by Ana Adams
“I meet a lot of people,” Anwar offered. “It would be impossible to remember them all. You understand, I’m sure.”
Rawnie pursed her lips while Anwar Jr. continued nursing. “You’ve seen his eyes, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“And you’ve seen mine?”
He hesitated, avoiding her gaze. “Yes.”
“There’s no other explanation. I’ve never seen a man in my life with eyes like yours. And maybe you don’t remember the amazing sex that we had, but I’ll never forget it. And your son was born of it. Please don’t cast him out of your life.”
Anwar’s jaw tightened and he spun on his heels, calling for Fatin. Storming out of the room, the door clanked heavily behind him. Fatin appeared in the chamber, looking perplexed.
“Please understand, Miss Rawnie,” Fatin began, “he is a hotheaded man, he can scarcely be talked to sometimes.”
“It’s okay.” She adjusted her son at her breast, calmed by the sounds of him suckling, his tiny fingers latching onto curls of her hair as he fed. “We’ll do what we can. But I won’t make a man see what he doesn’t want to see.”
And even though she had no family to reach out to, no network to lean on, she’d find a way. With her Romani blood, there was no other path for her. She’d make something work, come hell or high water.
She just hoped Anwar saw the light—for her son, and for her own selfish desires pulsing hot under her skin.
***
Anwar stormed into the dining room where Diaab and Ra’ees awaited dinner. He huffed and settled into his seat at the far end of the table, at the right-hand side of the seat reserved for his father. He was so flustered he could barely see straight. A footman offered him a roll; he waved him off and knocked the platter out of her hands.
“I take it you’ve met your son,” Diaab said. He buttered a roll, watching him with hooded eyes. The footman scurried to collect the rolls Anwar had launched from his platter, and then disappeared through a doorway.
“He’s not my son.” Anwar slammed his fist on the table, craning to look for someone on the staff. “Can I get a roll, please?”
“With your antics, I’m surprised there haven’t been more illegitimate offspring claims,” Diaab continued. He took a bite of the bread, chewing thoughtfully. “It seemed about time for one.”
“My antics?” Anwar scoffed. “If this is my illegitimate son, then Ra’ees has one too!” The finger pointing wasn’t helpful, but it was the only thing that leapt to mind. He was so angry he wanted to scream for days. This whole situation needed to disappear and fast. He couldn’t deal with the repercussions. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
“Well, apparently not yet.” Diaab smiled coolly. “Which brings us back to the original point—you do. Most people will be hesitant to believe he’s not yours. The eyes are the same. I’m positive a genetic test will prove it.”
Anwar slammed his fist on the table again, just as a new server was setting down a small plate with a roll. The bread leapt off the plate and onto the floor.
“Jesus, woman!” He ran a hand through his hair. “Get me another roll!”
The servant scurried off. Diaab looked somehow amused.
“This brings us to the question of what to do.” Diaab drummed his fingers against the table. “A genetic test will be ordered, of course. To which you will obviously agree, for the sake of the throne. Your father has been so desperately awaiting another heir.”
Anwar sighed tensely. “I never planned to have children.”
“Not possible in this family.” Diaab laughed curtly. “Not possible at all.”
“There’s no way that kid is mine. I’m not even fertile.”
“Oh? Have you visited a fertility specialist?” Diaab lifted a brow.
“I’m extremely cautious in my…actions. There’s no way I could have impregnated anyone.” Anwar faltered, scouring his mind for more reasons this was all a hoax—or maybe better yet, a dream he had yet to wake up from. “Ra’ees will tell you—I barely sleep with women.”
Ra’ees stifled a laugh.
Diaab rolled his eyes. “You can stop with the histrionics, Anwar. The truth is this: you have a son. And tradition dictates that this bloodline must stay in the family.” He leaned over the table, leveling him with his gaze. “He’s part of the royal lineage.”
Anwar scoffed, snatching the newest roll from the platter before he had a chance to ruin it out of anger. He stuffed it in his mouth, chomping unhappily. “Impossible.”
“And as far as the legal structure of this country goes, you have two options.” Diaab cleared his throat, dabbing a corner of his mouth with his napkin. The thinly veiled sneer told Anwar his uncle was really enjoying this—perhaps too much. It all made him sick.
“Option one is that you marry the girl.”
“Never going to happen. Next option.”
“Option two is that you kill her and the child.”
Chapter Two
His uncle’s words slid through him like ice. He’d never ordered an assassination before, and this certainly didn’t seem the appropriate first time. Was there ever an appropriate first time? He held his uncle’s gaze for a moment, struggling to figure out how serious he was. Certainly Diaab wasn’t capable of murdering that tiny boy and his mother?
