by Erin Snihur
Before his marriage to Samara, Malik had done extensive research on her family. Sheena was not known to wear robes. Instead, she was the type to wear a different fashionable outfit for every hour of the day. She isn’t wearing heels either. Sheena was always wearing heels. Samara had complained about this many times, as his fiery wife was liable to kill someone in heels. Now, Sheena resembles many of the women he’d seen in the women's shelters Samara helped fund across Batra. Could it be Sheena is as much a victim to the media as he and Samara?
Catching up to his sister-in-law, Malik reaches out to cup her elbow, but that only causes Sheena to jump and wail in fright as she cowers away. One hand protects her face and the other protects her stomach. Stunned into silence, Malik takes a step back and glances around. If any of the passing servants notice Sheena’s reaction, they do not comment and instead continue on with their duties. Albeit, a bit faster.
Once they are alone in the hallway, Malik mumbles, “I’m not going to hurt you, Sheena.”
When she doesn’t say anything back, Malik tries to relieve the tense silence with humor, “I think I’d let Samara cut off my balls with a dull knife before I ever thought about doing that.”
As Sheena seems to relax and pull her hand away from her face, Malik tilts his head, briefly making out a dark shadow over Sheena’s eye. In a flash, she straightens her sunglasses and the shadow is gone. Holding out his hand, Malik smiles gently at the scared woman.
“Why don’t I escort you to your chambers?”
Sheena seems to stare at Malik and his outstretched hand for what seems like forever, before nodding tentatively and accepting his assistance. Squeezing her hand softly in a comforting gesture, Malik slowly pulls her down the hall. He was fine with their leisurely pace and Sheena doesn’t seem to care one way or another if they moved any faster.
Trying to break the ice, Malik’s mind drifts back to the first time he met Sheena, “I still remember the first time we met. It was at the wedding. I was so sure it was your influence that helped orchestrate the whole thing, but Samara was positive it was all Hamda’s doing. She explained you had wanted to throw a boring and underrated wedding, as a way to get back at Hamda for forcing Samara to marry me.”
At Sheena’s silence, Malik pulls her to a stop and smiles down at her, “I never thanked you for protecting Samara from Hamda. Especially when she was a child.”
A gasp leaves Sheena’s mouth, “She told you about that?”
Rushing to explain, Malik stammers, “She didn’t tell me everything, just a summary. She would never betray your confidence, Sheena.”
Relief fills her eyes as Sheena gazes down at her other hand, still firmly in place on her stomach. Biting back a groan, Malik says the words he hopes he is not about to regret, “You are family, Sheena, so if there is anything that I can help you with, or anyone that I need to handle, I need to know now.”
Mouth opening and closing, Sheena sighs and pulls herself away from him. Reaching up, she pulls off her sunglasses, revealing a large bruise covering her eye. Still black and blue. Not fresh, but still enough to cause Malik to wince at the sight.
Placing her hand back on her stomach, Sheena sighs again, “I didn’t cheat on my husband. But I did take some money from our bank account and give it to Hamda.”
Bottom lip shaking, Sheena’s eyes begin to well up as she cringes from the pain in her injured eye, “I just wanted him to leave us alone and I thought that if I gave him the money, he would. But then he came back and wanted more. Then the threats started. I think he was the one who told Charles about the baby, claiming I cheated on him with some cook.”
“Why didn’t Charles believe you? You’re his wife and Hamda is a lying sack of shit,” Malik growled.
Reaching up to touch her eye, Sheena winces, “Charles was looking for an excuse to divorce. He claims that a Duchess cannot have any trace of a scandal. No bastards, either.”
“Did he do that to you?” Malik growls, fists clenching. No man has the right to touch a woman in such a way. In Batra, the man’s hands would be taken from him, even after an attempt of abuse. Abuse of any kind is not tolerated in his country.
“He was very angry. Especially when I kept claiming the baby is his. Which it is, but it doesn’t matter now. I don’t want my child anywhere near that man or his family,” Sheena coolly murmurs.
