Sniffling, she trembled and stumbled. Fought the tears, her cheek throbbing from Maaz’s hit. It felt stiff, probably from swelling.
“You idiot,” Khalil hissed as he marched her through the hall, his grip unrelenting and agonizing. “I told you—” He tensed, then abruptly stopped, giving a sharp nod to the side. “Highness.”
Struggling to see past the tears to see what diverted him, Leighton noted Prince Rayan striding into view. Had he come to give her a private beating? She cowered, anticipating more cruelty.
“You should remember, Khalil,” Rayan said calmy, blandly, “that even though she earned the ire of our king, she still belongs to him.” His gaze pointedly went to the grip that would no doubt leave a bruise.
The vise slackened, and she shuddered around another shaky breath.
Prince Rayan considered her for a second. There was something in his expression she could not decipher. Disappointment?
“If you will excuse us, Highness, I must return her to her room.” Khalil gave a curt bow of his head, then started walking again, yanking her onward.
Leighton stumbled through the grand foyer, shooting one last look to Prince Rayan, who stood there, arms folded as he watched her being dragged away. Why did he look regretful?
The ten-minute hike back to her chambers was made in virtual silence, which suited her fine. She did not even care when he all but threw her across the threshold, then slammed and locked the door. At least here, she was alone, safe. Though “safe” was relative. Itching to wash off their spittle, she hurried into the bathroom. Pulled out clean clothes, stripped, and showered.
That night, she curled up on the bed and sobbed into the pillow. When she awoke hours later, she found the room dark. Aches in her side and arm made her groan as she rolled onto her back. Recalled the mob. The hits. All blaming her for this fiasco.
Her thoughts traveled back to Paris and what happened. As she’d told the royals, she had no idea why the man had attacked or where he’d even come from. Arm over her eyes, she couldn’t figure out how she’d missed the burly man or why he’d targeted her. Anyone paying attention would’ve known she was the least of the four Arabic women on that street.
It hurt—she had done everything right. Played the subservient girl. Obeyed the rules. Then some man tries to rob her and she gets blamed!
Though her eyes watered again, she fought it off. Gritted her teeth. This was her choice. She sat up in the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest. Wiped her eyes. I choose to be here. To save Ummi.
In her mind, she heard the men hawking up loogies to spit at her. Felt the slimy impacts on her cheek and eyes.
God, please, give me the strength to endure this.
The lock on the door rattled, yanking her attention to it. A moment later, Khalil stormed into her dark solitude, hesitated, then hit the switch.
Light exploded through the room, making her eyes ache after crying.
“Get up. Cover your head.”
Confused but moving in compliance with the command, Leighton scooted to the edge of the bed.
“Hurry! The king is waiting.”
Oh no.
Hood smothering him, Owen worked to cooperate with the thugs hauling him through the air-conditioned structure. The pace slowed, doors opening as he huffed beneath the thick fabric. He had no concept of time before he was pushed to his knees and the hood—along with more than a few strands of hair—was ripped off.
Blinking, he looked around the room. Gaped at the luxurious setting. Unbelievable—it’d worked. It’d really worked. This had to be Omnia Palace. A half dozen seating groups lined the length of the room. Straight ahead, against the wall in front of him, squared-off columns stood tall, curtains draping the corners and marking off a sort of room that remained open to the rest of the hall. Beneath the cornices sat a man. On…a throne. His gut cinched as the man rose from a tan high-backed leather chair.
None other than King Faruq.
Owen tried to stand, but a firm hand clamped his shoulder in a viselike grip, forcing him back down. His knee crashed into the veined marble floor, making him grunt.
Faruq came forward another step but stayed a conservative ten feet away. “As you can imagine, my guards are zealous in protecting me.” Wearing a white thobe and ghutra, he had a graying beard and more than a few age lines. “What is your name?”
Sniffing, Owen knew they needed to see strength. “You come into my hotel room—I’d like to know how you got past the security lock, by the way—put a hood over my head, fly me here, but you don’t know my name?”
A fist slammed toward Owen, who caught it, drove it down and came up, effectively hooking the man’s neck and pinning him to the ground, the arm strained painfully backwards, making the guy cry out. He put a knee in his spine. Clearly, King Faruq was not used to being talked to that way, but Owen wasn’t here to play nice.
“Enough!” the king barked.
Guns came to bear via the half dozen men in white thobes, who’d been sitting in the tufted leather couches on either side of the “throne room.”
