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“Yes.” The faintest hint of disbelief colored Altair’s voice.
“And?”
“It belongs to the Kahveci family.” Malik shook his head as he spoke, his expression of incredulity mirroring that of his older brother’s.
Tarif frowned. “Kahveci...as in Sidqi Kahveci?”
“None other.” Altair’s tone was flat. Glancing at the technician, the sheikh ordered, “Continue with the video.”
Andy clicked on Play, and the shaky footage taken by a civilian resumed playing on the giant screen.
The sheikhs watched in taut silence as the woman joined in the fray, her every movement exhibiting a curious mix of anxiety and skill. The way she wielded her dagger suggested years of practice, but the way her hand trembled hinted of deep-rooted fear and reluctance: she did not want to hurt anyone, but she would do so if forced.
The camera’s focus then swung away from the woman, this time focusing on the queen, who was crying and begging for her personal guards to stand down. Khalil’s face clenched at the sight of his wife’s distress, and by the time the footage reached its end, the atmosphere inside the war room simmered with ill-restrained rage.
Knowing that the next words they would speak of were best restricted to their ears alone, Tarif dismissed the technician with a quiet nod of thanks, and Andy almost forgot to bow in his haste to leave. The sheikhs’ moods had taken a dangerous turn, and he wanted to be as far away from it as he could. The last time he had been around a rich, angry man, Andy had ended up becoming a human punching bag simply because the file Andy had hacked for a client had turned out worthless.
As soon as the door closed behind the technician, Rayyan asked sharply, “Wasn't Kahveci the traitor executed fifteen years ago for leading a coup against King Khalid?” And if he recalled correctly, the palace had then covered everything up and made the man’s death appear an accident to save his family from public disgrace.
“Yes, that is him,” Altair said grimly, “and it is the Kahvecis’ coat of arms engraved on the hilt.”
“You are certain of this?” Khalil questioned.
“Not only am I certain of this, but I’m equally certain that his dagger had not left his clan’s possession.”
And with Altair’s confirmation, the four other Al-Atassi sheikhs came to understand that the woman so bravely defending the queen in the failed revolt could only be one of the two daughters the palace had rescued from Sidqi’s residence. The older girl had been eleven at that time while the younger one had been four, and when the palace had found them, both girls had been severely malnourished. Apparently, starvation had been one of their father’s favorite forms of punishment.
“It can’t be Hyacinth.” Rayyan’s tone was hard as he referred to the younger of Sidqi’s daughters, the very same woman who now interned for him as his personal assistant.
“You’re certain of this?” the king asked in an equally hard voice.
“Nem.”
The other sheikhs exchanged quiet looks of interest at their cousin’s clipped tone. As the five men trusted each other implicitly, none of them had any problems taking Rayyan’s word for truth. Even so, one question remained in their minds: how was Rayyan so sure of the girl’s whereabouts that night?
It was a puzzle worth mulling over, but for now the other sheikhs put the matter aside. There were more pressing issues at hand, and time was far from being on their side. That it had taken the palace two long, frustrating years to gather sufficient evidence on the failed revolt still chafed at them, and they were still no closer to identifying the true culprits behind the attack. For now, the sheikhs were concentrating on identifying who was and wasn’t on their side—-
And the courageous woman who hid her face behind the silver niqab was definitely fighting in their corner.
Staring at the woman with flashing violet eyes on the screen, Tarif tried to summon her image to mind now that he had the necessary clues to her identity.
Hyacinth’s older half-sister was the queen’s former tutor as well as Kyria’s, wasn’t it? And her name was...Anisah? As soon as he thought of the name, a vivid picture flashed in the sheikh’s mind: a tall, slender woman wearing stern-looking, black-rimmed glasses and perpetually dressed in a dark-colored abaya.
“Harper never spoke of this to me,” Tarif heard his king murmur thoughtfully.
Malik snorted. “Are you truly expecting otherwise? You know how Anisah hates any kind of fanfare.”
“That’s true,” Rayyan acknowledged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she had asked the queen to not speak of her involvement.”
Altair smirked. “Actually, I wouldn’t even be surprised if Anisah threatened our queen with a two-hundred-point test if Her Majesty so much as hinted of her heroics.”
The four sheikhs laughed while Tarif’s puzzlement grew.
Something wasn’t fucking right here.
“Why do you all know her so well,” Tarif questioned, “and I don’t?” His cousins’ laughter abruptly died down, but Tarif wasn’t fooled at all. This time, he had a feeling that all four men were silently laughing...at him.
“Well?” Tarif’s tone was now testy. “Just fucking spill it.”
