by Marian Tee
And when he looked at his cousin, Altair’s curt nod confirmed his suspicion.
“Zoom in a bit more,” Altair commanded.
Andy did as asked, and as the writing on the hilt became legible, Tarif noted the way Altair and his younger brother Malik simultaneously stiffened in recognition.
Having observed the same unusual reaction, Khalil asked, “You recognize the weapon then?”
“Yes.” The faintest hint of disbelief colored Altair’s voice.
“And?”
“It belongs to the Kahveci family.” Malik shook his head as he spoke, his expression of incredulity mirroring that of his older brother’s.
Tarif frowned. “Kahveci…as in Sidqi Kahveci?”
“None other.” Altair’s tone was flat. Glancing at the technician, the sheikh ordered, “Continue with the video.”
Andy clicked on Play, and the shaky footage taken by a civilian resumed playing on the giant screen.
The sheikhs watched in taut silence as the woman joined in the fray, her every movement exhibiting a curious mix of anxiety and skill. The way she wielded her dagger suggested years of practice, but the way her hand trembled hinted of deep-rooted fear and reluctance: she did not want to hurt anyone, but she would do so if forced.
The camera’s focus then swung away from the woman, this time focusing on the queen, who was crying and begging for her personal guards to stand down. Khalil’s face clenched at the sight of his wife’s distress, and by the time the footage reached its end, the atmosphere inside the war room simmered with ill-restrained rage.
Knowing that the next words they would speak of were best restricted to their ears alone, Tarif dismissed the technician with a quiet nod of thanks, and Andy almost forgot to bow in his haste to leave. The sheikhs’ moods had taken a dangerous turn, and he wanted to be as far away from it as he could. The last time he had been around a rich, angry man, Andy had ended up becoming a human punching bag simply because the file Andy had hacked for a client had turned out worthless.
As soon as the door closed behind the technician, Rayyan asked sharply, “Wasn't Kahveci the traitor executed fifteen years ago for leading a coup against King Khalid?” And if he recalled correctly, the palace had then covered everything up and made the man’s death appear an accident to save his family from public disgrace.
“Yes, that is him,” Altair said grimly, “and it is the Kahvecis’ coat of arms engraved on the hilt.”
“You are certain of this?” Khalil questioned.
“Not only am I certain of this, but I’m equally certain that his dagger had not left his clan’s possession.”
And with Altair’s confirmation, the four other Al-Atassi sheikhs came to understand that the woman so bravely defending the queen in the failed revolt could only be one of the two daughters the palace had rescued from Sidqi’s residence. The older girl had been eleven at that time while the younger one had been four, and when the palace had found them, both girls had been severely malnourished. Apparently, starvation had been one of their father’s favorite forms of punishment.
“It can’t be Hyacinth.” Rayyan’s tone was hard as he referred to the younger of Sidqi’s daughters, the very same woman who now interned for him as his personal assistant.
“You’re certain of this?” the king asked in an equally hard voice.
“Nem.”
The other sheikhs exchanged quiet looks of interest at their cousin’s clipped tone. As the five men trusted each other implicitly, none of them had any problems taking Rayyan’s word for truth. Even so, one question remained in their minds: how was Rayyan so sure of the girl’s whereabouts that night?
It was a puzzle worth mulling over, but for now the other sheikhs put the matter aside. There were more pressing issues at hand, and time was far from being on their side. That it had taken the palace two long, frustrating years to gather sufficient evidence on the failed revolt still chafed at them, and they were still no closer to identifying the true culprits behind the attack. For now, the sheikhs were concentrating on identifying who was and wasn’t on their side---
And the courageous woman who hid her face behind the silver niqab was definitely fighting in their corner.
Staring at the woman with flashing violet eyes on the screen, Tarif tried to summon her image to mind now that he had the necessary clues to her identity.
Hyacinth’s older half-sister was the queen’s former tutor as well as Kyria’s, wasn’t it? And her name was…Anisah? As soon as he thought of the name, a vivid picture flashed in the sheikh’s mind: a tall, slender woman wearing stern-looking, black-rimmed glasses and perpetually dressed in a dark-colored abaya.
“Harper never spoke of this to me,” Tarif heard his king murmur thoughtfully.
Malik snorted. “Are you truly expecting otherwise? You know how Anisah hates any kind of fanfare.”
“That’s true,” Rayyan acknowledged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she had asked the queen to not speak of her involvement.”
Altair smirked. “Actually, I wouldn’t even be surprised if Anisah threatened our queen with a two-hundred-point test if Her Majesty so much as hinted of her heroics.”
The four sheikhs laughed while Tarif’s puzzlement grew.
Something wasn’t fucking right here.
“Why do you all know her so well,” Tarif questioned, “and I don’t?” His cousins’ laughter abruptly died down, but Tarif wasn’t fooled at all. This time, he had a feeling that all four men were silently laughing…at him.
“Well?” Tarif’s tone was now testy. “Just fucking spill it.”
Khalil let out a polite cough. “There’s, err, nothing to spill.”
“Like I’d fucking believe that.” And when the other four sheikhs grinned, Tarif knew he was right in suspecting the lie in the king’s words.