Nodding in understanding, Malik motions down the hallway, “Let’s get you settled in your chambers and I’ll see what I can do. I have more sway than Charles, especially when it comes to England's allegiances. If they want access to the Arabian Coast and our oil, they’ll have to bend over backwards to make this right.”
Grinning down at Sheena as her eyes light up a bit, Malik murmurs, mostly to himself, “Then I need to find my wife and make everything right again.”
10
Malik grumbles under his breath as he marches towards the throne room. No one in the palace had any idea where Samara was. From her personal maid to the palace chef, no one had seen Samara since the early morning. Caliyah had hinted towards Samara last being seen in the throne room. Her guard, Marcus, was nowhere to be found either. Normally the man was only a text away, but both he and Samara had not answered their phones since he began searching for them a few hours ago.
Running into his Uncle Artis and the rest of his family as a crew of servants and guards help them take their bags and head towards their cars that will take them to the private royal estate in the country
“Ah, nephew! I wasn’t sure if you had returned yet. We were just about to leave,” Artis murmurs.
Leelah pulls away from her maid and quickly runs into Malik’s arms. Smiling down at the young girl, Malik looks up at Artis as he kneels down to set Leelah on the ground.
“Have a safe and happy holiday, Uncle Artis,” Malik murmurs and moves in the direction of the throne room, but stops when Leelah steps back in front of him.
“Uncle Malik, I told Samara you were trying to find the divorce for her,” Leelah jumps excitedly as she smiles up at him.
“You what?” Malik shouts. At the frightened look in Leelah’s eyes as she backs up, Malik sighs.
Kneeling down once more, Malik offers Leelah a smile, “I’m sorry for shouting, Leelah. It was unkind of me. But what did you tell Samara exactly?”
From behind him, Artis takes a step closer, listening to their conversation intently, “Leelah, what have you done this time?”
Glancing between Malik and her father, Leelah’s bottom lip begins to tremble and her tears begins to flow down her cheeks. Leelah stammers as her whimpers grow louder, “I was only trying to help! For Christmas!”
Running into her maid’s arms, the young girl begins to cry louder and her mother rushes away from the other children to comfort her daughter. Clenching his fists tightly, Malik sighs, feeling like a complete ass. Smiling at Leelah, Malik pats Artis on his shoulder.
“Your daughter has done nothing, Artis. She is an angel,” Malik croons, meaning every word. A buzz in his hand has Malik turning his attention to his cellphone. A simple text message from Marcus reads, Throne room.
Without letting Artis question him further, Malik dismisses his Uncle with a knowing look, “Enjoy your holiday.”
Striding in the direction of the throne room, Malik ignores the looks and outright stares of the servants and guards as they pass him. As he arrives at the doors of his throne room, Malik inhales sharply. The doors are closed and guarded by two behemoth looking men. Snorting at the display, Malik curses under his breath when the two men do not move or allow him to enter.
“What the hell is going on?” Malik shouts and behind the guards, who now shift nervously on their feet, the throne room doors part slightly and a small, bespectacled man exits.
Alfred Hitch. The royal family’s lawyer and head of their company’s legal department. Tensing at the sight of Malik, Alfred, forces a friendly smile on his tanned and wrinkled face. Bowing respectfully, Alfred murmurs and pushes his glasses up
his nose slightly.
“Your Highness.”
“What is going on, Alfred?” Malik growls the question, feeling his stomach revolt at the feeling of betrayal all around him.
Before Alfred can answer, the throne room doors open again and Samara’s most trusted guard, Marcus, appears and the two men guarding the doors step aside to let Alfred go by.
Nodding to Malik, Marcus’ cool gaze meets his as he motions for Malik to enter the partially opened door, “This way, your Highness.”
Glaring at the other guards and Alfred, Malik storms past them, brushing against Marcus, who quickly closes the door behind himself once Malik is inside the throne room. The rooms electrical lights are dimmed and candles alight in every corner and crevice in the walls. Malik’s fists clench tightly at the sight of the large and imposing throne on his dais. Samara’s own daintier throne is missing.
