Oh cr?—
“How do you know he’s American?” the king asked, his expression darkening.
Owen fought the urge to interdict for her, but clearly she’d remembered him. If he stepped in now, he’d look guilty too. Instead, he cocked his head and frowned. Praying she came up with a legitimate explanation. One that at least sounded legitimate.
“During the attack,” she said, no hint of nerves in her voice, “he spoke to me. In clear English. Not French.”
Nice save. Impressed since he barely recalled talking to her, Owen watched, anxious for the king’s decision. Let his gaze drift to her and felt the blow at his core when their eyes connected. He saw in those caramel eyes the truth mirrored in his soul—their lives were on the line, caught up in a very dangerous game. Had her hiccup there tanked it?
“Take her back,” the king said, returning to the curtained throne room.
So, were they good?
King Faruq walked past him, then paused and looked at Owen with muddy but sharp brown eyes. Still uncertain, unconvinced.
Half expecting him to accuse, Owen readied for the challenge. Or could it be the king had decided he liked him? That he’d hire him and?—
“Take him to the cellars,” King Faruq pronounced and walked out of the room.
6
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Cold, stinging water peppered his body.
“Augh!” Owen flinched away from the thin, piercing stream of the hose, then drove around, fists balled. “Hey?—”
A guard slammed a right hook into his gut.
Air exploding from his lungs, Owen wheezed. Recovered and responded with an uppercut. Caught the guy in the chin. Drove forward with a hard right.
A blow from behind—another guard—impacted him. Pitched him forward. On the wet concrete, Owen slipped. Went down. Knee cracked against the hard surface.
The needling water became the blast of a fire hydrant, forcing him to stay down. Curl in to protect himself from the pounding onslaught.
While niceties and propriety had been par for the course in the private throne room, let there be no doubt—they were insanely well-versed in subtle and not-so-subtle forms of torture. Like stripping a guy to his skivvies and hosing him down with ice-cold water. All in the name of cleanliness and humiliation. When the water stopped, he heard boots retreat.
“You are nothing here, American. Nothing!” Mahid barked. “Get dressed!”
Knowing better than to trust that the guards’ playtime was over, Owen hesitated. Glanced over his shoulder and found the cell door closing. A shiver lanced his composure as he searched for a towel to dry off. Spotted a crumpled pile near the door the guards had exited. He rifled through them. Tunic…pants…no towel. “Figures.” But the chill in the air warned him not to stay stripped, so he fought his way into the provided clothes.
The mission required he endured whatever these people dished out—all to earn his way into becoming her guard, a position vacant after the handiwork of Omen. The whole gig was one massive long shot—and hours into this palace, him being stuffed into a cold, concrete ten-by-ten with no window or bed, a lone drain in the center for a toilet, proved his warning to Pike.
Sitting against the wall, forearms on his upraised knees, Owen tilted his head back and tried to ignore the dull throb in his side. The guard might’ve bruised a rib. One small step for Owenkind, especially if it got him assigned to Leighton. He closed his eyes. Hoped this was a time of testing while they checked and double-checked his legend and history. He completely trusted Omen to backfill it, since they were doing so with the help of high-level government assets who had experience in prepping legends for operatives in three-letter organizations.
His mind flicked back to those bruises on Leighton. The way she’d cowered in subservience. No doubt beaten into her. Nine months had done a number on the girl he’d first encountered two years ago. Back then, she was guarded, wary. Now, she was downright oppressed.
Please let this work, God… Help me get her out of here.
Those caramel eyes had telegraphed her worry. It wasn’t so much in her expression or the furrowing of the brows. It was something deeper, something…soul-born.
You are out of your skull.
No idea how long the king would hold him in the dungeon, but since he didn’t have an extra hole in his head, he’d count that as a win and a sign they wouldn’t kill him.
Unless they unearthed a different hole—one in his legend as Owen Apollo. Lame concoction, but Pike swore keeping his original name would make it easier for him to avoid mistakes.
Owen sat for what felt like hours. Never knew a monochromatic environment could make time seem like a decrepit old man with a walker, taking slow, agonizing steps. Gradually, time lost its power and meaning. It could’ve been hours or a whole day.
