said, setting her glass down.
He hesitated, staring off, his gaze on the red mountains beyond, the manicured palm trees lining the exterior citadel wall. ‘‘Baraka was in the midst of a violent civil war when I was born. This war lasted fifteen years. Everyone took sides. Many fought on behalf of the royal family, others fought for the insurgents. You see, we’d been under French rule for so long that people were fighting simply because they were angry, and scared, and no one knew what was best. I was still just a small child when my grandfather was assassinated, but I’ve never forgotten that day.’’
His brow furrowed as he remembered those dark violent years. ‘‘My grandfather’s assassination ended the war.’’ He turned and looked at her, his expression curiously blank. ‘‘Because you see, my grandfather was universally loved. He wasn’t supposed to be killed. This wasn’t a fight against him, or the family, but a fight about culture…custom…a fight to be recognized. The country virtually shut down the day of Grandfather’s funeral. All the people took to the streets. I’ve never forgotten the sound of weeping, thousands of people weeping, and it taught me that nothing is more important than life. Than family.’’
‘‘I’m surprised you haven’t married before then.’’
‘‘It didn’t feel urgent.’’
‘‘And it is now?’’
His mouth opened as if to speak but instead he closed it, shook his head.
Truthfully, he’d never worried about marrying, having children, he’d been certain it was a matter of timing and sooner or later he’d meet the right woman…but it hadn’t happened, and here he was, in his late thirties, and without a wife, an heir, or a family of his own.
And with one assassination attempt against him already.
Malik drank his tea, let the cool liquid pour down his throat and ice his raw emotions. It’d been a difficult twenty-four hour period. He was feeling the strain of Fatima’s desperate measures, Nicolette’s masquerade, and his own need for closure. He just wished he knew if she’d come through, meet him on her own terms. He wanted her on her terms, he wanted her heart, her laughter, her commitment. But he couldn’t push her…yet.
He turned his head, looked at Nic whose features were grave, a deep furrow between her eyebrows from thinking hard, listening so intently.
‘‘The years of war changed the way I looked at society,’’ he continued. ‘‘It impacted the way I view our culture and the idea of stability. I learned early that we must embrace change, that without change we die.’’
‘‘I would have thought you’d be afraid of change. After all, change triggered your grandfather’s death—as well as that decade and half of turmoil. One would think you’d associate change with danger.’’
He shrugged. ‘‘But chaos and turmoil surround us, whether or not we choose to recognize it. Just because we don’t see turmoil, or because we’re not immediately impacted, doesn’t negate its existence. Chaos can happen at any time.’’
‘‘So your philosophy is…?’’
Talking with Nic was good for him. ‘‘Change is good. Change is necessary. It doesn’t mean that one can’t revere the past and respect tradition, but tradition is pointless unless one can use tradition to teach, to use as a benchmark, to show one where and how to aim.’’
She leaned back in the chaise. ‘‘You like being King.’’
‘‘I love being King.’’
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