She was part of the other side of his heritage. His mother was Safeyah Aal Ghamdi, a princess of the royal family in Zafrana, a cousin of the late king, Zayd Aal Ghamdi, and Jenan’s distant relative. His mother had left the region after her husband and son had been presumed dead thirty-seven years ago and had never come back. She’d never remarried, and had died four years ago in England.
Then when Zafrana’s king had died twenty-two years ago, the throne had gone to his closest male relative, his cousin Khalil, Jenan’s father.
His plan coming here had been simple. To reclaim his heritage, and punish the monster who’d murdered his father and caused Numair to rot in hell for a quarter of a century.
He was still working on providing irrefutable proof of his identity. With his father being dead almost four decades, it was hard to find anything with his DNA. Proof positive was to find his remains, so he was scouring the Mediterranean where his father’s yacht had sunk.
Once he found it, he’d reclaim his true identity. He didn’t fear exposure, like Rafael Salazar, who’d been abducted from his parents. No one in The Organization knew who Numair really was, having obtained him as an anonymous child from an orphanage in a faraway country. And he’d make his story work perfectly with the meticulous history he’d created for his Numair Al Aswad persona.
Once he decided to announce his real identity, he’d reveal the part where he’d survived the assassination attempt. His story would diverge from the truth when he’d claim he’d been found by a fishing fleet on the shores of Damhoor, a neighboring kingdom to Saraya, and taken to an orphanage there. A couple who’d been working there had adopted him almost immediately, but had never announced it since adoption was forbidden there, taking him to the States as their biological son. They’d told him he was adopted only when he’d been in his late teens.
The other truth he’d say was that it had taken him all that time to investigate his origins.
Until he proved them, he planned to prepare the playing field. And to punish Hassan. Before he exposed him for the murderer he was and throw him in a dungeon for life, he’d first disgrace and destroy him a bit at a time. Everyone should be happy with that, since all monarchs in the region wished he’d abdicate the throne to one worthy of it. But that wouldn’t be Hassan’s crown prince and his cousin, the much-loved Najeeb, but Numair himself.
If his cousins contested his right to the throne, which he fully expected they would, he had the power to curb them and any allies whose help they enlisted, and the finances to buy them all a few times over. If not, he could escalate to whatever level of conflict it took to make them bow down to him. He had no problem taking the throne in a coup. Or starting a war to claim what was his. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d instigated an armed conflict.
The other part of his plan had been to claim the other side of his heritage.
He’d come here bound on taking Zafrana’s throne, too, and saving his other homeland from its inept king. The only way to do this was through blood. Khalil’s blood. Through one of his daughters. Jenan had been the obvious choice, since her half sisters were so young. Then Hassan had made a bid for her, unintentionally trying to beat him to Zafrana with his same plan.
That had posed little change in his plan. Instead of claiming Jenan directly, he had to pulverize Hassan’s bid first. He’d intended to seduce her, impregnate her then marry her, becoming Zafrana’s de facto ruler during Khalil’s life through the marriage alliance. After Khalil’s death, when the throne became his child’s, he’d intended to rule as regent until his child came of age.
Then in mere hours, everything had changed. His one objective was now Jenan. Not because she was strategic to his plans, but because he had to have her.
Now he feared his marauding ways had alienated her.
He heaved up to his feet, his every muscle bunched as if in preparation for the fight of his life.
Not having her wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t retreat and change his approach. He’d escalate his attack, besiege her, leave her nowhere to run and hide.
Tomorrow night, Jenan would be his.
* * *
“You are my hero!”
Jen winced as Zeena launched herself at her the moment she opened the door for her and Fayza the next morning.
Fayza, her ball-of-energy nineteen-year-old sister, zipped around her and inside her apartment, excitement radiating from her eyes and spilling from her lips. “When they realized you disappeared from your own engagement party, Father and Hassan almost had strokes. Father with worry and Hassan with outrage. It was so funny.”
Though her sisters were in such good cheer, she still worried. “Is Father okay?”
“Yeah.” Fayza threw herself down on Jen’s huge floral couch in the living room. “His blood pressure is just through the roof.”
Jen groaned at what Fayza considered okay. “Ya Ullah, Fay, the way you take nothing seriously will one day give me a stroke! Please tell me you gave him his medication!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Fayza rolled her hands, in a hurry to attack the next topic. “I bet it didn’t work until we called him on the way up here to tell him you’re okay.”
But she wasn’t okay, might never be okay again.
Since she’d left Numair, she’d been unable to sleep or even sit, pacing holes in her wall-to-wall carpeting, her stomach eating itself with tension and hunger, yet unable to tolerate even a sip of water. Every inch of her buzzed with excess electricity, every nerve so taut she felt they’d snap.
“You know, sis...” Fayza stretched out, her knee-length raven hair a sharp contrast to the pastel print sofa, her gold eyes glittering with mischief, her face the very sight of admiration and smugness. “We always thought you were a wonder woman, but that stunt you pulled last night? That qualifies you for an all-time record in sticking your tongue out to our collective region, culture and history.” She guffawed, drummed her heels on the couch. “I would have given anything to see Hassan’s face the moment he realized you’d just up and left.” She jumped up onto her knees as Jen approached, draped herself over the couch’s back like an inquisitive cat. “So what did you do instead of attending that funeral? Caught a movie? Went roller-skating? Or came back here, ordered pizza, watched Will and Grace reruns and did your toenails?”
“She left with a hunk from some Arabian Nights fable.”
Zeena’s enthusiastic declaration was followed by total silence as Fayza’s irrepressible chatter came to an abrupt end. For three seconds. Then she exploded.