It was a wonder Rashid did not hate him. He always felt such a dark and abiding shame in his brother’s presence, though Rashid did not ever speak about anything that had happened in their father’s palace. It was as if, for Rashid, it did not exist.
Kadir wished it were the same for him.
He stood there for another hour in the dark, waiting and brooding. And then his phone rang and an odd combination of regret and relief surged inside him.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said by way of greeting.
There was a long pause on the other end. “It is good to talk to you, too, brother.”
“Rashid.” He sighed. He could never say everything he wished to say to his brother. His throat closed up whenever he thought about it.
I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble. I’m sorry for everything. And then, Why don’t you hate me?
Instead, he said the one thing he could say. “You know I don’t want the throne. I’ve never wanted it.”
In Kyr, the throne usually passed to the eldest—but it didn’t have to. The king could choose his successor from among his sons, and that was precisely what their father was proposing to do. Kadir couldn’t begin to express how much this angered him.
Or worried him. He was not, in his opinion, suited to be a king. Because he did not want it. For one thing, to be king would mean being trapped for the rest of his life. For another, it would feel like the ultimate dirty trick to be played against Rashid.
“You are as qualified as I,” Rashid said with that icy-cool voice of his, his emotions wrapped tight as always. To talk to Rashid was to think you were talking to an iceberg. It was only when you saw him that you realized he blazed like the desert.
“Yes, but I have a business to run. Being king means living in Kyr year-round. I am not willing.”
That was the reason he could voice. The other reasons went deeper.
“And what makes you think I am?” There was a flash of heat that time. “I left Kyr years ago. And I, too, have a business.”
“Oil is your business. It is also the business of Kyr.”
Rashid made a noise. “He only wants the appearance of fairness, Kadir. We already know his choice.”
Kadir’s throat was tight. He feared the same. And yet he could not accept the throne without a fight for what he knew was right.
“He’s dying. Do you really plan not to go, not to see him one last time?”
If anger had substance, then Kadir could feel the weight of his brother’s anger across the distance separating them. “So he can express his disappointment in me yet again? So he can hold out the promise of Kyr and then have the satisfaction of giving it to you while I can do nothing?”
Kadir felt his brother’s words like a blow. He’d done nothing to deserve Kyr and everything to drive a wedge between his father and his brother while protecting his own skin, though he had not really known the gravity of his actions at the time. Still, being a child did not excuse him.
“You don’t know this is his plan.”
Rashid blew out a breath and Kadir could almost hear the derision. “It has been this way since we were children. He hasn’t changed. You are the one he prefers.”
As if being the preferred one had made life as one of King Zaid’s sons any easier. Their father did not possess a warm bone in his body.
“I am not the best man to be king. You are.” He could say that without regret or shame. His particular gift was in building structures, in turning steel and glass into something beautiful and functional. He loved the challenge of it, of figuring out the math and science to support what he wanted to do.
He enjoyed his life, enjoyed being always on the move, always in demand. If he were the king of Kyr, he would not be able to do this any longer.
Oh, he could build skyscrapers in Kyr—but Kyr was not the world. And a king had many other things to tend to. He loved his country. But he felt its responsibility like a yoke, not a gift.
Rashid, however, wanted to rule. Had wanted to do so since they were boys. He’d always thought he would be the one to inherit the throne by virtue of his position as eldest—everyone had—until their father announced one day that he had not yet chosen a successor. And would not until the time came.
If King Zaid had died without choosing, the governing council would have made the choice. There had been no danger of Kyr being leaderless.
But it had always been a carrot to dangle over Rashid’s head, to make him jump to the tune King Zaid wanted.
Rashid had not jumped. He’d walked out. To Kadir’s knowledge, his father and Rashid had not spoken in at least ten years. Kadir maintained a distantly cordial relationship with his father, but it was not always easy to do.
“Be the better man, Rashid. Go and see a dying old man one last time. Give him what he wants and Kyr will be yours.”
Rashid didn’t speak for a long moment. “I will go, Kadir. But for you. Not for him. And when it turns out as I said, when you are crowned king of Kyr, do not blame me for your fate. It is not I who will have caused it.”
* * *
Emily nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a knock on her door. She’d fallen asleep on the couch of her small suite. A sheaf of papers fell to the floor as she bolted to a sitting position, her heart hammering with adrenaline.
She grabbed her phone where it lay on the coffee table. It was a few minutes after midnight. The knock sounded again and she scrambled upright, looked askance at the papers—there was no time to straighten them—and then whipped the long tangle of her hair out of her face and shoved it over her shoulders.
She’d changed into her usual sleep set—a tank top and pajama pants—which wasn’t in the least presentable. But the knock was insistent and she moved toward the door once her brain kicked into gear. Something must have happened to Kadir or no one would be outside her door at this hour. If Kadir wanted her, he would call.
She whipped the door back, unconcerned about criminals—since Kadir’s security had locked down the entire floor they were on—though she was careful to keep the bulk of her body behind the door.
Kadir stood on the other side, looking handsome and moody, and a wash of heat and confusion flooded her at once. Her stomach knotted even as her brain tried to work out a logical reason for his appearance at her door.
“Your Highness? Is there a problem?”
“There is indeed. I need to talk to you.”
“I—I will come to your suite. Give me a few minutes to get dressed and—”
“No. There is no time for that.” His hand was on her door, his big masculine body poised to enter her room. She’d worked for him for four years. She knew he was strong and big and not in the least bit soft, but she’d never quite felt the intensity of his body until this moment.
