Chief. After years of battling with his own father’s army, he had negotiated a truce with Narabia when Zane had come to the throne.
Observing him from afar during the wedding and a few other official visits before she’d left for Cambridge, Kasia had become a little obsessed with the warrior prince. His prowess with women was almost as legendary as his skill in combat and his political agility. She’d adored all the stories that had trickled down into the palace’s women’s quarters after every visit—about how manly his physique was unclothed, how impressive his ‘assets’, how he could make a woman climax with a single glance. Like every other piece of gossip in the quarters, those salacious stories had been embellished and enhanced, but every time she’d had a chance to assess his broad, muscular physique or that rakish, devil-may-care smile from afar, she would fantasise that every word was true—and want to be the next woman on whom he bestowed that smile, and so much more.
He’d been a myth to her then, an object of her febrile adolescent desires, who had been larger than life in every respect. But he was just a man now.
The ripple of heat that she had been trying and failing to ignore sank deeper into her sex.
They didn’t call him the Bad-Boy Sheikh for nothing.
She stared at him, unable to believe she’d pointed a gun at him. Thank goodness she hadn’t actually shot him. Despite his wicked ways, he was a powerful prince. Plus, he’d rescued her. From a sandstorm.
As she pondered that far too romantic thought his eyelids fluttered.
The dark chocolate gaze fixed on her face and the heat in her sex blossomed like a mushroom cloud.
‘Prince Kasim, are you okay?’ she asked, the question popping out in English. She repeated it in Narabian. Did he even speak English?
He grunted again and she noticed for the first time the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and that his gaze, so intense earlier, now looked dazed. Then he replied in accented English.
‘My name is Raif. Only my brother calls me by my Narabian name.’ The husky rasp was expelled on a breath of outrage. ‘And, no I’m not okay, you little witch. You shot me.’
The bullet had hit him?
‘I’m so sorry,’ she yelped. But before she could say more, his eyes closed.
The darkness was descending fast, but gripping his robe she tugged it away to reveal bare skin beneath. Scars—so many scars—and a tattoo marred the smooth skin, making the bunch of muscle and sinew look all the more magnificent.
She ignored the well of heat pulsing at her core.
So, so not the point, Kaz.
She pressed trembling fingers to his chest, felt the muscles tense as she frantically ran them over his ribs up to his shoulder to locate the wound. Her fingertips encountered sticky moisture. She drew her hand away, her eyes widening in horror at the stain of fresh blood. The metallic smell invaded the silent night.
She swore again, the same word that had made her feel empowered several hours ago when she’d found herself alone in the desert with a broken-down Jeep.
Now she was alone in the desert with a bleeding man. A bleeding, unconscious warrior prince, who had saved her from a sandstorm and whom she’d shot for his pains.
She’d never felt less empowered in her life.
‘YOU’RE NOT MY SON—you’re not anyone’s son. You’re nothing more than vermin—a rat, born by mistake.’
The angry memory ripped through Raif’s body, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if it would gag him. His father’s face reared up, the cruel slant of his lips, the contempt in his flat black eyes, the cold echo of the only words he’d ever spoken to him cutting through the familiar nightmare like a rusting blade.
‘I clothed and fed you for ten years. You are a man now—any responsibility I had is paid. Now, get out.’
‘No…’ The desperate cry came out of his mouth, shaming, pathetic, pleading.
The crack of his father’s hand sounded like a rifle shot, although the ache wasn’t in his cheekbone this time but his arm. He shifted, trying to escape the cruel words, the bitter memories. The echo of remembered pain, too real and so vivid.
‘Shh… Prince Raif, you’re having a bad dream. Everything is okay, really, it was just a flesh wound.’
Soft words in English drifted to him through the cloaking agony. Something cool and soft fluttered over his brow. Like the wings of an angel.
‘Not a prince…a rat,’ he whispered back in the same language.
An exotic fragrance—jasmine, spice and female sweat—floated through the night on a cooling breeze. His nostrils flared like those of a stallion scenting its mate. The warmth of the night settled into his groin, swelling his shaft. He concentrated his mind on the pulse of pleasure, let it flow through him, to dull the aching pain always left by the nightmare in his heart.
Not a rat. You’re a prince… And a man now, not an unloved boy.
He thought the words but swallowed them, remembering even through his exhaustion that he should never admit to a weakness. Not to anyone.
Soft fingers touched his chin, then something cold pressed against his lips.
The urgent female voice spoke again but he couldn’t hear what it said because of the blood rushing in his ears. And the heat hurtling beneath his belt.
The taste of fresh water invaded his senses. He opened his mouth, gulping as the liquid soothed his dry throat.
‘Slow down or you’ll choke.’ The voice was less gentle, firm, demanding—he liked it even more. But then it took the refreshing water away.
He dragged open his eyelids, which had rocks attached to them.
The pleasure swelled and throbbed in his groin.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered in Kholadi.
The hazy vision was exquisite, like an angel, or a temptress—flushed skin, wild midnight hair, and large eyes the same colour as precious amber, the shade only made more intense by the bruised shadows under them and the wary glow of embarrassment and knowledge.
I want you.
Had he said that aloud?
‘I can’t understand you, Prince Raif. I don’t speak Kholadi.’ The lush lips moved, but the address confused him. Why was she mixing his Narabian title with his tribal name?
‘Beautiful,’ he whispered in English, his fatigued brain not able to engage with the vagaries of his cultural heritage. He wanted to touch her skin and see if it was as soft as it looked, to capture that pointed chin and bring her mouth down to his, trace the cupid’s bow on the top lip
