Concern lanced her composure. “Why are they doing that?”
“Many guests have already arrived for the wedding,” Rayan said solemnly as he urged her in through the side door of the royal residence. “It is for his protection.”
“Do not worry,” Aliyah said. “They will make sure he is punished for his lies.”
“I would not want anyone injured on my account,” she said, wishing her thoughts could be heard by the king. Perhaps Owen might have a chance… Nerves thrummed and she feared this plan of his might be backfiring.
“Your kindness is one of the things I admire about you,” Rayan said softly, touching the small of her back as they moved through the lower corridor.
Belly quailing, she fought every impulse to twitch from his touch. He was nice. Kind even. Handsome. But…
He’s not Owen. And her story did not end here at this palace.
At least, she hoped not.
17
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Two days. It had been two days since they’d sandbagged his head and rushed him into this dungeon-of-a-cell. Two days and nobody had come. No food, no water. Only light came from the barred window in the steel door. When they’d locked him in, he’d anticipated either being dragged before the king or having the king appear and pronounce sentence—death. But nothing had happened. Nobody visited.
Growling, he paced. How? How was he in the exact same position as every other pivotal moment in his life—enmeshed in failure?
It was like some cosmic joke.
Only, he didn’t believe in that. He believed in God, Who wasn’t one to play with the affections of His faithful. To torment them, though at times His discipline felt that way. Was that what this was—discipline? But for what?
The kiss he’d shared with Leighton leapt to mind.
With a groan, he ran his hand over his head. Was the kiss wrong?
No. It was the only right thing in his life—she was the only right thing.
Please. God. Let me help her.
Distant voices carried down the passage, and the thrum of the air-conditioning rattled high in the wall vent.
Jaw tight, he felt the throb of infection. It had grown into a constant, angry thrum. Much like his raw nerves. How? How was he going to escape? Dad’s stiff demand to know if Owen knew how to get out of a foreign country taunted him now.
The distant voices grew closer. There was some discordance, some…tension to the way they spoke. The chatter became clearer as two men strode down the darkened passage. It registered then what was odd—they weren’t speaking Arabic. Or some other language he didn’t know. This was…Spanish.
The wedding was tomorrow, if he’d calculated the days right. But he heard the din of celebrations and knew Saudi wedding traditions spanned days, not one day. There were guests from all over the world here to celebrate the marriage of King Faruq’s daughter. But what were guests doing down here in the dungeons?
“¿Encontraste su favorito?” a deep voice asked.
“Sí, Tamarind,” came a nasally reply.
“Bueno, bueno,” the first said with a chuckle. “Demasiado cerca.”
“En efecto.”
From his limited skill with the language, Owen could tell the one in a deeper voice asked about a favorite…something. The other said it was “tamarind.” Deeper then said it had been too close, and Nasally agreed.
Owen stood, aware he was wholly in shadow, and watched as they moved past his cell, pausing at the far end of a juncture, where Nasally handed something to the other.
“Gracias.” Deeper slapped the guy on the shoulder, then turned back the direction he’d come.
Ducking out of sight, Owen felt his heart climb into his throat—Oskar Bruzon! He’s here. Bruzon was here.
