In Khalil’s arms.
She hadn’t consciously, deliberately accessed that hidden, vulnerable part of herself for years, and it was hard to reach it now, even when she wanted to. Sort of.
She took a shuddering breath and clutched her knees harder, closed her eyes and felt the pressure build in her chest.
Finally that first tear fell, trickling onto her cheek. She dashed it away instinctively, but another came, and another, and then she really was crying. Her shoulders shaking, the tears streamed as ragged sobs tore from her throat. She pressed her hot face into the pillow and let all the misery out.
It was not just sadness about her wrecked wedding, or Khalil, but about so much more: the needless deaths of her parents and the fact that she hadn’t been able to grieve for them as she should have. Her broken relationship with Paulo, her shattered trust. The four lonely years she’d endured as Queen, working hard for the country she loved, suffering Markos’s and other councillors’ sneers and slights, trying desperately to hold onto the one thing her parents wanted her to keep.
And yes, she realised as she sobbed, she was crying about Khalil. He’d helped her in so many ways, opened her up, allowed her to feel and trust again. She’d miss him more than she wanted to admit even to herself. More than he’d ever want to know.
* * *
Khalil turned back to the reports he’d been studying, reports detailing Kadar’s response to Aziz, polls that confirmed outside of Siyad he was not a popular choice as Sheikh. It was news that should have encouraged him, but he only felt restless and dissatisfied—and it was all because of Elena. Or, really, all because of him and his reaction to her and her proposal.
He should have said yes. He should have been strong and cold and ruthless enough to agree to a marriage that would stabilise his country, strengthen his claim. Instead he’d let his emotions rule him. His fear had won out, and the realisation filled him with self-fury.
‘Your Highness?’
Khalil waved Assad forward, glad to think about something else. ‘You have news, Assad?’
Assad nodded, his face as stony and sombre as always. Khalil had met him eight years ago, when he’d joined the French Foreign Legion. They’d fought together, laughed together and saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion. And, when the time had been right for Khalil to return to Kadar, Assad had made it possible. He’d gathered support, guarded his back.
None of this would have been possible without Assad, yet Khalil still didn’t trust him. But that was his fault, not his friend’s.
‘Is something the matter?’ he asked and Assad gave one terse nod.
‘Aziz has married.’
Khalil stilled, everything inside him going cold. He’d always known this was a risk, yet he was still surprised. ‘Married? How? Who?’
‘We’re not sure. Intelligence suggests someone on his staff, a housekeeper or some such.’
‘He married his housekeeper?’ Poor Elena. No matter what she had or hadn’t felt for Aziz, it would still be a blow. And with a jolt Khalil realised he shouldn’t even be thinking about Elena; he should be thinking about his rule.
Aziz had fulfilled the terms of his father’s will. He would be Sheikh.
And Khalil wouldn’t.
Abruptly he rose from his chair, stalked to the other side of the tent. Emotion poured through him in a scalding wave, emotion he would never have let himself feel a week ago. Before Elena.
She’d accessed that hidden part of himself, a part buried so deep he hadn’t thought it existed. Clearly it did, because he felt it all now: anger and guilt. Regret and fear. Hurt.
‘All is not lost, Khalil,’ Assad said quietly, dropping the honorific for once. ‘Aziz is still not popular. Secretly marrying a servant will make him even less so.’
‘Does that even matter?’ Khalil bit out. ‘He’s fulfilled the terms of the will. He is Sheikh.’
‘But very few people want him to be.’
‘So you’re suggesting a civil war,’ Khalil stated flatly. ‘I didn’t think Aziz would go that far.’ And he wasn’t sure he would either, no matter what he’d thought before. Felt before.
Risking so much for his own crown, endangering his people, was not an option he wanted to consider now.
Things were changing. They’d already changed.
He wasn’t the cold, ruthless man he’d once been, yet if he wasn’t Sheikh...
What was he?
‘A civil war is not the only option,’ Assad said quietly. ‘You could approach Aziz, demand a referendum.’
Khalil let out a mirthless laugh. ‘He has everything he wants. Why would he agree?’
