Traded to the Desert Sheikh

And for a man like Kavian, who had done what he had, who ruled this stark and uncompromising place and had for more than a decade—what had his acquiescence to her on the subject of Elizaveta been if not the equivalent?

Amaya scrambled forward then, flinging herself into the great suite, her feet slippery against the marble floors. He wasn’t in their bedroom. He wasn’t in the grand shower. She raced down the long hall, frantically checking the salons as she passed, and was almost to the point of hysteria when she found him standing in his office again, a mobile phone in his hand.

She had the distant impression that he looked surprised, but she didn’t wait to look any closer. She simply threw herself at him, trusting that he would catch her—

And he did.

He always did.

“I let you go,” he said darkly as he set her on her feet, and she watched him go still again as she kept going, sinking right down to her knees before him. More than that, she felt every single muscle in his body go taut beneath her hands.

“I love you,” she said.

And for a long, long time, it seemed, ages and epochs, there was nothing but that arrested look in his eyes and that mad clamor in her chest.

“Yes, azizty, I know,” he said at last, the arrogant man. “I have been trying to tell you this for some time.”

It was better than love poems from another. Far better. And the words rolled out of her then, an unstoppable force, like the brand-new day over those old mountains all around them.

“It doesn’t matter if you can’t love me back,” she assured him. She meant it, with every last part of her. “I don’t want to be like my mother. I don’t want you to sleep with a whole new harem when I get pregnant, every time I get pregnant. I don’t want to share you with anyone. I don’t want to disappear in you, bending and bending until there’s none of me left.” She pulled in a shuddering breath, tears slicking her vision, so he was nothing but a dark, blurry blade there above her. “But if that’s the price, I can pay it. I will. Because you’re right, Kavian. You’re right.” She was shaking, and she gripped the material of his trousers in her fists. “This is the only place I belong. With you.”

She thought he would laugh then. Order her to remove her clothes so he could surge deep inside her, showing her precisely how they fit. Prove, once again, that he was a man hewn from stone, not flesh.

And she wanted that. She wanted him, however she could have him. There was no shame in that. There was only love.

But instead Kavian breathed in deep, then let it out. Long and hard, as if it hurt.

And then His Royal Highness, Kavian ibn Zayed al Talaas, ruling sheikh of Daar Talaas, sank down on his knees before her.

His mouth crooked in the corner at her thunderstruck expression. And then he reached over and took her face in his hands, cradling her as if she was infinitely precious to him.

“This is love,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. “This is what it looks like. You haunted me from the moment I saw you. I hunted you across the world. You live in my body, you move in my veins, you are my blood. You are mine.” He shook his head, his gray eyes stern, his mouth that unsmiling line she adored. “You will never be like your mother. She loves no one and she never will. You will never have to worry about me betraying you, pregnant or not. I do not share well. I do not expect you to be any more giving in that area than I am. And there is no price to pay, azizty.” He angled his head closer, brushing his mouth over hers. “There is only this.”

He kissed her, and the world was made new. He kissed her, and he loved her, and Amaya felt as large as the desert, as bright as the stars, as golden straight through as the sunlight that danced through the room.

Kavian angled his head away, waiting until she opened her eyes and looked at him. That serious, warrior’s face of his, harsh and tough. That hard mouth. Those ruthless gray eyes. He was stark and made of stone, and he was hers. He was all hers. She thought it might take her a lifetime or two to get used to it. At the very least.

“I love you, Amaya,” he said, quiet and true. And it sang in her, like a great chorus with no end. His mouth shifted into that little crook that was his smile and lit her up from the inside out. “Marry me.”

She smiled and snuck her arms around his neck, moving closer so they were flush against each other, still down on their knees. Together.

“Are you asking me?” she teased him. “Because that sounded a lot like another order. A royal command.”