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‘My mother raised me on her own after my father left,’ she insisted, tilting her chin with pride for the job her mother had done even when she’d struggled with her health for years.
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Why would you? We don’t know each other, Sariq. We don’t know each other.’
‘Don’t we?’ The question laid her bare and forced her to look inside herself. They might not know one another’s biographical details back to front, but she would have said that despite that, after their time together, she did know him. But that he was capable of this? Of holding her prisoner in his embassy?
It renewed her anger and disbelief, so she stood a little shakily, moving towards the door. ‘You’re not going to keep me prisoner here until I agree to marry you.’
‘No,’ he acquiesced, and relief burst through her. ‘We are getting married this evening, Daisy. There is no point fighting over the inevitable.’
He watched her from the mezzanine, and he felt many things. Desire. Shock. Certainty. Admiration. But most of all, he felt a sense of guilt. Her displeasure with this was understandable. She’d arrived at the embassy with no concept of how he would react, and he’d wielded his power like a sledgehammer.
He hated this.
He hated what he was doing, he hated that he was doing it to Daisy, and yet he knew he had no alternative. Not only was their child incredibly politically powerful, if he didn’t marry her and bring her to the RKH there was a very real threat to both of them. Only in his palace, with the royal guards at his disposal, could he adequately protect them.
He hadn’t wanted to hit her over the head, metaphorically speaking, with the truth of that. It felt like the last thing you should say to a pregnant woman, and yet undeniably there were some factions within his country who would strike out at his heir. And particularly an illegitimate yet rightful heir who could, at any point, return to the RKH and claim po
wer.
For years, he’d believed his mother had died in childbirth. His father had wanted it that way. But when Sariq was fifteen, he’d learned the truth. She’d been murdered. When she was heavily pregnant, while on a private vacation, someone had killed her. Sariq should have been there. He was part of the plan, too, but at the last moment he’d come down with a virus and his father had insisted he stay home to avoid making his mother sick in her delicate state.
He knew, better than anyone, what some factions were capable of and there was no way he was seeing history repeat itself. He would protect Daisy and their unborn child with his dying breath.
No, he had to do this, even when it left a sour taste in his mouth. As to her suitability? He had no doubts on that score; she’d be a fish out of water at first. Who wouldn’t? She wasn’t raised with these pressures; she had no concept of what would be expected of her. She’d never even travelled outside America, for Christ’s sake. His advisors would question his judgement, and they’d be right to do so. There would be political ramifications, but he was counting on the spectre of a royal baby on the horizon to quell those.
At the end of the day he had made his decision and there was no one on earth who could shake him from his sense of duty and purpose. She was angry now, but once they arrived in the RKH and she saw the luxury and financial freedom that awaited her, surely that would ease? In time, when she realised that their marriage was really in name only, a legal arrangement, more than anything, to bind them as parents and to right their child’s claim to the throne.
And the fact he couldn’t look at her without wanting to tear her clothes from her body?
It was irrelevant. He had a duty to marry her, to protect her with his life. Everything else was beside the point.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DRESS WAS STUNNING. It was perfect for a princess. A pale cream with beads that she was terrified to discover were actual diamonds, stitched around the neckline, the wrists and at the hem, so that the dress itself was heavy and substantial. It nipped in at her waist to reveal the still-flat stomach. On her feet she wore simple silk slippers, for which she was grateful—the last thing she wanted was to be impeded by high heels.
They’d make it far more difficult to run away.
Except she wasn’t going to run away. She caught her reflection in the windows across the room. Evening had fallen, meaning she could see herself more clearly. And more importantly, New York was gone. There were lights, in the distance, and the tooting of cars, but the trees of Bryant Park were no longer visible. She lifted a finger to her throat, toying with the necklace her mother had given her, running the simple silver locket from side to side distractedly.
There were guards everywhere. Escape wasn’t an option. But even if it were, Daisy wasn’t sure she would take it. She knew there were many, many single parents out there doing an amazing job, and perhaps if Daisy hadn’t already been worn down by extreme poverty, hunger, and the fear of living pay cheque to pay cheque, she might have had more faith in her abilities. But the truth was, she knew what it was like to be poor, to be broke, to have enormous debts nipping at her heels, and she wanted so much more for her baby.
It wasn’t just the financial concerns though. It was the certainty that if she didn’t marry Sariq she would need to go back to work as soon as possible, and already she hated the idea of leaving her baby.
Still, marriage felt extreme.
So why wasn’t she fighting? Insisting that she be allowed to call a lawyer?
Was it possible that on some level she actually wanted this? That her body’s traitorous need for his was pushing her towards this fate, even when she wanted to rail against it?
She couldn’t say. But she knew a thousand and one feelings were rushing through her and not all of them were bad. Which made her some kind of traitor to the sisterhood, surely?
She ground her teeth together, looking around this enormous space idly until her eyes landed on a figure on the mezzanine level and she froze.
‘Sariq.’ His name escaped her lips without her consent. Then again, it was preposterous to keep calling him by his title. He was watching her like a hawk, his eyes trained on her in a way that made her stomach clench with white-hot need, so fierce it pushed her lips apart and forced a huge breath from her body. She spun away, ashamed of her base reaction. A moment later, he had descended the steps and was behind her, his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him.
He didn’t speak. His eyes held hers, and he studied her for several seconds. ‘Are you ready?’
