Possessing the Princess

So this was the suka who’d been making Roya’s life a living hell, as if his brother hadn’t been doing a bang up job of that all on his own.

“You know who I am?” I asked in a lethally low tone, meandering around the lily-livered fool.

He turned with me, yanking the boy to maintain the human shield, willing to sacrifice his own flesh and blood for fuck’s sake.

“Aris Volkov.” Seeing the gun I palmed loosely at my side, he bobbed his head down behind his son’s. “You should be thanking me! I was only trying to teach my willful niece—”

My frigid voice boomed straight across the air. “You will not speak of her again!”

He blanched, eyes growing bigger as he peered out at me.

“You seem to have me mistaken for someone who gives a fuck what you think.” My smile spread in a slow, vicious curve.

I met the boy’s gaze then, narrowed my eyes just slightly, and dipped my chin down.

The kid was smarter than his dad. His glance darted to my free hand trailing down by my side. When I knew he was paying attention, I started a very slow, silent countdown with my visible fingers.

Three.

“The only thing I care about is seeing your blood”—two—“and brains splattered all over this pit, you crazy asshole.”

One.

The boy ducked. I aimed and fired.

The crack of the shot ricocheted across the air, and Abdullah’s face showed true shock in that moment before death claimed him. Rafiq scrambled away, Konstantin there to make sure he made it to safety.

Abdullah’s body made a thud of impact when he thumped to the ground, just a puff of dirt clouding around him as stillness fell.

For all that I’d wanted to draw out his torture—disfigure and destroy him—he was dead now, and I had other, more important people to worry about.

One woman in particular.

We met no resistance from the enemies on the dash back to Roya because, well, there were no more enemies. Konstantin had taken her rattled cousin in hand, and the rest of the soldiers fell in.

I made short work of locating my woman at the top of the cliffside. She sat on a rock, wrapped in the blanket, in between Yas and Zain.

Oh, god.My relief reached a pinnacle as I went down on my knees in front of her.

I tenderly framed her face in my hands. “It is done. Rafiq is here. He’s safe. We’ll bring him back to Dubai with us.”

Another wash of tears and shivers—like little tremors and aftershocks—worked through her, and I lifted her into my arms.

I held her against my chest, determined never to let her go again.

When Yas tugged on my arm, I bent my head toward her.

“I tried to get her to eat a granola bar, but she couldn’t keep it down. I don’t think those fucking cock-bones fed her at all,” she murmured.

Shutting my eyes, I had to beat back another wave of rage.

I smoothed the tangled and matted hair away from Roya’s face. “Let’s get down to the boats, prinkípissa.”

Konstantin guided Rafiq along once he discovered a stairway carved into the cliffs that I hadn’t blown to pieces with the rocket launcher. I took the steps too, Roya folded inside my embrace.

The others rappelled down and kept vigilant watch, just in case, until we arrived at the shoreline and speedboats.

From there, it was only a matter of minutes before we were zooming across the waterway and away from that fortress and fucked-up torture chamber.

I held Roya on my lap the entire time. First, I administered essential first aid; wrapping the gashes on her wrists and ankles with gauze after disinfecting the cuts, tenderly layering salve on her dry lips, making her sip more water, applying icepacks to her ribs and cheeks.

I tried to get her to eat some plain crackers, but she only shook her head and turned her face into my neck. I supposed the speed and rocking of the boat didn’t help matters either.

Wiped out from the horrific ordeal, she finally succumbed to an exhausted sleep. And I was so damned happy just to feel her nestled against me, her slow breaths beating out against my throat that my eyes stung . . . and not from the salty spray of the water.

But why did that fucking crossing of the Straight of Hormuz seem to take twice as long?

I wanted to get her home, and fully warmed up, fed and bathed and cossetted for-fucking-ever.

It was full dark by the time the boat was docked in its slip. I didn’t jostle Roya one iota as I disembarked and marched toward the waiting SUV.

Before I slid inside with my precious woman, I had one last detail for Zain.

“Will you take the boy back home to his mother and make sure they’re all right?”

“Of course.” Zain prodded Rafiq to one of the vans that would reunite him with his motorcycle at the hotel’s parking garage.

But the boy gave me one last level look, drawing his chin up. “I am glad you killed my father. Mother will be too. Thank you for saving Roya and me.”

Blyad.

Hopefully, now that he was out from under his fucked-up father’s thumb, the kid could make something of himself, something that he wanted instead of what his dad demanded.

I bent toward Zain. “And let the Sheikh know Roya is safe. She will be fine, eventually.” My eyes grew tight. “And she will not ever step foot inside the palace again unless it’s her decision.”

He snorted. “I cannot wait to deliver that message.”

By the time the elevator deposited me and Roya in the penthouse, she revived a bit. Her body had warmed, her skin tone had improved somewhat, and she blinked her eyes open.

I laid her out on one of the longer sofas before hurrying to my bedroom. I nabbed a pillow, my robe, a super soft blanket.

At her side, I helped her from the shirt that I’d worn during the raid, quickly guiding her into the robe and rolling the cuffs back. I swaddled her in the blanket then crossed to the kitchen. I poured her a whiskey but brought her water and some ibuprofen as well.

Back behind the counter, I sank a couple vodkas, nerves still stealing across my skin. I had to get some food into her then clean her up, let her rest.

Fuck.

I wanted her to sleep in my arms, in my bed again.

I could only stare at her, here . . . again. Her obsidian eyes so somber. Her dry, cracked lips pressed against the glass tumbler as she slowly partook. The welts and weals on her beautiful face and the dark rings beneath her eyes.

Christ, she’d been through a hell of an ordeal, and I didn’t know how to make it right.

She was painfully quiet, looking around with cautious eyes.

Turning away, I hurried to arrange tasty tidbits on a large plate. Grapes and crumbly soft cheeses, slivers of bread, pitted olives.

Memories of Greece.

I delivered the tray and pulled a small table over beside her. I replenished her water and then gave her a bit more whiskey as more color traveled back to her cheeks.

I sat on the floor next to her, watching almost unblinkingly.

And my voice rasped when I said, “Zain is bringing Rafiq back to his mother.”

“That is good of him.”

I dipped my head in a nod then met her gaze. “He will tell your father you are safe. That you are not returning home unless or until you want to.”

“Yes,” she echoed hollowly.