In front of the dais is a large desk and map of Batra. Papers are strewn about the table, but Malik ignores them, focusing on his wife’s silent guard. Glaring at the man Malik trusted with ensuring his wife’s safety, Malik coolly regards him.
“Where is my wife?” Malik asks as Marcus remains by the door; arms crossed. The man does not meet Malik’s gaze and is instead gazing towards the lone throne on the dais.
The smell of his wife’s’ jasmine perfume is the first thing that gets Malik’s attention. Wafting down upon him from the dais, Malik spins around and gapes at the sight before him. His throne is no longer empty. An angel inhabits it. An angel in black lace and red heels. The matching makeup against her lightly tanned skin gives Samara a very intricate look. No longer does Malik feel like the hunter stalking his prey. Samara has completely entranced him. Like cloying snake dances around the unsuspecting rabbit.
“Hello, Malik,” Samara murmurs coolly and her red painted lips pull back in a teasing grin, “So nice of you to finally join us.”
Shit.
“What is the meaning of this, angel?” Malik coolly asks Samara, his voice full of promise. He knows exactly how to make her quiver with just a hitch in his voice. Damn it, Samara, keep it together.
Shrugging delicately, Samara rises out of her throne, standing tall over her husband. Enjoying the height, the heels give her and the confidence, Samara smiles a secret smile at her husband.
His anger slowly begins seeping out and in a loud shot, Malik motions to the throne at Samara’s back as he glares up at her, “Where is your throne?”
Turning, Samara gives Malik a view of her back. The lace dress from the front is very conservative, but the back, is backless. Only her skin is revealed. She couldn’t possibly wear a bra in this long gown and Samara knew Malik’s weakness for her naked flesh would be his undoing. Hearing the familiar groan of frustration and need come out of Malik’s throat, Samara spins back around with a swish of her dress and pats the arm of the throne.
“This is my throne, Malik,” Samara teases, “Afterall, Batra will need a ruler once you have your divorce. I’ve already started the process with Alfred. News of your abdication and my ascension will be sent to the media first thing in the morning.”
“What?!” Malik shouts and takes a step up a few steps of the dais, stopping when her guard, Marcus moves closer into view. Winking at Marcus from behind the throne as she teasingly waltzes around it without a care in the world, Samara pretends to adjust the length of her lace and nearly see-through sleeves.
“I don’t understand.” Malik says, his voice cracking in frustration.
“Which part don’t you understand?” Samara murmurs as she waltzes back around the throne to face her husband, “Isn’t a divorce what you wanted? My way will mean Batra has a ruler who truly cares for the people and their needs.”
Spinning on his heel, Malik’s eyes seem to land on Marcus as he growls heatedly, “Leave us. Now.”
Marcus’ eyes nervously flutter to hers and Samara smiles assuredly as Malik grumbles a curse under his breath, “Don’t worry, Marcus. I can handle Malik. Please wait outside.”
As Marcus bows and departs, the doors closing with a slam behind him, Malik turns on Samara, striding up the final steps of the dais until, thanks to her heels, is at eye level with her.
“Now, wife, what makes you think I want a divorce?” Malik growls, his voice deepening an octave and Samara tries to suppress the shiver of excitement that rushes through her.
“Don’t you?” Samara asks, her voice a whisper, “Leelah said⎼”
Snorting, Malik waves his hand around as he interrupts her whispered words, “Is that what this is about? A little girl who spies on adult conversations tells you your husband, who will give you anything in the world and who loves you, wants a divorce?”
Not answering, Samara bites her bottom lip, feeling silly as Malik continues, “We should send Leelah to Tariqs’ Sophie. Perhaps the former thief could teach Leelah a few things. Like how wrong it is to assume something awful about someone who loves you.”
“You left,” Samara murmurs as Malik takes another step closer.
“And I will regret that till the day I die, but everything has an explanation. Now, the only thing I want to know is if my wife will welcome me into her bed, tonight and for the rest of the nights we have together?”
Samara shudders under her husband’s heated gaze. Leaning down close to her face, Malik whispers, “What did you really discuss with Alfred, angel?”
