Possessing the Princess

2

ROYA

BEING A PRINCESS HAD nothing to do with leading a fairytale existence, at least not in my experience. As a female in the royal family, my life was more like a prison sentence, a sentence imposed by my father the Sheikh.

Certainly, I possessed all the riches most women probably envied. The jewels, the clothing, the servants at my beck and call. A coterie of women who followed me around like a flock of brightly colored, always chirping peacocks.

The elaborate palace was, in truth, a garrison ruled by my misogynistic father. A place where old world customs dictated every aspect of my life.

Most of my actions were highly monitored. The people I was allowed to interact with prescribed from a small pool of candidates according to their social status and loyalty to the Sheikh. My mode of dress limited to what was deemed appropriate, my modesty always to be protected.

There were no true friends. No one to confide in. Nothing really to hope for.

A so-called life of leisure that dulled as each suffocating day passed by.

Always, the threat hung above my head like a gleaming machete that I was fast approaching the age at which I’d become unmarriable.

That was partly a lie. Even though I was already twenty-four, my father could easily select from hordes of suitors, men young and old salivating for a connection to the imperial family. Instead, he used the idea of just that as an intimidation tactic to keep me in line.

Dancing became my one escape. I simply wanted to let my hair down, literally. I wanted to dress as I desired, cling to the notion of independence if only for a few short hours.

I wanted to let my body breathe.

Frequenting the nightclubs came with danger. I’d be heavily punished if Father ever found out, my few miserable liberties would be stripped away.

I could only manage to get away once every couple of months or so. Those occasions usually coincided with visits from other royal families far and wide. After Father paraded his many wives and many daughters—all of us always in our most extravagant costumes and dripping with gleaming gemstones—he’d dismiss us.

But you’d be amazed how much you could learn just from watching, being poised and still and silent. For instance, I now understood Father’s closest brother, Abdullah, was even more narcissistic than Father. Suffering from delusions of grandeur, he was a high-ranking official in neighboring Sharjah, but he’d always envied Father’s position.

As we women were displayed for the males’ perusal, Uncle invariably nudged his son, drawing the eighteen-year old’s attention to me. So, he was angling for a match. Inbreeding among the aristocracy wasn’t a thing of the past, and the thought made me shudder all the way down to my toes.

Abdullah’s wife was a cowering, browbeaten woman, and I felt sorry for her. Sometimes I imagined knifing my father in his sleep. Torching the tapestries until the palace was razed to the charred earth.

Running away and becoming westernized.

Having a career.

The farthest I was able to get was to the clubs lining the Persian Gulf and only for a few short hours.

After Father releasedus from our duties, he’d sequester himself with the men inside inner chambers for the night. On those occasions, I retired to my quarters early only to flee later. Of course, the increased security added to the risk of being discovered, but I knew the tunnels and I’d become adept at blending in until I reached whatever hotel was home to my club of choice for the night.

Besides, who in their right mind would suspect one of the Sheikh’s daughters of stepping out to dance the night away? Also, I was kept so utterly secluded that no one outside of my vast family and our servants would ever recognize me. My upbringing made for the perfect disguise.

How ironic.

I hadn’t known this was Aris’s club, not at first. As a matter of fact, the two of us had never even been introduced to one another. The few times I’d seen him at the palace had been over a year ago, but I’d been instantly struck by his formidable physique, his glossy dark blond hair, his penetrating eyes as beautifully blue as the Gulf’s shores.

He’d been unique.

Exotic to me.

Extremely appealing.

And unsettling to say the least. Unlike the men of my culture, he kept his gaze unswervingly on me and, even once, when I’d begun to lower my head in feigned deference, a ripple of displeasure crossed his handsome face. It had been as if he disapproved of the way I was trained to avoid drawing attention to myself.

My pulse had quickened in that silent, searing instant.

No, I didn’t know him at all. Yet I’d picked up details about him, gleaning information dropped in casual conversation between my father and his advisors and storing the tidbits away.

I had, however, seen him during my second visit to his venue. I was multilingual, and the nightclub’s name had immediately made perfect sense. Aris Volkov, half Russian and half Greek. Volkov meant wolf. And Lykos did as well in Greek.

Clever man.

The Lykos fit the glittering Dubai nightlife, all sleek chrome accents with a few startling pops of bright colors. The club was vibrant, loud, crowded, even hedonistic to me.

I reveled in the unbridled atmosphere.

That night when I’d made the connection, Aris had appeared from nowhere to prowl down the tier of dancefloors toward the main bar. He’d worn a precisely tailored bespoke suit, his broad shoulders and wide chest filling the single-breasted jacket. The midnight blue had enhanced the high slant of his cheekbones and the raffishly edged stubble on his lower face.

He was male perfection, an absolute artwork in the flesh.

Almost every woman gazed at him with sheer female fascination, but he paid no attention to any of them. He stalked through the packed club and only faltered when his gaze had locked on me. His eyes had smoldered hotly for one single second before becoming distinctly frigid. Then he’d spun abruptly, leaving me gasping for breath.

That momentary flash of heat was something I held onto. Those times when I was so lonely I ached. When I lay in my enormous bed, the moon a hazy glow outside the layers of gauzy curtains, my arousal so keen but release always out of reach . . . I’d remember Aris’s penetrating eyes.

Knowing he’d been positioned to make some sort of deal with my father that had fallen through, I should’ve kept my distance. As it was, the fact that Aris owned the venue intrigued me far more than it deterred me.

More and more lately, I only came to The Lykos. And I never examined my motivation even as tendrils of anticipation curled through me.

I’d rarely glimpsed Aris again, either, although I often sensed an undeviating focus on me. Attention that stemmed from behind those blackened windows at a level high above.

Those tendrils had swirled, sending flutters through my belly, when I’d watched Aris coming toward me tonight. I’d continued dancing, sensually alight as all the other clubbers seemed to melt away into the distance. His jaw had clenched, his gaze roaming over me and only me. His scent infiltrated me first, a light, heady manly musk. And then he was dancing with me.

My body tightened deliciously, my heart racing. He moved with sexual masculine ease, guiding me against him, brushing me all over. And then I felt him. That hard, probing, hot length centered at his groin.

An enormous erection that almost made me burst into flames.