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Reasons that went beyond duty and honour, and beyond money and title.
He stood, bringing her attention back to the stage with a start. He was shorter than she’d imagined too. And though his robes were white flecked with gold thread, she could see from the set of his face and his hands that he was slender.
Relief flooded her system.
He looked nice. Kind. Gentle.
“Emira,” An imperious voice came from somewhere in the back of the enormous room. She scanned the stage, searching for its origin.
A man emerged, dressed in black robes. She recognised them as the sort of uniform royal advisors generally wore, with the gold thread wrapping around the wrists as a point of detail.
Her breath snagged in her throat. This man was far more like what Abigail had encouraged her to expect. Though she was diminutive in stature, and was therefore used to people dwarfing her, this man was taller than most. Definitely well over six feet tall. And broad. Broad shouldered, broad chested, with caramel coloured skin, and glinting black eyes. His hair was as dark as a raven, and it was long enough to be pulled into a messy bun on top of his head.
There was a feral, animalistic strength emanating from him, and she wondered distractedly if he formed part of the Sheikh’s security detail. It would make sense to have a man such as this as the proverbial muscle. He looked as though he could squash someone with his hands alone.
Even his throat was strong – a thick column of muscle, covered with a hint of stubble. He moved towards her without taking his eyes from her face.
They were beautiful eyes. Beyond their unusual midnight colour, they were shaped like almonds, and rimmed with thick, curling lashes. His brows were thick and dark, giving his face an emphasis it didn’t need.
Some people had nice eyes. Nice teeth. A generally pleasing appearance. But not this man. His face was a patchwork of strength. Every feature was remarkable. An aquiline nose, a square jaw, a chin with a dent in the middle, dark stubble that was more like a very short beard, and a wide, curved mouth. He didn’t smile, but she could imagine that when he did it would be a thing of great beauty.
“You are Saaliyah Ibarra.” The way he said it, Sally couldn’t be sure if it was a question or a statement.
His voice was deep and raw, as if the sands of the desert kingdom had worn it down to a husky timbre.
At twenty-one years of age, despite having been raised in the middle of London, she had no real experience with men. She’d been ferried to her all-girls school by chauffeur, and returned home directly afterwards. Her tertiary education had been led by Abigail, who’d hired an assortment of visiting lecturers to instruct her in all of the matters that interested her most.
/> Through her brother Afida she had met a few boys, but none like this.
Her throat was dry and her tongue felt big and heavy in her mouth. He was staring at her with barely concealed impatience. She remembered, belatedly, that there was a long running enmity between the people of the Medouzan province and those from Tari’ell. An enmity that she had managed to avoid only because she’d been raised by a Briton, and lived in London.
But she had no doubts. This half man, half Hercules felt that enmity for her. He looked at her as though she was about to take the throne by force, rather than by marriage.
She had been prepared for objections. After all, her predecessor had lost her life because she’d had the audacity to agree to a union such as this.
Sally pushed aside the brief thought of Tasha. Her beautiful cousin was gone. Thinking of her in that moment would not help anyone.
“You do know English?”
Sally forced her gaze back to the enormous man in the black robe. He must be close to the Emir, to be speaking on his behalf. She blinked her clear hazel eyes as if to bring herself back into the moment, and forced a small smile to her face. “Yes.”
He exhaled slowly, and the warm breath fanned her temples. A wave of goose bumps danced over her skin. “Yes what?”
Yes what? “I don’t know your name,” she murmured. “How can I address you by anything?”
He looked at her as though she were brainless. “I did not mean to urge you to address me differently. I meant ‘yes’ to which of my questions.”
Unused to being insulted for her intelligence, she flushed to the roots of her hair. “To both then,” she tried, and failed, to flatten the waspish annoyance from her tone.
“You are late.”
She lifted her wrist to check the time and then realised her watch was no longer a part of her. The gold Rolex she’d been given for her sixteenth birthday had been put away; it was not part of her costume now. For it belonged to the girl she had been before, and was not a part of who she had agreed to become.
Now, she was Emira, betrothed to one of the most powerful men in the world.
Her eyes skidded past this warrior-creature and to the Sheikh. He was watching with barely concealed fascination, and it occurred to Sally that she was being tested. Perhaps he wished to see how she coped under pressure.
After all, her role as Crown Princess would be nothing if not full of challenges. She calmed her racing pulse with a deep breath and then fixed the Minotaur with a coldly assessing stare of her own.
