and provide an alliance between her beloved Rayas and his neighboring country of Al-Kumain. Her father had been given a choice: provide a daughter for the warrior prince, or lose his kingdom to the marauding hordes, who had been rising up against the Ottoman Empire and terrorizing the Arabian peninsula for nearly three years.
Laila’s sister said she should be grateful that Prince Tariq was a soldier. A solider was often away from home. She wouldn’t have to suffer him every day of her life.
Alone in the massive, domed-ceiling room, Laila was restless, pacing as she tried to calm her nerves. The mosaic-tile floor was cool under her feet. White marble pillars gleamed in all four corners, while a dripping-gold chandelier glowed overhead with yellow candlelight, throwing flickering shadows on the gilded walls and the gauzy, white bed curtains.
The large door swung open behind her, and her stomach clenched to a hard pit. He was here. Her ordeal had begun.
“Your Highness?” came a soft, female voice.
Laila whirled to see her aunt Dhelal, the woman who had raised her since her mother’s assassination ten years ago. Relief flooded through her.
She allowed herself to hope that her new husband had changed his mind. Perhaps he’d sleep somewhere else, or spend the night with his comrades, sharing stories of bravery and heroism. Should he wish, he’d have no trouble finding a woman in the village that surrounded the palace.
A male servant silently followed her aunt inside the room. He placed a large, fabric-covered object on a table near the foot of the bed. Her aunt quickly and sharply dismissed him.
Laila waited for the older woman to speak.
“His Majesty knew this day would come.” Dhelal’s tone was much softer as she moved forward and took both Laila’s hands in hers.
Laila blinked away a sudden tear. She loved her father, and she understood his position, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal. Had there been no other way?
Dhelal gestured to the rich green-and-gold brocade cover. “This gift was carved from Royal Han marble, the rarest of the rare. It was crafted by Saleh walud Rahman walud Kunya Al-Fulan, right before his death. It has been blessed at the headwaters of the river. It will bring you luck, my child, good fortune in love.”
Laila couldn’t help a pained laugh at that. “It’s not working.”
“Give it time.”
“I don’t have time.”
Dhelal smiled in sympathy. “You have plenty of time.”
With a final squeeze of Laila’s hands, Dhelal removed the cover, revealing a sleek, carved figure of a woman, mounted on a gold pedestal, her heart etched in gold. The mauve, gold-veined marble reflected the soft candlelight, making the statue seem to glow. The woman’s expression was gentle, serene. Something about it eased the tension from Laila, and for the first time in three days, the cramp left her stomach. Her hand reached automatically out to touch the smooth stone.
The chamber door flew open with a smack. The doorway filled with the breadth of Prince Tariq.
“Leave us.” His guttural command to Dhelal was harsh.
“Do not—” Laila began in horror. But Dhelal’s hand on her arm stopped the protest.
“Good fortune,” Dhelal reminded her gently.
Or death, Laila thought, her gaze fixing on the imposing figure of the prince. She’d thought a lot about death these past days. But she knew if she killed herself, Tariq would demand one of her two sisters. Then again, if it was an accident. If she tripped and fell from a height or was swept away in the river, who could say her father hadn’t kept his side of the bargain?
Dhelal was gone and Tariq slammed the door.
“You are ready,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
“I am not,” she dared, raising her chin.
“Remove your scarf.”
Laila hesitated. All women in Rayas wore flowing head scarves after puberty. They were mostly bright-colored and beautiful, denoting wealth and social status. In Laila’s case, the pattern conveyed her royal stature. It had been years since she’d removed it in front of a man.
What Tariq was asking was an intimate act, a prelude to everything she feared.
He took a menacing step forward, and she quickly complied with his demand, draping the white, silk garment around her neck. It was trimmed with a purple scroll pattern, laced with fine gold thread—the colors of the royal family.
“You are pretty,” Tariq noted, inspecting her as if she was an Andalusian mare in the royal stables.
He reached for her cheek, and she reflexively recoiled, taking a step back.
He immediately closed the gap between them. “Shall I punish you first?”
She mutely shook her head, nervousness turning to outright fear. She was at his mercy, and they both knew it. Not a single person in the palace would dare aid her.
He reached up again, brushing her cheek with his calloused fingertips. “You are soft.”
“You are not,” she responded, before she could think better of speaking.
“I am not,” he agreed, a wry smile barely quirking the corner of his slash of a mouth. It was the first time she’d seen him with his head bare, though she’d come to know his face well these past few days. That tiny smile was the first sign she’d seen of anything other than anger and distaste. He was tall, strong, his chin square, his skin dusky brown, and his dark eyes penetrating beneath a thick brow. The scar across one cheek said he was battle-hardened and uncompromising.
“Remember that,” he told her, before dropping his hand.
“I’m not likely to forget.”
“Good.” He reached for the top button of his tunic.
Sweat immediately prickled the goose bumps on her skin.
He crossed to the bed. It gleamed with crisp, white sheets, covers pulled back, flower petals sprinkled around the plump pillows. “Shall we get this over with?”
Laila couldn’t move. She simply could not lift her feet from the tile floor.
After a moment, he turned. “No?”
She swallowed, having lost the power of speech.
“You have a different plan?” His black eyes penetrated, and his face formed into a scowl. He was clearly daring her to defy him.
He moved back toward her, watching, like a cobra sizing up a baby chick. He moved far too close, their bodies almost touching.
She could feel his heat, hear the rasp of his breath, smell his spicy, earthy odor.
“I’m going to see you naked, Laila. I’m going to hold
