Chosen as the Sheikh's Royal Bride

Beth’s jaw tightened. She’d tried to apologize. To make things right. What more could she do? “Look, I’ve already said it’s all my fault. I’m trying to fix things. But I’m getting sick of your insults. There’s only so much more I’m going to take!”

Omar’s eyes narrowed, but as he turned to reply, his gaze fell again to her body, her full breasts peeking above the rose petals and bubbles. Setting his jaw, he looked away.

“In that case,” he said tightly, “it’s best that we see each other as little as possible until the day you’re escorted from my country. May fate grant that the happy day arrives soon!”

He left in a whirl of robes. She thought of a retort too late.

“Mister, I’m counting down the days!” she yelled.

But he was already gone, leaving her alone in the candlelight, her throat choked with unshed tears. Her fury melted away, leaving her shivering with heartbreak in the rapidly cooling bath.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, as her maid helped her into yet another beautiful new gown, Beth told herself she felt nothing. Not heartbreak. Because she couldn’t love Omar. And she definitely, definitely didn’t feel desire. He’d treated her badly and refused to even consider her side. She would never, never want Omar again.

A good thing, too, since all she now had ahead of her was the painful task of pretending to be his fiancée, and waiting for Omar to get the all-clear to kick her out of Samarqara, and out of his life.

The thought made her ache inside.

“Is something wrong, Your Highness?” Rayah asked, drawing back anxiously. “Would you prefer a different gown?”

Beth tried to smooth her face into a smile. “No, it’s fine. Everything’s perfect.”

Once dressed, she went down the steps from the tower with a heavy heart, her heavy jeweled earrings swaying in her ears.

When she arrived at the palace’s great hall, she was greeted with a coolly polite bow by Omar. Looking at her as if she were a stranger, he introduced her to a crowd of aristocrats as his future queen. They looked no more pleased than Beth at the prospect.

He held out his arm to escort her up to their private table on the dais, in full view of the nobles’ tables below. She nervously placed her hand on his arm. Even through his sleeve, she could feel the heat of his skin, the power of his body.

I feel nothing, she repeated to herself desperately. But her body still trembled from the intensity and passion of his possession, just hours before, when he’d ruthlessly taken her virginity and made her world explode with joy.

Now, Omar barely looked at her. As he sat beside her at the table, his hard, handsome face was a polite mask as they listened to speeches, both in Samarqari and in English, welcoming Beth—whom they still called “Edith”—as his future bride.

Beth ate and drank by rote, hardly aware of the taste. She kept her eyes mostly on the floor, and tried to be as invisible as possible. She felt miserable.

She just had to hold on for a few weeks, she told herself, and make everyone hate her. How hard could that be? As soon as she got proof she wasn’t pregnant, she could return to her old life in Houston.

Now, Omar lowered his head and whispered angrily, “What do you think you’re doing?”

/> Beth looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“You look like you’re facing execution,” he said through gritted teeth. “Stop it.”

“You expect me to look happy when I’m not?”

“So now, now you insist on total honesty?” Omar’s black eyes shot sparks. “You’ve already proven how adept a liar you can be. So yes. Lie. Look happy. Now.”

Beth tried. But at every moment, she felt aware of him sitting beside her, and anger and regret churned like acid through her soul. She wished she’d never gone to Paris—wished she’d never even heard the name Omar al-Maktoun!

During one particularly long speech in Samarqari by an older, pompous man, Beth felt Omar’s knee briefly brush against hers beneath the table. Nearly jumping in her skin, she moved hastily away. Her eyes fell on Laila al-Abayyi sitting at one of the front tables. She looked utterly comfortable in her traditional Samarqari clothing, dazzling and glamorous.

The vizier, sitting beside Laila, leaned in to whisper to the Samarqari girl. Beth frowned. Something about their body language just seemed—wrong.

As the older man’s long speech finally ended, he returned to sit beside Laila and the vizier. The three of them looked sideways toward the king, and for some reason, the way they looked at him made her shiver.

“Beth.” Omar’s voice was terse. She scowled back at him.

“What now?”