Page 9 of Warlord’s Empire

When she didn’t stir, he gave into the urge to lay down next to her, careful not to jostle her. He couldn’t help touching her, running his fingers over her eyelids, her nose, her chin, before resting his hand lightly on her stomach, then pulling away.

“Not without her permission.”

After watching her, getting to know her from a distance, admiring her, he’d vowed to himself that when the time came for him to collect his woman, he would wait until she came willingly.

His life had been one battle after another. One war after another. He was a brutal man, raised in a brutal system, who learned at an early age to deal out brutality to those who didn’t fall in with his plans.

But she was different.

Saskia was his antithesis. Her pale skin contrasted with his Congan roots, like a unicorn and an adze, a South African mythological vampire. But how she looked had never mattered. It was her innocence. Her unwavering goodness despite spending a lifetime under the tutelage of her mafia family. She pushed back against their brutality and insisted on better for herself.

He admired her, but he was also covetous of her attitude and privilege.

His life had been laid out for him from an early age. He was a child when he became a soldier, and after that, a rebel, then a mercenary, until he became king of the mercenaries, a warlord.

A warlord who coveted an innocent. A young translator whose sole ambition was to get out from under the thumb of her powerful family. And he was going to steal her for himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, allowing only his gaze to touch her.

Over the past few years of watching Saskia, she had become his conscience. She softened him in a way he never thought possible. And now he was going to have to find the balance between allowing her the freedoms she so badly wanted in her life, while also keeping her for himself.

He didn’t think she would come willingly, at least, not until she got to know him and his intentions.

But what were his intentions?

He lay back, settling his head on the pillow next to hers, allowing his hand to fall between them, brushing against her hip.

His intentions had changed over the years. At first, he’d watched her, intent on snatching her up at the right time to use her against her powerful mafia cousin, Jozef Koba. But that goal changed as he got to know her. He decided he would simply watch over her as she struggled to seek independence, perhaps nudge her in the right direction if it was needed. An omnipotent benefactor she knew nothing about.

Except she was too smart for that. She knew she was being watched, then figured out who was watching her. She left notes occasionally for his cameras to pick up: Good morning, SMR. When are we going to meet? Why are you watching me?

SMR. Sharif Muhammed Radik. The messages were for him.

After he realized she was communicating with him, he’d started sending her gifts at Christmas and on her birthday. Her favourite seemed to be the book he sent her about the Congo, which had pleased him as it was the place of his mother’s birth and where he kept his residence.

And now here she was, under his roof, within his power, yet not how he wanted. She was helpless, a pale version of herself. She was injured, not whole and healthy, how she should always be.

But when she woke up, her personality would shine through and she would once more become the Saskia he had grown to love. He frowned as Zander’s words echoed in his head. If she woke up.

A knock at the door distracted him from his thoughts. Nuani peaked in, nodding at him. “We have the hotel manager.”

Now he would get answers.

He slid off the bed, careful not to disturb Saskia.

Entering the living room, he caught sight of the hotel manager immediately. He was the only man in the room shitting himself.

Stopping several feet away, Radik said to Nuani, “Tell me what you’ve found.”

Nuani stood next to the hotel employee, his arms crossed in front of him, biceps bulging. Nodding at the manager, he said, “This is Paul Grossman. He runs the hotel.”

Radik pinned him with a stare. “You know who I am?”

He nodded, eyeing Radik with distrust. “You’re General Radik.”

“You are aware of what happened in your hotel today?”

Hanging his head, Paul stared at the floor, not speaking. Radik looked at Nuani.