“The same accuracy and skill is needed to rise to power within one, I assure you.”He’d laughed. It had been a shade more hollow a laugh than it might have been otherwise, but it had still been a laugh.“I might assemble one for the sheer pleasure of forcing your hand. I suspect you would rule with an iron fist.”
She had sniffed. She had not mentioned his brother again.“You can try.”
Tarek had a different way of trying. He’d pulled her astride him, pushing his way inside her again. Then he’d watched as she wriggled to accommodate him. It was his favorite show and no matter how many times he watched, it never grew old. Her indrawn breath, especially when she was already faintly swollen from before. The way she bit down on her lower lip. Her marvelous hips and how they moved against his as she adjusted to his length, his girth. The way she rocked slightly until it felt good.
And all the while she softened around him, drenching him with her fire.
Until there were no memories left to haunt him.
Until there was only Anya.
There was no way around it, he thought now, only half attending to the deeply boring world leaders standing around him. He was obsessed.
And he couldn’t be any such thing. He was the King.
The country was the only obsession he allowed himself. The only memories he permitted. How else could he have fought off Rafiq? How else would he rule?
Against his will, he found Anya in the crowd. He didn’t know what he wanted. To assure himself he was not obsessed or to feed that obsession? But whatever dark thoughts he might have had in either direction, when he located her he was instantly struck by the way she was holding herself.
Anya was wearing a glorious gown in a Western style for this first celebration of the week. It was a sweeping number that left her collarbone bare, a perfect place for the jewels he’d placed there himself when he’d finished wringing them both dry earlier. The rest of the dress was a glorious fall to the floor in a deep aubergine shade that made her glow. Her glossy hair was swept up so the whole world might see the elegance of her neck, the delicate sweep of her jaw, and all of that was nothing next to the sophistication she seemed to carry in her bones.
She looked like a queen. His Queen.
But she was staring at the woman before her in a manner Tarek recognized all too well. Her shoulders were tight and her chin was tilted up at a belligerent angle that Tarek knew was a tell. It was outward evidence of her ferocity.
It should not have been happening at a party in her honor.
And certainly not in the presence of so many cameras. Though that particular consideration was an afterthought—another indication that Tarek was not in his right mind where this woman was concerned. Surely, with the international press present at this party, his only thoughts should have been on their joint performance instead of her feelings.
You are a king, he reminded himself icily.Perhaps act like one.
He excused himself and crossed to her, moving swiftly through the great hall. The crowd of guests parted before him as he moved, and he did not waste his time nodding greetings or allowing anyone to catch his eye. He bore down upon his betrothed.
And Anya alone did not instinctively move out of his way. She stayed where she was, only glancing his way—with a frown—when he appeared beside her.
“I do not care for the look on your face,habibti,” Tarek told her. In his language, because the froth of a blonde woman before her and the older man beside her who looked as if he smelled something rank were clearly American.
Anya’s gaze softened. Her frown smoothed out, and Tarek thought he saw something like relief there. He took his time shifting to gaze directly at the people who dared upset her. Here in the royal palace, right beneath his nose.
“Your Excellency,” Anya murmured in formal greeting. She smiled at the couple. “Dad, Charisma, I would like to introduce you to Tarek bin Alzalam, the King of this country and my fiancé.” Then she looked at him again. “Tarek, this is my father, Dr. Preston Turner, and his wife, Charisma Turner.”
“Ah, yes.” Tarek neither smiled nor offered his hand, as was his right as sovereign. That it also made the man before himtutin outrage was merely a bonus. “The doctor, yes?”
It was possible he madedoctorsound a great deal likesnake.
But then, Anya’s father did not look sufficiently honored to find himself in the presence of a king. Nor particularly pleased to reunite with his only child after such a long separation—that had included said child’s incarceration. Tarek did not expect or want an emotional display, certainly, but surely there should have been something other than the haughty expression on the older man’s face.
“I was telling my daughter that I was forced to reschedule several surgeries,” the man said, as if relaying an outrage. “In order to fly across the world at a moment’s notice.”
Then he waited, as if he expected Tarek to react to that.
And Tarek did. He gazed down at the man the way he imagined he might look at an insect, should it dare to begin buzzing at him. Right before he squashed it.
Beside him, Anya made a soft sound that he thought was a suppressed laugh.
“My father is referring to his schedule at the hospital,” she said quickly. “He is...distressed that he had to alter it to come here for these celebrations. I explained to him that he could have come in later in the week, of course.”
“You may not care what people think of you, Anya,” her father said, making no apparent attempt to curtail the snide lash in his words. “But I’m afraid I do. However inconvenient it might be, I can hardly pretend this hasty wedding isn’t happening. It’s been all over the news.”