The smoky scent of him curls and teases all around Samara and she slowly backs up until her legs hit the throne.
“Sheena.”
Nodding, Malik reaches out, like a snake and spins her around. Before Samara can even make sense of his plans, Samara is sitting in Malik’s lap and he, in the throne. Smirking down at her with his crooked smile, Malik brushes his nose against her own.
“Angel, my heart, I protect what is mine, yes?”
Silence flutters all around him as Malik faintly brushes his lips softly against her cheek. Teasing and taunting her with his touch as his hands slowly slide down to her hips. At her silence, Malik squeezes his hands.
“Samara? Don’t I protect what is mine?”
Gasping as his lips land on her pulse, Samara finally nods, his lips sending shockwaves through her body, straight to her core.
“Are you mine?” Malik growls, clearly impatient as he pulls her legs apart and forces her to face him. Samara jumps, startled at the feeling of his large bulge pressed against her core through her gown.
Faintly pressing his lips against hers, Malik pauses and stares into her eyes. Blue against hazel. Samara practically melts at the way he looks at her. His eyes are filled with enough passion and love to give her an orgasm right here and now, but his soft touches tell her otherwise. He wishes to draw this out.
Curling into his body like a cat, Samara smiles as Malik curses under his breath. The feeling of her breasts pressed against his chest and her core rubbing through the fabric of her gown and his pants, is enough to send them both to heaven.
Grabbing his attention by lacing her fingers through his curly hair, Samara smiles at the look of pure pleasure on her husband’s face and follows his lips until they move against hers as she vows.
“I am yours,” Samara murmurs swallowing Malik’s moan as she continues, “As you are mine.”
Forever.
Elish
Sheik Amoz and Teresa
11
Seven days until Christmas...
Sheik Amoz el-Safar stares into the screen at the woman who could be a clone for his wife. If it weren’t for the different colored eyes that blink back at him, Amoz could have mistakenly thought he was in fact speaking to his wife. Samantha Monet, his sister-in-law stares back at him coolly from her own office chair in the United States. Clenching his fists tightly around the arms of the desk chair, Amoz sighs, releasing his unnecessary anger.
“I just think it would be best if you spent time in Elish with us before Christmas. You can leave before we head to Hattan to celebrate with Tariq and Sophie,�
�� Amoz pleads.
“Are you sure it’s this serious? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Teresa has been through a lot in the past, but depression? She’s too strong for that.” Samantha grumbles and shakes her head, “Are you sure this isn’t just a phase?”
Shaking his head, Amoz stands and begins to pace in front of the computer screen, hating the way he has to talk about his wife behind her back like this.
Staring around the room of his office, Amoz curses and swings back around to face Samantha, “It isn’t a phase. Ever since Linda passed away, she’s become withdrawn. Every time Xavier cries or is unruly she hands him off to the nanny and hides away in the gardens or at the stables. It’s almost like she cannot cope with being a mother any longer.”
“It’s only been a month, Amoz. She lost her mother. Besides, before mother’s passing, she was held hostage by Tariq’s father. She’s been through a lot.” Samantha murmurs and as Amoz stares at the strong and independent woman, he senses the grief in her tone. Even Samantha still feels the pain of losing their mother, Linda Monet.
Waving his hands in the air, Amoz groans, “Then what am I to do? I tried bringing it up with her, but she just cries and accuses me of blaming her for being a bad mother. I tried to take her to the doctor, but she refuses. I even snuck a shrink onto the palace grounds, but Teresa caught on instantly and demanded the woman leave or else she would.”
Collapsing back into his desk chair, Amoz runs his hands through his hair as he sighs, “I just want my wife back. She barely eats and because she barely eats, she can’t breastfeed Xavier and because he has to be fed formula, she cries and when she cries, Xavier cries. The spark of life inside her is gone.”
Peering down through the camera, Samantha finally scoffs and concedes, “We can’t have that. Send the jet. I’ll meet you and my sister at the Royal Resort tomorrow.”
