But he could be near her. He had nothing left strong enough to keep him away.
His popularity had skyrocketed. International interest and tourism spiking, with Rita’s name at the center. And Jag was the most popular living monarch Hayat had ever seen—and he wasn’t even reigning.
And because of it, the press conference in which he would reveal and condemn his father had been scheduled.
He had had a personal hand in planning every element of the event. It would be perfect. But now all there was to do was sit back and wait for the big day.
And though he expected more to come in, he had finally made his way through the backlog of international trade offers and shiny new contracts that had been on his desk after the exhibition.
Now there was nothing else to keep him away from Rita.
So he had come home.
Was it home because it was the only place he had spent happy years, or was it because she was here?
He hated himself for asking the question.
Since Rita had arrived, even when he dined with her, he had been so good about leaving for whatever residence was nearest with traffic at the time. It didn’t matter; he was only going to toss and turn dreaming about Rita anyway.
And that had been before he was inside her.
But tonight, as weak as his will had become—or more likely because of it—there was nothing that would stop him from at least sleeping in the same building as her.
This was how he broke.
This was how he drove himself to the only place he’d ever called home, uninterested in a driver or witness for the trip, staring out at the long stretch of desert beyond the city and seeing Rita.
Slipping into the room that was his. Or would be if he ever spent the night here.
Closing his eyes as he passed through the doorway, he could almost smell her, his mind supplying the details. Her scent reached out of his memory to wrap around him like the climbing and clinging vines of the sweet night-blooming jasmine that she always brought to his mind.
Then he realized that though the room was darkened, he wasn’t alone.
His memory had not supplied her scent in such vivid detail that his nose could not tell the difference between imagination and reality, but rather her living and breathing self had in his bed.
He had set her up in a different wing when he’d installed her in the palace. It appeared things had changed in his absence.
He wished the observation did not make the corners of his mouth want to lift.
“I know you’re here, Jag,” she said by way of greeting, her body still and back to him as she lay on her side.
“How did you know it was me?” he asked quietly.
“I could smell you,” she said.
Frowning, he said, “My apologies. I didn’t mean to come into your room. I thought you were in the guest wing.”
Rolling around to face him, her expression still shadowed in the dark room, she said, “Rafida moved my things here as soon as she heard the news.”
Jag bowed his head to the absurd logic of it. Of course; he had not anticipated it, but it made sense nonetheless.
And because of it, not only did he find himself beneath the same roof as the woman he desperately needed to get off his mind, but in the same bedroom.
He needed to get out.
Clearing his throat, he said, “In that case, I’m sorry for disturbing your rest. I’ll let you get back to it.” He began to step out, pulling the door closed as he spoke, knowing he shouldn’t even be in here.
“Jag, stop.” Her voice was a command, and he stopped.