matters of national diplomacy will be handled by you until then, Sheikh?” asked one reporter, well-known for his rather antigovernment stance.
“There is no one else,” Sayid said, the answer falling flat. “If there are no more questions, we are done here.” He turned and stepped down from the podium, going to Chloe’s side and placing his hand on her elbow, guiding her from the press room and into the corridor.
“The security guards will ensure the press stay put for the next fifteen minutes. I don’t want them watching which wing of the palace we go to.” That angle of the conference was straight in his mind, and he relished the return of control, of certainty.
Chloe looked at him, wide blue eyes strangely calm. Strange, because he felt like there was a live monster roaming around inside of his body and she had just passed through the same situation, yet looked unaffected. “You know a lot about security.”
“That’s as intelligent an observation as if I had said you know a lot about molecules. It is my duty. Who I am.”
“I was giving you a compliment,” she said, her tone stiff, “it won’t happen again.”
“It doesn’t matter to me either way.”
“You’re a frustrating man.”
“And you aren’t the ideal woman, but here we are.”
“You are…” Her cheeks turned pink, anger glittering in her eyes now. And it gratified him. Made him feel a sense of satisfaction that she wasn’t quite so calm. “You are such an ass.”
“You say that like you think I might care. Like I might be able to change it. I don’t think you understand, Chloe, this is all there is to me.”
She blinked slowly. She was upset now, he could tell. And he found he liked it even less than her calm. “I have to go and study.”
“And I’m certain that Malik can find more papers for me to sign. He finds my discomfort amusing, I think.”
“Will I see you again today?”
He shook his head. “I should not think so. You won’t require my presence, will you?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” she said, echoing his words.
“Good,” he said, clipped. “Then I will go about my business, and you may go about yours.”
Sayid turned away from Chloe, away from those unguarded eyes, and headed back toward his office. A tomb for the living, in his opinion. Each step sent a spike through his body, caused a subtle breaking inside.
He had told Chloe that the palace was preferable to prison. Today, he wondered.
“So soon? But you just promised me a reprieve.”
Sayid looked at Chloe, perched at her desk, her red hair pulled back into a haphazard knot, black glasses framing, hiding, her eyes. “A reprieve from what?”
“Your presence. I’m doing course work.” She looked away from him and back at the computer, but not before he noticed a dull flush of red staining her cheeks. It took a full second for his mind to process what that might mean, but his body had already reacted to it, blood rushing through his veins, hot, fast.
He shouldn’t feel anything for her. Least of all for her blush. She was prickly. At best. If he tried to make a move on her she would likely freeze his cock off with a calculated stare.
It was the strangest thing, because she could be witty, evidence of a sly sense of humor and a brilliant mind. And she was a soft touch with Aden. But if he stepped over the invisible boundaries she’d set around herself and the little prince, she went on full-scale attack.
The memory of catching her arm as she tried to strike him, of pulling her soft body up against his, flashed through him.
No. He should not feel anything for her. He shouldn’t feel anything full stop. But his defenses were down after the damned press conference. Cracks in his armor he had yet to repair. Control, impenetrable shields, were essential tools in his arsenal, and they did not work during press conferences. Did not work when addressing his people. Headlines about him were not kind. He lacked charisma, caring.
But he was at a loss as to how he was supposed to step into this new role while still clinging to the things his uncle had instilled in him, with rod and fist. Things that were, he knew, a matter of life and death.
He battled to get control over his body.
“Sorry,” he said, matching the annoyance in her tone, portraying that he was most definitely not sorry. “There is a celebration happening in the streets in Aden’s honor. In your honor.”
She tugged her glasses off. “Mine?”
“Yes. Yours.” Certainly not his. Chloe was the bright spot the country had been waiting for. She had brought the first bit of hope to Attar since the death of Rashid. Since Sayid’s installation to the throne. “You are the savior of the heir of Attar. The savior, indirectly, of the country, and my people are celebrating.”
“Except… I’m not the savior of anything. You lied.”
“Did I?” He kept his eyes trained on her face, on her wide blue eyes. She looked vulnerable now, the anger, the extreme standoffishness, faded into the background. She was an interesting mix of softness and strength. And he didn’t have time to be interested.
“Yes. You did. You made it sound like I wrested him from the claws of death or something, and the press seem to have believed you.”
“You hid him until you could not hide him any longer, and I know that the bulk of your concern was for his safety, so the essence of the story remains the same. Had I given you instructions regarding his security, had there truly been suspicion surrounding the accident, I would have given you the same instructions. To hide him until we were certain he would be safe.”
“I acted more out of shock than anything else.”
“And fear of me,” he said, watching her expression.
She stood, arching her back, her round breasts pushing against the stretchy cotton fabric of her top. His eyes were drawn there, his focus compromised. He was a man who liked women, a man who enjoyed sex. But he didn’t let his desire off its leash unless it was an appropriate time. An appropriate woman. This was not the appropriate time. She was not the appropriate woman.
Which meant it was time to meet her eyes again, and not search for the outline of her nipples beneath the layer of thin fabric. But it was difficult to redirect himself. Much more so than it should have been.
He could see her swallow hard, her pulse pounding in her neck. He wanted to put his lips over that spot, taste her skin. “Well, can you blame me? The love of power is the inspiration for most of life’s atrocities.”
“Perhaps, but this,” he said, sweeping his hand in front of him, indicating the palace, “is not the kind of power I crave.”
She blinked. “And… what kind of power do you crave?”
“Simple,” he said, his eyes blank. “I don’t crave anything.”
