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If Sheikh Rayyan was often likened to a serpent feared because one never knew when it would strike, people feared the sheikh – once the kingdom’s deadliest assassin – for the opposite reason. With Sheikh Altair, one would always see him coming, and the mere thought of this was so frightening that using him as a threat was often enough to win wars without the kingdom having waged a single battle.
Gadi froze when he saw the sheikh heading towards the private office of his employer. “Ah...um...err...”
Altair raised a brow his way. “Were you saying something?”
Sheikh Rayyan is in a bad mood.
Sheikh Rayyan has just been dumped.
Sheikh Rayyan does not wish to be disturbed.
But with the other sheikh mere inches away from him, self-survival won, and Gadi said with a gulp, “Nothing, alshaykh.” And he hurriedly opened the doors for the sheikh while mentally reciting a prayer. Allah save me, but please make Sheikh Rayyan understand that only a fool would even think of getting in Altair Al-Atassi’s way.
Altair was amused at the way his normally observant cousin remained incognizant to his presence and was instead focused too intently on the phone he held in his hand. Moving forward, he took a look –
“Lueta.” Damn it. “What the hell are you doing here?” Rayyan swiftly shoved his phone back into his pocket, but the perplexed expression on the other sheikh’s face told him he was already too late.
Altair stared hard at the other man. “Hyacinth Kahveci?” The girl’s name on top of the text message thread had been the only thing he caught, but the way the other man’s expression turned decidedly flushed made him wonder about the impossible –
“Lueta.” It was Altair’s turn to curse. “Don’t tell me you two have been sexting?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rayyan snapped even as he felt the stain of color on his face deepening. “She’s too young for me, and she’s never been my type. You should know better—-”
“All I know,” Altair drawled as he sank into the seat across Rayyan’s desk, “is that you’re acting too damn defensive.”
Shit. Rayyan’s lips clamped shut. The other man was right. He was being defensive, and he only had himself to blame.
If he had known that one forbidden taste of her would be enough to drive him insane, he thought savagely, he would’ve ignored all common sense and simply gave her what they both knew she had come for.
Altair had to school his expression as he viewed the frustration stamped over Rayyan’s features. How the hell had this happened? Hyacinth might have lived under the same roof as them for most of her life, but as far as Altair knew, that was the extent of her connection to Rayyan.
Anisah, her older sister, was the one they all spent more time with, not Hyacinth. Moreover, Rayyan’s taste in women had always run towards the more mature and sophisticated variety – women like his former mistress Jemima Black, who was nothing at all like the seventeen-year-old girl.
“Tell me something.” Leaning forward, Altair asked point blank, “Is something going on between you and the younger Kahveci?”
“No.”
Altair knew the truth when he heard it, but even so, there was something about the other sheikh’s shuttered expression that didn't completely add up. It was almost as if...
“Give it up,” Rayyan said irritably, noting the way Altair was studying him. “There’s nothing for you to figure out.” He changed the subject then, making it clear he was done talking about the subject by asking Altair the reason for his visit.
As expected, the other man took the hint, and it was only when Altair left and he was alone again that Rayyan allowed himself to take another look at his phone –
Aira. Fuck.
How long was she going to ignore him, dammit?
IT HAPPENED THE WAY it always happened, evil striking when and where it hurt the most. On the weekend celebration of the Emir Sheikh’s birthday, an occasion in which the whole kingdom was invited to take part in the festivities, a mob of protesters came charging to the gates of the palace, their viciously frenzied cries deliberately fanned by those wanting to bring the royal family down.
Even more tragic was how in the midst of this chaos, the kingdom’s recently crowned Queen, an independent American woman who had won the hearts of Ramilians for her brave and loyal defense of the oppressed, rushed out of the ball like a heartbroken Cinderella, tears streaming down her face as she seemed to force herself to publicly denounce her marriage to the king.
In an instant, battle lines were drawn, and as violence ensued, the sound of clashing swords and screams of pain ripped into the silence of the night.
News traveled ever so slowly, hampered by the sorry fact that the palace had been blindsided by the opposition’s bold move. The attack was an eye-opener, forcing the palace to acknowledge the devastatingly callous cruelty in which its foes sowed the seeds of anarchy, regardless of the number of innocent lives it would have to sacrifice for its cause.
