She was here again. In my nightclub. I knew who she was, and I knew she wasn’t supposed to be frequenting venues like this in the first place. Especially not dressed like that.
I’d learned a few key details about this particular female after sending Yasmin on a fact-finding mission. Yas was sneaky as hell. Someone you wouldn’t want on your bad side, but who was very good to have in your back pocket.
I remembered what she’d said to me before she undertook the assignment:
“I want you to know this goes against everything I stand for. An actual member of the ruling family is the one fucking thing beyond your scope, Aris. This is gonna bite you in the ass so hard, and I’m not cleaning up the mess afterward.”
Somehow, the woman—the one who’d caught my attention—had managed to avoid being traded off in some advantageous marriage that would further increase her papa’s mighty influence.So, she remained single. She was exactly four years younger than me, probably considered a spinster in her culture if not to her family.
And for some reason, she made my pulse thud faster.
She didn’t arrive at The Sultan’s Plaza in western clothing and always left in her proper garb. So she must’ve kept a room or suite on a regular or permanent basis. I could’ve found out, but I tried to keep the stalking to a minimum because I knew fucking danger when I saw it.
No princess of the royal house of bin Talid Al Dhahab would be caught dead changing outfits in a public restroom, and I knew her privacy—her anonymity and her naughty little clubbing secret—was key to keeping her privileged status.
Her.
The Sheikh’s daughter.
Roya.
How fucking appropriate.
A royal princess of the Emirati. And I was probably royally fucked.
She didn’t wear club trash or slut gear. Nyet. She was far classier than that. But her choice of outfit tonight was daring nonetheless.
With her long, lustrous black hair down around one shoulder, she effortlessly drew attention to the top of her ensemble. If I was a betting man—and I was—I’d say she was wearing a one piece, the kind of thing that had little snaps between her thighs. The white bodysuit consisted of sides that were practically open, only strings crisscrossing her golden-brown flesh. And, while her front and back were adequately covered, I could make out the shape of her tits.
My fingers clenched harder around the tumbler of vodka I held.
Roya wore a tight red leather skirt that encased her in a sheath to her knees. A glinting gold zipper trailed all the way up to her waist but she hadn’t opened it the slightest bit so her steps were small and oh so fucking feminine.
Those tight movements made me think of tying her up, using ropes to keep her lusciously hobbled for my pleasure.
The stilettoes on her feet added a good four inches to her height, and I knew those suckers would stab into my flexed glutes if I fucked her while making her wear them.
Daring and absolutely delicious.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only man who thought so. She’d attracted the attention of a bunch of assholes, and a circle of drooling douchebags gathered around her. She ignored them all, doing her own thing. But the royal princess could easily find herself in trouble if she continued swiveling her hips in that hypnotic manner.
My cock was beginning to react, lengthening, thickening, hardening.
I wondered if Roya remembered me. We’d never exchanged words when our paths had crossed the few times I’d seen her at the palace back when I’d been setting up a lucrative deal with her father.
She’d always swept through the filigreed mansion surrounded by women, usually swathed from head to toe in the elaborate robing I knew was the stricter mode of Muslim dress. I imagined it was the Sheikh’s doing, his orders that she wear the concealing clothes to protect her modesty. But the garments did little to disguise her curves and the gossamer veil barely concealed her lustrous dark hair.
I had wanted her then.
And what I wanted, I took.
She wasn’t the first thing in my life that was off limits.
But she would be the last.
What the hell?
I tried to crush those ragingly possessive thoughts that had flared to life, so unbidden.
Yas was absolutely right.
Roya didn’t belong in my world any more than I did hers.
Now I was persona non grata to her papa after he’d reneged on our oil deal after I’d already forked over a substantial amount of money.
The slim fucker with the overinflated ego thought just because he ruled over all of Dubai, he was untouchable. And I hadn’t been invited back to the palace in over a year.
The black sheep of my family, I’d left the motherland and my father’s Bratva to seek my own fortunes. And Roya’s goddamn daddy had stabbed me in the back.
Blyad.I couldn’t look away from her.
Sometimes her dark eyes flashed up toward the one-way window as if she knew I stood there, watching her.
Those eyes could only be described as exotic. Almost kohl black. I’d seen the irises as brittle as onyx before, at her father’s palace. I could understand that. The man was a grade A asshole as far as I was concerned.
Her eyes carried weight. Intelligence. Fury.
Always in my club, when she was dancing, those glittering irises grew hazy and soft and . . . lush. Like a night sky sparkling with unnamed stars.
The Sheikh’s daughter was playing with fire, and I only had so much patience.
I was a misfit bastard while she came with an imperial pedigree.
In fact, my father—the hated man named Bogden—had only truly claimed me as his own after my mother passed away. I’d been the result of one mistaken night during which the great pakhan had gotten my mother pregnant. Even though he hadn’t ever been all that interested in me, and I’d been mostly raised in Mother’s Greek homeland, Bogden made sure I spent several months each year with the rest of his family in St. Petersburg, just to keep his claws in me, I imagined.
He’d argued it was his duty to make sure I wasn’t brought up to be some pathetic soft suka.
He’d definitely succeeded in that regard, probably beyond even his high standards for brutality.
Father’s form of ruthless training included combat with his soldiers; men who at the time had the advantage of size, age, and strategy. He pitted me against the larger men when I was barely a teenager, the grudge matches invariably ending only after blood was spilled and bones broken, mostly mine. Until I got older, more muscular . . . and way fucking smarter. Then I beat those cunts down until they cried for mercy.
My stepmother—if you could call her that—took the term raging bitch to a whole new level. She acted as if I wasn’t fit to lick her designer shoes and accused me of thievery on more than one occasion.
Even my half-brothers, both older than me, took enjoyment in making my life a living hell when I was too young to defend myself.
I put an end to that shit too. One night I stole into the room they shared, woke them up from their peaceful, privileged sleep, and thrashed the hell out of the pair of them. The next morning when they limped into the breakfast room covered in swollen cuts and bloody bruises, Father finally glanced at me with a look of sickening pride.
His harsh lessons proved one thing for certain; I was one strong motherfucker and I would not be broken.
As soon as I’d picked up the Bratva ins and outs so I could use the illegal business model to my advantage, I’d cut out of St. Petersburg with zero goodbyes and no explanations. Fuck my birthright and my pizda papa.
Movement in the corner of my eye drew my attention away from Roya and those unpleasant thoughts of my past. It was Yasmin I saw, heading to the locked and guarded door that opened to the stairs leading up to this level.
As soon as I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, I eased away from the viewing area. I poured some more vodka and inspected the footage on the screens that rolled in from hidden security cameras.
Yasmin entered, her lips set in a firm line when I glanced at her. So she’d definitely already clocked Roya too.
“Your girlfriend’s back again.”