is a certain liberty in having so few choices,” he told her, almost sadly, and it felt like a cage closing, a lock turning. “This will all work out fine, Shona. One way or another.”
“There’s nothing to work out,” she said fiercely. Desperately. “You need to turn around and go back where you came from. Now.”
“I wish I could do that,” Malak said in that same resigned sort of way, and oddly enough, she believed him. “But it is impossible.”
“You can’t—”
“Miles is the son of the king of Khalia,” Malak said, and there was an implacable steel in that dark gaze and all through that body of his, lean and sculpted to a kind of perfection that spoke of actual fighting arts, brutal and intense, and not a gym.
And she believed that, too, though she didn’t want to. She believed that every part of him was powerful. Lethal. And that she was in over her head.
Again.
“Congratulations, Shona,” he continued, all steel and dark promise. “That makes you my queen.”
MALAK WAS FURIOUS.
That was too tame a word. He was nearly volcanic, and the worst part was, he was well aware he had no right to the feeling because he’d been the one to cause this situation in the first place. No one had asked him to carry on as he had, following pleasure wherever it led.
But knowing his own culpability only made it worse.
He hadn’t believed it when the palace advisors had put the photographs before him. He’d had enough on his plate, with his brother Zufar’s abdication following so soon after their father’s and the bracing news that after a life of being ignored—which he had always quite enjoyed, in fact, as it had meant he could do exactly as he pleased without anyone thundering at him about his responsibilities—he was to be king.
Malak had never wanted to be king. Who would want such a burden? He’d preferred his life of excess and extremes, thank you. But Zufar was happy, a thing that Malak would never have believed possible if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, not after the way they’d grown up. And Malak loved both his brother and his country, so the decision was simple.
The decision, perhaps, but not the execution of it. His initiation into his new role had thus far been all that he’d feared and more, starting with a close examination of his entire sybaritic existence. Laying all his exploits bare, one by one, until Malak was profoundly sick of himself and the great many salacious, debauched urges he’d never attempted to curb in the slightest.
He had never been much for shame, but it was difficult to avoid when faced with so many photographs and so many thick dossiers enumerating his indiscretions, one after the next, on into infinity. And particularly when so many of the women in those pages were nothing but vaguely pleasant blurs to him.
And yet he remembered Shona. Distinctly.
How could he not? Of the many beautiful women he’d been privileged enough to sample, she had been something else entirely. It had been his last night in New Orleans after a week of blues and all manner of questionable behavior. He had settled in for a quiet drink in the lobby of his quietly elegant hotel to prepare himself for the trip back home to see his family, who would all have been deeply disapproving of his antics if they’d ever spared him a moment’s notice.
And then there she was. She’d been almost unbearably pretty, with rich, creamy dark skin and a lush mouth that made him feel distinctly greedy at a glance. And her beautiful hair, arrayed in a great halo around her head with springy curls he’d longed to sink his hands into. She’d worn a skimpy little dress that had glittered like gold and had made a delectable poem out of her lean curves.
Better still, she’d walked to the gleaming wooden bar and taken the only empty seat, which had been directly next to his.
Malak was only a man. And not much of one, according to his family when they bothered to pay attention to him and all the newspapers that breathlessly recorded his every salacious move.
Which had made it the easiest thing in the world to smile at the prettiest girl he’d seen in ages, and lean in when she smiled back with what had seemed to him, as jaded as he was, like innocence.
It had been a revelation.
“This is my first time here,” she’d told him, angling her head toward his as if she was sharing a secret. “Tonight is my twenty-first birthday and I decided to celebrate in style.”
It had taken him a minute to remember where he was. And more, recall those American laws he found so strange, that called young boys and girls adults when they were eighteen and wished to head off to war, but restricted their drink.
“And you chose to celebrate it here?” he’d asked. “Surely there are more exciting places to go for such a grand occasion than a subdued hotel bar on a quiet street. This is New Orleans, after all.”
Her smile had only gotten better the longer she’d aimed it at him. “I used to walk past this hotel all the time when I was a kid and I always dreamed I’d come in here one day. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.”
Malak had known full well that he hadn’t been alone when he’d felt that spark between them. That fire.
It had never occurred to him to ignore such things back then, for some notion of a greater good. He hadn’t. He’d bought a pretty girl her first drink and then he’d happily divested her of her innocence in his suite upstairs. He could remember her wonder, her uncomplicated joy, as easily as if it had all happened yesterday.
Just as he was sure that if he tried, he would be able to remember her taste, too.
Because it wasn’t only Shona’s smile that had been a revelation to him.
The pictures his advisors had shown him—his aides bristling with officious dismay as they’d set each one before him—were of the only woman he remembered in such perfect detail. He knew time had passed—years, in fact—but he wouldn’t have known that by looking at the photographs they’d placed before him. Shona was as pretty as ever, whether she wore what appeared to be a server’s uniform or one of those long, flowing sundresses she seemed to prefer that Malak greatly approved of, so perfectly did they showcase those curves he could almost feel beneath his hands again.
Or perhaps she was even prettier because he found he could also remember the wild sounds of wonder and discovery she’d made as he’d explored her, and the sumptuous feel of her silky dark skin against his.
But his advisors had not been primarily interested in reacquainting Malak with his every mistake. Those forced marches down memory lane had become tense for all concerned, since Malak had resolutely refused to apologize or show the faintest shred of regret for the way he’d lived his life as the spare with no hope of ascending the throne. Ever.
It was the child his advisors were interested in.
The child, who was four years old and bore a striking resemblance not only to Malak, but also to every member of his family. And if there had been any doubt, the little boy sported the same dark green eyes that
