Maisey Yates - To Defy a Sheikh

He knew every passage that ran through the palace. Knew every secret. A boy up to no good would have to know them, of course, and a sheikh with a well-earned bit of paranoia would, naturally, ensure the passages were always kept up. That he knew the layout of the castle better than anyone, so that the upper hand would always be his in the event of an attack.

He had lived through one, and he was the only member of his family who had. He felt he had earned his feelings on the matter.

In any case, he was well versed on where every dark, nondescript tunnel in the palace led. And he knew how to get down to the dungeon. It wasn’t used. Hadn’t been in ages, generations. But he would be using it tonight.

Because if he left her free, she would no doubt kill him in his sleep. And that he could not have. Either she formed an alliance with him, or he put her under lock and key. It was very simple. Black-and-white, as the world, when all was in working order, should be.

“I will kill you the moment I get the chance!” she spat, kicking against his chest.

“I know,” he said. “I am confident in that fact.”

He shifted his hold on her, his hand skimming the rounded curve of her bottom as he tried to get a better grip on her. The contact shot through him like lightning. This was the closest he’d been to a woman in…much too long. He wouldn’t count how long.

You know just how long. And if you marry her…

He shut off the thought. He was not a slave to his body. He was not a slave to desire. He was a slave to nothing. He was ice. All the way down.

He took them both down a flight of stone steps that led beneath the palace, and down into the dungeon. Unused and medieval, but still in working order.

“Let me go.”

“You just threatened to kill me. I strongly doubt I’m letting you go anytime soon.”

He grabbed a key ring from the hooks on the back wall, then kicked the wrought iron door to the nearest cell open. Then he reached down and picked up a leg iron and clamped it around her ankle.

She swore, a violent, loud string of profanity that echoed off the walls.

He ignored her, slung her down onto the bench and moved quickly away from her range of movement before shutting the door behind him.

“You bastard!” she said.

He wrapped his fingers around the bars, his knuckles aching from the tight grip. “No, I am pure royal blood, Sheikha, and you of all people should know it.”

“Is the leg shackle necessary?”

“I didn’t especially want to find myself overpowered and put in the cell myself.”

She closed her mouth, a dark brow raised, her lips pursed. A haughty, mutinous expression that did indeed remind him of Samarah the child.

“You do not deny you would have.” He walked to the side of the cell so that he could stand nearer to her. “Do you?”

“Of course not,” she said.

“Come to the bars and I will undo the leg shackle. It is unnecessary now that you’re secured.”

“Do you think so?” she asked.

He stared at her, at those glittering eyes, black as midnight in the dim lighting of the dungeon. “Perhaps I do not now. You truly need to work on your self-preservation. I would have made you more comfortable.”

Her lip curled, baring her white teeth, a little growl rumbling in her chest. “I will never be comfortable in your prison.”

“Suit yourself. Prison is in your future, but you may choose the cell. A room in the palace, a position as sheikha, or you may rot in here. It is no concern of mine. But you will decide by sunset tomorrow.”

“Sunset? What is this, some bad version of Arabian Nights? ”

“You’re the one who turned back the clock. Pursuing vengeance in order to end my bloodline. Don’t get angry with me for playing along.” He turned away from her, heading back out of the dungeon. “If you want to do it like this, we will. If you want to play with antiquated rules, I am all for that. But I intend for it to go my way. I intend to make you my wife, and I doubt, in the end, you will refuse.”

CHAPTER THREE

FERRAN PACED THE length of his room. He hated himself in this moment, with Samarah behind the secret passage doors, down in the dungeon.

She did not deserve such treatment. At least, the little girl he’d known had not.

Of course, if they were all paying for the sins of their fathers, she deserved the dungeon and then some. But he didn’t believe in that. Every man paved his own road to hell. And he’d secured his sixteen years ago.

And if he hadn’t then, surely now he had.

Marriage. He had no idea what he’d been thinking. On a personal level, anyway. On a political level he’d been thinking quite clearly.

But Samarah Al-Azem, in his life, in his bed, was the last thing he’d been looking for. In part because he’d thought she was dead.

Though he needed a wife, and he knew it. He was long past due. And yet…and yet he’d never even started his search. Because he was too busy. Because he had no time to focus on such matters.

Much easier to marry Samarah. Heal the rift between the countries, ensure she was cared for. His pound of flesh. Because it wasn’t as though he wanted this for himself.

But then, it was better that way. He didn’t allow himself to want.

This was about atonement. About making things right.

Want didn’t come into it. For Ferran, it never had. And it never would.

* * *

Samarah woke up. She had no idea what time it was. There was no natural light in the dungeon. If there had been a torch on the wall, she wouldn’t have been terribly surprised.

But then, that might have been a kindness too many. Not that Ferran owed her a kindness at this point.

Not all things considered.

But she hadn’t been looking to repair bridges. She’d been looking to finish it all.

You can’t finish it from in here…

“No,” she said out loud. “Fair enough.”

But the alternative was to agree to marry him. Or to give the appearance of an alliance.

Anger, revulsion, burned in her blood.

She could not ally herself with him. But…

But every predator knew that in order to catch prey successfully, there was a certain amount of lying in wait involved.

She squeezed her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms, the manacle heavy on her ankle. Diplomacy was, perhaps not her strongest point. But she knew about lying in wait. As she’d done in his room last night.

This would be an extended version of that. She would have to make him trust her. She would have to play along. And then…then she could have her revenge before the world if she chose.

The idea had appeal. Though, putting herself in proximity with Ferran, pretending to be his fiancée, did not.

She lay back down on the bench, one knee curled into her chest, the chained leg held out straight. She closed her eyes again, and when she opened them, it was to the sound of a door swinging open.

“Have you made up your mind?”

She knew who the voice belonged to. She didn’t even have to look.

She sat up, trying to shake out the chill that had settled into her bones. She looked at Ferran’s outline in the darkness. “I will marry you,” she said.

* * *

The room Ferran showed her to after her acceptance was a far cry from the dungeon. But Samarah was very aware of the fact that it was only a sparkling version of a cell. A fact Ferran underlined as he left her.

“You will not escape,” he said. “There are guards around the perimeter. And there will be no border crossing possible for you as my patrol will be put on alert. You will be trapped in the country should you decide to try and leave, and from there, I will find you. And you will have lost your reprieve.”