“You two were arguing in the field,” Rayan persisted. “What was that about?”
Her hand was still on his arm, and he felt it tighten, then slip away. “I…”
Owen shifted his gaze to hers and stilled at what he saw. Not a threat, but something far worse—belief. Belief that if she told the prince what Omen had planned, that there was an operator out in the fields, it would stop Owen from extracting her. He felt sick.
Please…please do not do this, he silently begged her, locked in a visual duel with her.
She wet her lips, gaze sliding back to the prince. “He?—”
“Religieuse,” Owen subvocalized for her ears only.
Leighton’s eyes shuttered closed. She swallowed. “N-nothing.” She gave a nod to the prince. “It was just a long day.”
“That argument did not look like nothing.”
Enough already, Prince. “It’s my job to protect her, Prince Rayan. Even when she doesn’t like it.” But as the words left his mouth, Owen knew they had too much edge. “Sometimes, when I suggest things for her safety and protection, it’s not what she wants to hear.”
Why was he explaining anything to this guy?
“And sometimes,” Leighton spat back, “he thinks too much of himself, as if he is my master.”
Aliyah scowled at Owen, and the prince shifted into a more possessive stance.
The impact of that accusation felt nuclear, shifting Owen’s gaze to hers. “No.” Was that really what she thought? How she felt? Regret tore at him. “Never.”
Surprise leapt through her olive complexion, but like him, she was skilled at holding her ground. “It felt that way.”
He had a choice—stay mad, maintain his position in the standoff with Rayan, or let it go and make peace with her. He had never been one to back down, but he realized in that silent duel between them that Leighton held a power over him none else had. “I’m sorry,” he said, releasing his venom and pride. “That was unintentional. You are prisoner enough in this life, and I would not be a part in that.”
Searching caramel eyes glinted in the afternoon sun that pierced the window. A clear yearning to believe what he said seemed to soften her features. The slightest bob of her head hinted that she accepted his apology.
“Nouri?” Rayan prompted.
Sitting back, she touched her temple. “Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. It has been a long, hot day, and I think I need to eat and rest.”
“I can get you something,” he offered.
Owen resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Well, he’d meant to, but Mom always said the Metcalfe blues had a life of their own.
Aliyah snickered at his lack of restraint.
Stiffening, the prince tightened his jaw then refocused on her. “There is a dinner tonight at eight with the wedding party,” he said as he stepped back. “You can be my guest, Nouri.”
Rankled at the way those words were not an invitation or a request—it seemed more an order—Owen huffed. “Why would she need to be a guest? She’s a member of the wedding party, right?”
“She is?—”
“It’s okay,” she said to Owen, setting her hand on his arm again. Then she looked up at the prince. “Thank you for your kindness. I accept.”
Why in black blazes was she agreeing to that?
“You mentioned wanting to rest,” Owen suggested, coming to his feet. Anything to get her away from this guy. Something wasn’t adding up. Like she’d said—the royals were suddenly being too nice.
“Yes, of course,” she said as she stood and inclined her head to the prince. “Again, thank you.”
“Until later,” Rayan said solemnly, then shifted aside. In a blink, he skewered Owen with a menacing look and pushed into his space. “You should do your job better. She could have been injured out there.”
Owen moved into the challenge. “Says the man who watched her get punched by another man and did nothing to stop it.”
