Protecting the Desert Heir

The worst part was, she hadn’t seen this coming. She hadn’t expected it, and she should have. Of course she should have. But she’d actually believed that now that she and Rihad were not only married, but also actually as intimate as that honeymoon had been meant to suggest, the awful paparazzi would leave her alone.

She’d been incredibly naive.

There are no happy endings, she reminded herself then, frowning out at the sea that stretched toward the horizon before her as if basking, blue and gleaming, in the sun. Not for you. Not ever.

But she’d been lulled into believing otherwise.

Their lazy days at the oasis had bled together into one great burst of brilliant heat, a haze of bright sun above, desert breezes over the cool water in the shaded pools and the desperate, delirious hunger that only Rihad had ever called out in her—and that only he could satisfy.

Sterling had learned every inch of his proud, infinitely masculine body. She’d tasted him, teased him, taken him. She’d learned how to make him groan out his pleasure, how to scream out her own. He’d taken her beneath the endless stars, in the vast softness of his bed, in the luxurious tub that stood in her own luxuriously appointed tent. He’d been inventive and uninhibited—and demanding, as he’d promised. She’d learned to be the same in return.

Sterling had given herself over to the exquisite pleasures of the flesh that she’d denied herself so long—all her life, in fact. Touch. Lust. Desire and its sweet oblivion. She’d eaten too much, drunk too deeply. She’d lost herself in Rihad, again and again and again. She’d told him the truth about herself, or a critical portion of the truth anyway—and the world hadn’t ended.

She’d let herself imagine that Rihad was as powerful as he’d always appeared to her. That he could truly hold back whatever nightmares threatened. That he would.

That she and Leyla and this marvel of a man could create their own truths and live in them. That they could finally be the family she’d always wanted.

But she’d forgotten who she was.

She always did.

It had been some weeks since they’d left the oasis and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why the tabloids had latched on to her again. The article went on to make salacious suggestions about a list of regional leaders and some local celebrities, all of whom had been at last night’s elegant function in one of the new luxury hotel complexes being built along the shore of the Bay of Bakri.

That meant that someone at that party had taken exception to the Queen Whore being paraded about on their king’s arm and had taken to the tabloids to express their feelings.

“I’d prefer you not read that nonsense,” Rihad said from the doorway, his deep voice like a flame within her, that easily. That quickly. Sterling looked over at him, still frowning, despite the little flip her heart performed at the sight of him, dark and beautiful there in the arched entryway. His mouth crooked as if he could feel it, too. “It will rot your brain.”

“I told you not to take me to your events, Rihad.” When his fierce brows rose, she flushed, aware that her agitation had sharpened her tone. “I knew this would happen.”

“It is our job to ignore the tabloids,” he said, mildly enough. “Or so you told me yourself.”

But this was different. She was a different person than the woman who had said that to him. And this incarnation of herself didn’t want to let the tarnish of that one seep into what they’d built between them in the past month. She thought it might break her apart.

“It’s only going to get worse.” Sterling folded her hands in her lap and tried to remain calm, or at least to look it. “It always gets worse. They already call me the Queen Whore.”

“Not out loud or in print, they don’t.” There was no softness on his starkly beautiful face then. No hint of a curve to his lush mouth. Only that dangerous light in his dark gold eyes. “Not unless they wish to explain themselves to me personally. Let me assure you, no one does.”

“You can’t threaten everyone on the planet, Rihad. You can’t decree that people forget my past.”

“Your imagined past.”

“What does that matter? When it comes to perception, all that matters is what people believe.” She shook her head at him. “Isn’t that why we went on our honeymoon in the first place?”

“It was one among many reasons,” he said, and his dark gold eyes moved over her the way his hands did so freely, these days. And she was still so astonished that she liked it. That she more than liked it. “The least important, I think.”