“She’s been living and working here since she was eighteen,” Malik began.
Tarif’s eyes bored through Malik’s. “That still doesn’t explain things.” Hundreds of people lived within the palace’s vast compound, and he knew all of them as well as the other sheikhs did. So why was it that this Anisah was different? How was it that all of his cousins appeared to be so familiar with her, and he alone was not?
“Do you really want the truth?” Altair asked finally.
“What else do you think I’ve been asking for from the---”
The king interrupted him, saying simply, “She doesn’t like you.”
“I think she used the word ‘immature’ when describing you,” Rayyan put forward solemnly.
“I believe she also said something about our brother being a man who has no business in the courtroom since he spends too much time hopping from one bedroom to another,” Altair mused.
“A disgrace to the palace,” Malik drawled. “I distinctly recall her saying this as well.”
And then Tarif said very slowly, “I see.”
The four other sheikhs’ amusement disappeared in a flash.
That tone was not good…for Anisah.
“Do not take her words personally,” the king said immediately.
“You chose to portray yourself as a playboy,” Rayyan asserted. “It’s not her fault she sees you the way the rest of the world sees you.”
“Best you forget her,” Altair said. “She is not worth your time.”
“Anisah is a good woman, Tarif,” Malik insisted. “She does not deserve whatever it is you’re planning.”
“I understand, brothers.” Tarif’s tone was of utter politeness, and at the sound of it, the four other sheikhs winced in shared regret.
Well, that was it then.
They had just turned Anisah into a challenge, and everyone in this room knew how much Tarif loved challenges. It was what Tarif lived for, and there was nothing he would not do to conquer one.
Chapter One
Present time
It was almost three in the afternoon by the time Anisah Kahveci came out of the library, her departure made necessary
by the not-so-subtle grumbling of her stomach. After nodding courteously towards the guards stationed outside the doors, she headed towards the stairs at a brisk pace, fully intending to have her midday meal and make it back in under half an hour. With her presentation only a week away, she still had to---
Oh.
Anisah ducked her head as soon as she caught sight of Sheikh Tarif Al-Atassi coming up the stairs, dressed in an elegant grey tweed suit. Among his cousins, he was the only one who seemed to have a stated preference for Western clothing over their kingdom’s traditional robes; it was a trait Anisah secretly found baffling, considering he was also the only full-blooded Ramilian one among the five sheikhs that made up the kingdom’s highest branch of government.
With the sheikh now only a few steps away, Anisah came to a stop and once he was near enough to hear her, she murmured respectfully, “Yam jamil, Your Highness.” The term meant ‘a beautiful day’ in their language, a formal greeting commonly used when greeting one’s superiors.
Afterwards, she waited for the sheikh to walk past her like he usually did.
But this time he did not.
Instead, the sheikh stopped right in front of her, asking lazily, “Anisah, is it not?”
Her head jerked up in confusion, and violet eyes unintentionally clashed with hooded black eyes.
Although all Al-Atassi sheikhs were gorgeous beyond belief, most people agreed that Tarif was the most seductive one among his cousins, with the way his six-foot-plus frame of pure, sinewy muscles pulsated with a blatantly sexual aura – it was as if every inch of him was designed to arouse, and the simplest contact from the sheikh could make a woman come.
The silky texture of his ebony hair that begged to have a woman’s fingers rake through it, the dark eyes that could make a woman come with one scorching-hot look, the hard, perfect lines of a face so achingly beautiful it could make one ache just by looking at him---
“Anisdi?” My lady?
Anisah’s face flushed with color when she realized she had been practically staring at the sheikh like an infatuated little fool. Curses! This was one of the reasons she had worked hard to perfect the art of being invisible when this particular sheikh was around. And for so many years now, her trick of acting submissive and boring to avoid drawing his attention had always worked.
Always.
Until now, that was.
Clearing her throat, she managed to answer in a steady voice, “Nem, alshaykh.” Yes, sheikh. “That is my name.” And hopefully that would be the end of it, and the sheikh would soon go his merry way to wherever his next rendezvous was.
Unfortunately, the sheikh seemed in a mood to prove her wrong every instance.
“It’s a pleasure to finally have a chance to speak with you.”
The words had Anisah at wit’s end, and she couldn’t help lowering her gaze as she muttered, “The honor and privilege is mine, Your Highness.” There was nothing she despised more than dishonesty, and yet here she was, forced to speak falsehoods. But then again, what choice did she have?
Despite being much younger compared to other scholars, Anisah was already considered as one of the kingdom’s leading authorities on Ramilian history and etiquette. Was she supposed to forget everything she stood for just so she could tell Tarif Al-Atassi to his face she---
“I wonder if you truly mean that, anisdi.”
The sheikh’s tone remained lazy, but even so Anisah couldn’t keep her gaze from narrowing suspiciously at the sheikh. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought that the sheikh was actually mocking her.
But that wouldn’t make sense, Anisah thought with a frown. Her ability to conceal her dislike towards the sheikh was something she took great pride in, and she couldn’t think of a single incident that she had let her true feelings slip.
