“What were you thinking?” Crown Prince Maaz spat, his Arabic quick and sharp. “You have lost all sense of decorum. I should have known after you had her brought to our table!”
The princess all but preened, apparently proud of the tension she had wrought. “Our father said I could have whomever I wanted in my wedding party,” Daria sniped back, “and I want her.”
“You cannot?—”
“I can,” she said with a flourish of her manicured and bejeweled fingers. “It has all been cleared through the king’s office. She is to be with me.”
Maaz did not erupt in fury as expected, but a clear menace lurked in his expression when he cast his gaze at Leighton. Mouth tightening, he jerked back to his sister. “Do you not respect the memory of jiddat al-ab? He is your blood!”
Grandfather…? Oh, King Nasir—her mother’s father.
“Of course, I do,” Daria hissed quietly. “But she could be our sister, Maaz. You know what Baba did to his own sister!”
Maaz shoved upward. Backhanded her, the sound a loud crack in the now-silent dining hall. “Do not speak such evil, or I will cut out your tongue!”
Hassan shot to his feet, arms drawn back, ready to defend his betrothed, but also conflicted as he owed his allegiance and loyalty to the crown prince.
Maaz squared to the challenge, like the alpha in a pack of dogs. The would-be groom lowered his head. Set a hand on Daria’s shoulder, clearly bringing her under control.
It was infuriating. Frightening, these men so intimidated by a woman with a mind. Pulling her thoughts and attention back to herself, Leighton tried to steady her racing heart. She did not want or need the crown prince’s anger barreling into her. She could not believe he had threatened to commit such violence against his own sister. She certainly could not fathom doing that to Hale and Holland, her adoptive siblings.
A cool breeze swept her shoulders, eliciting a shiver. She glanced there, wondering at the chill, and found Rayan had stood to go after the prince. The others focused on eating. Princess Aliyah sat quietly, chewing the side of her lip, then offered a wan, apologetic smile paired with shrug. Even amid the uneasy quiet, the staff served dessert.
If this was their idea of family…no, thanks. The instinct to rush back to her room proved nearly overpowering, forcing Leighton’s gaze to the door, hoping Asim would be there. He was not. And she could not move about unescorted, so?—
A soft thump sounded beside her, drawing her gaze back. Had Rayan returned? Instead, she found Princess Aliyah adjusting in the seat. She gave a mischievous smile. “It is the special request of Princess Daria that you come with us to Paris for her wedding shopping.”
Shopping? In Paris? That would be a long way from the concrete dungeon of two days ago. “I?—”
“Do not worry.” Aliyah touched her arm. “It will be great fun. And after that, we go on safari. For fourteen days!”
Leighton gaped at the pretty princess whose dimples winked each time she laughed. Paris and a safari? “I don’t understand,” she said quietly. “Why me?”
Aliyah giggled. “You are family. Princess Daria insists, so you must go and have fun.” Another giggle. “So much better than where they had you, yes?”
Disbelief corkscrewed through Leighton. “You knew?”
“Of course.” Aliyah seemed contrite all of a sudden. “Daria was very upset when she saw you in the dirty clothes, walking in the alley. She begged the king for this one favor, to have you with her.” She rolled her eyes. “His Majesty would do anything for her”—she leaned conspiratorially and lowered her voice—“though she is quite rebellious.” She giggled again, then rasped, “Do not tell her I said so.”
There was no explanation for why the princess had chosen her. Incredible to think Daria had even begged the king to remove Leighton from the dungeon. Why? She let her gaze wander to the princess receiving care from her betrothed. When those large, darkly lined eyes slid to Leighton, she gave a slow nod.
In that moment, Leighton understood. Felt it in her bones—solidarity. She returned the nod, hoping to convey her thanks. After weeks spent in that dungeon, the daughter of her captor had rescued her. Now would take her to Paris to shop. Was this really happening?
Even as she wondered, there rose in her a vibrating sense of caution. Told her to tread softly. Carefully. All was not as it seemed.
Paris, France
If someone had told him last week that he’d be sitting at a café in Paris waiting to save the girl he’d never forgotten about, Owen would’ve told them to get therapy. The Omen flight to Jeddah had been diverted when word came that a Saudi royal entourage had headed to Paris—and Leighton had been spotted deboarding a private jumbo jet with Princesses Daria and Aliyah.
Owen had suggested they just grab Leighton and run, but Pike showed him surveillance footage that revealed more than two dozen armed, concealed assets on-site to protect the princess.
“Heads up,” Crow Rawlins comm’d, watching from the feed of a micro-drone high overhead. “Princesses exiting shop.”
“Good copy,” Pike replied. “Apollo, visual confirmation on six armed security trailing objective in addition to the two vans and limo.” Six out of the twenty-four. Packing kinda light…
Owen lifted a cappuccino to his mouth. “Yep.” He took a sip, glanced around, and checked his watch, as if he were waiting on someone to arrive.
“En route to you,” Crow reported.
