned with flowers and countless rows of tables, all around a tufted sofa and a gorgeous floral backdrop. “You may go,” Rayan said to Tariq. “I will escort her. Return to your duties.”
Alarmed that she would be separated from Owen’s buddy, she faltered. Scrambled for a way to keep him close.
“The king?—”
“Is waiting. You are not needed.” Rayan caught her elbow and pulled her on.
Oh heavens. What was she supposed to do? She glanced back at Tariq, and his expression blazed with anger, but he gave her a grim nod. What did that mean? She could do nothing but keep walking with Rayan.
“I did not like him,” Rayan said as he rounded a corner. “Had a look about him.”
Swallowing her dread, she descended the stairs. Though she would prefer not to touch him again, she was grateful for his hand so she did not slip on the slick marble in the strappy pumps that matched her dress.
Moments later she entered the reception hall filled with a hundred seats or more. Was this the wedding hall? But Rayan moved down the line, hugging person after person. Introducing her as Princess Nouri. Only about halfway down did she realize everyone in here was family.
The crowd parted and she forgot to breathe.
King Faruq stood there in a thobe and bisht with a flowing black overcloak that had a gold band. Sharp, probing eyes razored across her.
This was the first time she had seen him since that day in his hall where he’d asked if Owen was the man who had saved her in Paris. Goodness, that seemed forever ago. She lowered her gaze, not expecting anything from him. Not wanting anything from him.
“Nouri,” he said in a gentle voice. “You are beautiful. So much like your mother.”
Surprise leapt through her that he would mention Ummi. “Th-thank you, Your Majesty.” Heat flushing her face, she touched the abaya. “Princess Daria was very gracious.”
“As she should be.” The king leaned to the side as another man angled in to speak to him. His gaze shifted to the room. “It is time.”
Not sure what was happening, she glanced around.
“Stay at my side.” Rayan gave her a nod as they fell in behind the king’s heirs.
In minutes, they were walking into the hall where guests were already seated and waiting. She was positioned near the front with the other royals, and sandwiched between Rayan and Ghalib. She despised the latter for his treatment of Owen and avoided eye contact. Soon, Daria and Hassan entered as husband and wife, walking to the center where they sat on the tufted sofa. Once the marriage was officially announced by King Faruq, the couple exchanged rings, pictures were taken, and then the festivities began.
Throughout the reception, she scanned the crowd, looking for Tariq. Was he still here? She did not imagine he would leave.
Aliyah sat across from her. “I wish you had come for the Gomrah.” She wagged her henna-tattooed hands. “It was great fun! We laughed and ate so much.”
The spiced coffee served in abundance, along with juices and sodas—after all, alcohol was considered haram—left her bladder quite full. A perfect excuse to get away from the table. Maybe find Tariq. She leaned toward the princess. “I need to use the restroom.”
With a groan, Aliyah sat back. Then harrumphed. “Come. Let us hurry. I do not want to miss dessert.”
Once out of the reception hall, she felt as if her ears popped for the silence that clapped them. She laughed. “It was so loud in there.”
Aliyah wrinkled her nose. “It’s too quiet out here. We are missing the fun!” She hurried down the corridor and around another.
Trailing the princess, Leighton tried hard to remember the route, but lost count of turns. Finally, she ducked into a bathroom stall and relieved herself. When she came out to wash her hands, Aliyah was gone. Was she waiting outside? She stepped into the hall and glanced both ways. Are you kidding me? Where was the princess? Had she really left her? How was she supposed to get back to the reception hall?
She turned left, telling herself she could do this. After a few more turns, she felt her confidence growing. Headed down?—
Wait. No, this wasn’t right. She backed up.
A door swung open, revealing a long prep table with a tray of carafes. Kitchen? Even as she collided with a man exiting the kitchen, she wondered how she had gotten so far off course. The man was moving so fast that a collision could not be avoided.
Embarrassment flooded her at being caught in the wrong part of the palace and ramming into him. “Oh, ’ana asf,” she apologized and backed up. At least she tried to, but he’d grabbed her shoulders. Startled at his crushing grip, she drew in a breath. Looked up…into malevolent eyes.
Dark, terrible eyes that seemed borne of a storm.
Terror ripped down her spine as she tried to pull away but he held her fast. “Law samahta. Atrukh.” The plea to release her went unanswered. “Law samahta.”
