‘Yes, sir.’
Amir paused as her words filled his brain once more. He walked beside his servant, using every ounce of willpower not to look over his shoulder to see the woman return to the ballroom. He wouldn’t look for her again; he couldn’t.
At the doors to the stateroom, Ahmed said something low and quiet to one of the guards. Both bowed low then opened the doors inwards.
There were only three men in the room, though the space was opulent and large enough to house two hundred easily. Marble, like the ballroom, with pillars to the vaulted ceilings, and tapestries on the walls—burgundy and gold with threads of navy blue to add detail.
Amir strode through the room as though he belonged. These men had removed their masks; he identified Malik Qadir easily enough.
‘Your Majesty.’ Malik silenced the other two with the address, extending a hand to Amir’s. Amir hesitated a moment, his veins pounding with hatred and enmity. Only a love for his kingdom had him lifting up to remove his own mask before taking the outstretched hand and meeting Malik’s eyes.
‘Your Majesty,’ he returned. But it felt like a betrayal of everything he knew in the world; he felt as though he was defacing the memory of his parents by treating this man—the nephew of his parents’ murderer!—with such civility. He had always sworn to hate this family, and that included the Sheikh and Princess of Taquul.
‘My chief aide, Tariq.’ Malik indicated the man to his left. Amir nodded and introduced Ahmed with the same title.
‘And Paris—my friend, and the man my sister is to marry.’
Amir nodded. He didn’t say that it was a pleasure. He was honest to a fault and always had been. But he forced his lips into something approximating a smile. ‘Let’s get this over with, then.’
Malik’s eyes glittered, showing a matching sense of antipathy. They were both putting aside their personal hatred for the sake of their kingdoms. For peace and prosperity and in the hope that more senseless deaths could be avoided.
‘One moment,’ Malik murmured, turning to Tariq and speaking low and soft. They shared the same language but he swapped to an ancient dialect that Amir only passingly understood.
A moment later, Malik looked at Amir. ‘My sister is expected.’
Paris’s smile was indulgent. ‘She is often late.’
It was clear from Malik’s expression that he disapproved of that quality. It was a sentiment Amir shared. Punctuality was not difficult to master and was, at its base, a sign of respect.
‘Would you care for some wine?’ Malik gestured to the wall, where a tray had been placed with several drinks.
Amir shook his head.
‘Then we shall simply wait.’
The silence was tense. It was not natural. To be in the depths of this palace, surrounded by men who a year ago might have wished him dead? Hell, who probably still did. The peace talks had been ongoing, difficult and driven by emotion on both sides. It had taken Amir and Malik’s intervention with their aides to achieve what they had.
And now, there was simply this. To stand in front of the assembled guests and speak to the importance of what they hoped to achieve, the ancient bonds that had, at one time, held these countries together. The mountain ranges separated them but that had, generations ago, been a passage alive with trade. The cooler climates there had created villages full of people from both countries. Only in recent times had the mountain range come to serve as a barrier.
He must focus on their past, on the closeness that had once been natural to their peoples, and on the future they intended to forge.
‘I know, I know.’ Johara ran a hand over her hair, meeting her servant’s eyes in the gold-framed mirror. ‘I’m late.’
‘Very,’ Athena agreed, pursing her lips into a small smile. ‘Your brother was expecting you in the staterooms fifteen minutes ago.’
Another flicker of rebellion dashed through her soul. So she was keeping her brother waiting. It was juvenile and silly, particularly given the importance of the evening, and yet there was pleasure in the perversity of running behind schedule.
‘Send word that I’m on my way,’ she murmured to another servant, reaching up to remove the thick black ribbons that held the mask in place. Her hair was loose; it tumbled over her shoulders, but for this meeting, she wanted it styled more severely, more formally. That felt like an armour she would need.
Her hands worked deftly, catching the lustrous brown waves low at her nape and swirling them into a bun. ‘Pins?’
Athena reached into her pockets—from which she seemed capable of removing all sorts of implements at will—and handed several to Johara. ‘I can call a stylist?’
‘Is it necessary?’ Johara returned archly, pressing several pins into place to secure an elegant chignon.
‘No. It’s perfect. Neat and ordered.’
The opposite of how she presently felt. When she lifted her hands to her cheeks to pinch them for a hint of colour, her nipples strained against the lace of her bra and she felt a hum of memory, a reminder of what she’d shared with the stranger. A frisson ran the length of her spine—had it really happened? It was the most uncharacteristic thing she’d ever done in her life and yet she didn’t regret it. Not even a little.