Possessing the Princess

13

ARIS

IHADN’T STOPPED THINKING about Roya since I left her at the palace. I hoped to hell my princess was getting more sleep than I was—though I doubted it—because I paced the penthouse all hours of the night, touching every fucking piece of furniture she’d made contact with like some junky desperate for a fix.

My temper was frayed. My anger volcanic.

My body flayed.

I was short with Yas. Curt with Konstantin. And had zero words for anybody else.

Now I’d learned of Roya’s betrothal. What the fuck was the Sheikh thinking? The lecherous fat-ass he’d bartered her to was notorious for two things: his disgusting obesity and his impotence.

Yeah, it was also commonly known Hamzah Al Waleedi abused his wives for his own pathetic sperm count. Oh, I knew what the Sheikh thought. In his mind, Roya was a ruined woman and he’d made the best possible match all lickety-split to get her out from under his roof.

But would I have been any happier if she’d been shrugged off on someone younger, a good-looking man with better prospects?

Nyet.

In giving her back—trading her back—I’d forced his hand and put her in another impossible situation.

I’d been pondering ways I could get Roya out of that shit.

I had contacts. Illegal ways and means. But that fucking wedding was happening so fast . . .

By the time the club opened tonight, she’d be legally bound to that fat fuck, and it really was all my fault.

Maybe I could abduct her afterward. Hell, I didn’t give a shit if she was married.

That woman belonged to me.

I avoided the club at all costs, for the first time taking a hands-off approach to business after I’d finally obtained the one thing to complete my portfolio.

The oil.

What I’d thought I wanted above all else.

Fucking wrong.

To go to The Lykos would only reawaken the memories of Roya dancing and swirling and flirting and . . . the kisses.

The spankings.

The chains, the feel of her skin, the touch of her lips, the heated tightness of her pussy welcoming me in.

I’d given that up.

I’d broken it.

I was no better than my father.

I spent most of my time locked away in my study. Her slim dagger sat in the center of my desk, taking the place of mounds of paperwork waiting for my attention.

I’d hired a seamstress to fix the straps of Roya’s red dress, the one she’d worn the night I’d lost my mind and my control when she’d purposefully danced with the douchebag. The dress with the low, low back that she’d worn the waist chain beneath.

I should’ve had the dress returned to her. But I didn’t.

Instead, that one sexy article of clothing hung in my closet, amid all my suits.

The ruby beads were carefully coiled in the box in a side drawer of my desk at that very moment. I’d popped the lid open. I didn’t handle those much as they still carried Roya’s sensual scent, and I didn’t want to risk losing the rich, honeyed perfume.

Immersed in thoughts and stewing in my own anger, I was caught off guard when Yas let herself in.

I quickly dropped the lid on the beads and slammed the drawer shut.

“What do you want?” I asked tersely like a total asshole.

Lounging just inside the door, she flicked a scornful gaze at me. “You’ve sure made a fine mess for yourself. Still holing up in here and licking your wounds.”

“I got everything I wanted from the Sheikh so I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied through my teeth even as I clamped the arms of my chair with such tense fingers my knuckles turned white.

“Roya.” Her expression became sharper, her eyes all-seeing.

“She was nothing—”

“But leverage. Right. That’s why you’re not sleeping or eating and you’re definitely not fucking anyone else.”