‘There is something to be said for a fair fight, Your Highness,’ Assad answered. ‘Aziz might want to put the rumours and unrest behind him. If he wins the vote, his throne is secure.’
And Khalil would have no chance at all. He would have to accept defeat finally, totally—another option he didn’t like to consider.
‘There are a lot of people in Siyad,’ he said with an attempt at wryness, and Assad smiled.
‘There are a lot of people in the desert.’
‘Aziz might not even agree to see me. We haven’t seen each other since we were children.’
‘You can try.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly, accepting.
‘You still have the stronger position,’ Assad stated steadily. ‘You always have. The people are loyal to you, not to Aziz.’
‘I know that.’ He felt his throat go tight. Did he really deserve such loyalty? And did he dare trust it? He knew how quickly someone could turn on you. Only the day before his father had thrown him out of the palace, he’d sat in on one of Khalil’s lessons, had chucked him under the chin when Khalil had said his times tables.
Stupid, childish memories, yet still they hurt. They burned.
‘So you will speak to Aziz?’
Khalil ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes gritty with fatigue. A thousand thoughts whirled through his mind, and one found purchase: one way forward, one way to solidify his position and strengthen his claim to the throne.
Now more than ever, he needed to marry Elena.
Aziz’s bride. The woman the country had already accepted as the Sheikh’s wife-to-be. The woman at least one tribe already thought was his wife.
He’d reacted so forcefully against it because he didn’t want to risk his emotions or his heart. So, he wouldn’t. Just like her, he couldn’t afford to look for love. He’d keep a tight rein on his emotions and have the kind of marriage both he and Elena wanted: one of mutual benefit...and satisfaction.
Just the thought of being with Elena again sent desire arrowing through him.
‘The servant is not even Kadaran,’ Assad said quietly, and Khalil wondered if his friend and right-hand man had guessed the progression of his thoughts.
‘Neither is Elena,’ Khalil answered, and Assad smiled faintly. Khalil now knew he had been thinking along the same lines.
‘She is a queen, an accepted choice. Marrying her would work in your favour.’
‘I know.’ Khalil took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ‘I know.’
‘Then...?’
‘I’ll go find her.’ And by this time tomorrow, perhaps, he would be married.
The camp was quiet and dark all around him as Khalil walked towards Elena’s tent. A strange mix of emotions churned within him: resolve, resignation and a little spark of excitement that he tried to suppress.
Yes, he would enjoy Elena’s body again. But this would be a marriage of convenience. No more play-acting at love. No more pretending. No more feeling.
The guards stepped aside as he came to the tent and drew the curtain back—and stopped short when he saw Elena curled up on her bed, her face pressed into her pillow, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Or had already been broken...by him.
* * *
‘Elena...Elena!’
Elena felt hard hands on her shoulders drawing her up from her damp pillow and then cradling her against an even harder chest.
Khalil. For a second she let herself enjoy the feel of him. Then she remembered that she’d been bawling her eyes out and twisted out of his embrace.
‘You should have knocked,’ she snapped, dashing the tears from her cheeks. She probably looked frightful, her face blotchy, her eyes red and swollen...
She sniffed. And her nose was running. Perfect.
‘Knock?’ Khalil repeated, one eyebrow raised in eloquent scepticism. ‘On the flap of a tent?’
‘You know what I mean,’ she retorted. ‘You should have made your presence known.’
Khalil regarded her quietly for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he finally said. ‘I should have. I’m sorry.’
‘Well.’ She sniffed again, trying desperately for dignity. ‘Thank you.’
‘Why were you crying, Elena?’
She shook her head as if she could deny the overwhelming evidence of her tears. ‘It’s been a couple of very long days,’ she muttered. ‘I was... I’m just tired.’
‘You weren’t crying as if you were just tired.’
‘Why do you care?’ she demanded. Perhaps going on the offensive was best.
Khalil opened his mouth, then shut it again. ‘I don’t care,’ he answered. ‘But I want to know.’
‘I’ve got a lot going on in my life that has nothing to do with you, Khalil. Maybe I’m crying about that.’ She wasn’t about to admit that she had been crying about him along with everything else that had gone wrong in her life.