Deciding she was being merely fanciful, she said finally, “I sincerely apologize if I have behaved in a manner that suggests otherwise---”
“Not at all,” the sheikh interrupted her. “I have been observing you for the past two months---”
Her eyebrows shot up. For what possible reason could the sheikh have been observing her for two long months?
“And your self-control has been nothing but remarkable.”
It was?
“But I digress.” The sheikh’s lips curved in a smile then, and Anisah stiffened. No. It could not be. It could not. And so she rubbed her eyes hard, but when she peered fearfully up at the sheikh one more time, the cursed smile was still there---
Allah save her!
She had seen that smile a thousand times, and she had always thanked Allah that such a smile had never been directed at her because it was an omen from hell. In the fifteen years she had lived in the palace, she had seen that smile directed at the women the sheikh had intended to bed – and he had always succeeded in doing so – as well as breaking their hearts in the process.
Did that mean she was next?
Her heart came to a screeching halt at the thought, but when she saw the sheikh’s lips start to move, her heart came pumping back in full force, its every hard and heavy thud telling her that she had no time to lose.
“Maehdina, alshaykh.” I’m sorry, sheikh. “I just remembered that there is an urgent errand the queen has tasked me with. I beg your forgiveness, but please excuse me, Your Highness.” She bowed without meeting his gaze and turned away without letting the sheikh speak another word.
Yes, she knew she was being abominably rude, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
As she rushed away, she felt the sheikh’s eyes follow her, and she almost tripped over her feet at the smoldering heat of his gaze.
Oh curse the man, but it was as if his gaze was actually laying a claim on her body, letting her know that it was only a matter of time before she, too, came to his bed willingly and offered her virginity---
NO.
NO, NO, NO!
It took everything Anisah had to not pick up her skirts and make a run for it. This…this was just a whim of his, she decided feverishly.
But what about the fact that he said he had been observing you for two months
Just a whim, Anisah!
But what about that smile
A whim, she forcefully tried to convince herself.
And the way he’s still looking at you now
Nothing but a whim, Anisah Kahveci, and by the morrow, she would see the truth of this, with the sheikh ignoring her like he always did, and treating her no differently from any of the other hundred or so employees working in the palace.
The sheikh was used to having women at his beck and call, and it was impossible for Tarif Al-Atassi to waste another second of his precious time pursuing someone like her – a nobody, and even worse, a nobody who obviously did not welcome his advances.
Anisah found herself nodding determinedly as she hurried down the stairs.
Yes, that was surely how it would be.
Surely.
But only a few hours came to pass when the sheikh proved the opposite true.
Chapter Two
Hail the Queen of Ramil, for in her womb rested Ramil’s most precious heir to the throne!
Such were the cries that rung throughout the desert kingdom, with every town celebrating Queen Harper’s pregnancy and the announcement that the Emir Sheikh’s wife was carrying a boy. The palace was of course having a celebration of its own, with its ballroom welcoming a steady influx of well-wishers for the royal couple.
Following a lavish dinner, King Khalil took the hand of his beloved queen for the night’s first dance, and the couple made a majestic and breathtakingly romantic figure as they swirled and twirled until finally, at the end of the song, the king literally swept his queen off her feet as he lifted her high up in the air.
“Malaka lilia, malakti.” The king uttered the words for the whole world to hear, which meant ‘forever yours, my queen.’
Tears stinging her eyes, Harper could only whisper back, “Malaka l
ilia, mikkhi.” Forever yours, my king.
As the orchestra played the next song, Khalil gently lowered his wife back to her feet, and with one arm curving protectively around her waist, the king bid his guests to join them on the dance floor.
No second invitation was needed, and in moments the floor was completely taken up by couples swaying to the gentle notes of a Ramilian ballad. Love was in the air, and with everyone under its spell, invited members of the press had the time of their life taking one glorious photo after another, the innumerable beautiful couples waltzing before them making the perfect subject for tomorrow’s news.
There was Sheikh Malik Al-Atassi with his dazzling young wife, Kyria, and although the fires of controversy that once surrounded their union had finally died down, the two still made quite the intriguing couple: a man and woman who had still fallen in love with each other despite having been raised as brother and sister under one roof.
And then there was Sheikh Altair, Malik’s older brother and the kingdom’s military commander, dancing with his rarely seen fiancée, Safiya, daughter of the recently-turned-recluse Sheikh Mahmud. A story was to be made there one day, and the press was determined to circle around the couple like hungry hyenas waiting to pounce at the first sign of trouble.
The press also attempted to take a photo of Sheikh Rayyan, but the silver-haired sheikh was as aloof as ever and had retreated to one of the private lounges as soon as dancing had commenced.
Four Al-Atassi sheikhs down, one left, the paparazzi thought as they went hunting for the last of the king’s vassals to be accounted for. They searched for the kingdom’s playboy sheikh high and low, far and wide, but even so, not one of them realized that the sheikh was merely hiding in plain sight. A small observatory reserved for the palace’s staff overlooked the ballroom from far above, and outlined against its glass panes were two figures – and one of it was none other than Tarif Al-Atassi himself.