The idea sank like heavy weight to the bottom of his feet. He waved off the next servant who appeared with a salad. His appetite had mysteriously shriveled.
“It would be easy enough,” Diaab continued. “We can destroy evidence that they were ever here, that they ever existed. She’s Romani, and lives far enough away that there would be virtually no link to us. She could have easily fallen upon misfortune during her trek. It’s a perfectly fine solution.”
“I can’t.” The words leapt out of his mouth before he’d known they were there. “I can’t do that.”
Diaab nodded slowly, a smile slowly forming on his lips. “Well, then. It looks like the palace will see a royal wedding quite soon.” He raised his glass, urging Anwar and Ra’ees to join the toast. Anwar glowered while Ra’ees clinked his glass uncertainly against his father’s.
“Come, now. Don’t look so glum.” Diaab sipped at his wine. “Being married isn’t so bad. At least you’ve had the chance to see your son beforehand. Now there’s no wondering how he’ll come out before you commit to her for eternity.”
His uncle’s words were like razors against his skin. The man needed to shut up—immediately.
Or he needed to get the hell out of there.
Anger boiled up, mixed with panic and fear, and he sprang to his feet and strode from the dining room.
As he went, his uncle’s laughter echoed in his ears. “Anwar, don’t run—you’ll make such a handsome groom!”
The dining room doors swung shut behind him. In the cool quiet of the hallway, Anwar fisted his hair, struggling to figure out his next step. Clearly his uncle’s options were unacceptable—one far more than the other—but that didn’t mean those were the only paths available. Diaab was harsh at times, but he was the foremost expert on their country’s laws and traditions. Diaab spoke the truth, no matter how much it stung.
But there was still one more option—running away.
Anwar took off for his bed chamber, compiling a quick mental list of all the most necessary items for his escape. Toothbrush, underwear, phone and charger, a few stacks of cash. He’d make his own life somewhere else, maybe on the coast. Sure, his father would be heartbroken, but he’d understand it before he passed. Missing the funeral would sting, but this was the only way forward. History could write him as the renegade prince—he didn’t care. He didn’t need to face this reality when there were so many others to choose from.
Diaab couldn’t make him choose this, and neither could his father. Anwar would do exactly as he pleased; he had done so his whole life, so why stop now?
Inside the bedchamber, he stuffed as many things as possible into his workout bag, barely see
ing what he grabbed. Once the bag was full, he zipped it up and headed back down the corridor, heading for the main gates.
Outside, the evening light dimmed to dusk. Overgrown olive trees lined the walkway. Mere steps down the gravel path, a voice rang out.
“Prince Anwar. Where are you going?”
A finely dressed guard approached him, one of the night sentries.
“Thank you for looking out for me. I’m on my way to the store.” He cleared his throat, racking his brain for a better excuse. “I’m just stepping out for a moment.”
The guard squinted at him. “What store?”
Anwar swore to himself. The sentries were to know of all comings and goings after a certain hour. This would have been easier if he’d pretended to be going out to dinner. Dumb move, Anwar. Now he had to follow this lie through to the end.
“The pharmacy.” He gestured unhelpfully toward the world beyond the perimeter of the walls. “You know, the one down there.”
The guard arched a brow. Before he could respond, Anwar took off, dropping his duffel bag in the process, running as fast as he could toward the gates.
The guard trailed him, catching up with him more quickly than he expected. Anwar liked to pride himself on his dexterity and speed, but the night sentries were apparently a different breed. The main gate came into view and he pushed harder, the steps of the sentry behind him inspiring him to move faster. Grunting, he willed himself to run harder, pinching his eyes shut. Just as he crossed the threshold of the gates, the sentry dove and grabbed his calves, crashing to the ground and bringing Anwar down with him.
He landed with a gruff shout, swearing up a storm. Anwar scrambled to free himself but the sentry hung tight, pinning him to the ground.
“Diaab told me you’d run,” he grunted, placing his knee over his chest. “Orders are that you stay, sir.”
Anwar howled. “Let me go! If I want to run, it’s my choice. Diaab doesn’t decide what I do. I outrank him.”
“Diaab told me you’d say that, too.” The sentry elbowed him near the throat as Anwar struggled to free himself. The man was a brick wall on top of him; at least they hired the best. “But these are your father’s orders. I’m to return you to your to chambers now.”
“Fuck off.” Anwar spat at the guard but he was unfazed. He grinned a little.
“I never imagined you were so feisty,” he said. “But it’s time to cooperate.”
Anwar struggled one last time, getting his knee hard against the thigh of the guard, who barely blinked. It was useless—they’d force him to make a decision and live a horrible life that he hated, neither of which was fair.
Killing the girl was out of the question, too. He wouldn’t murder a girl and her baby. Not without some serious reason behind it.
He went limp, staring up at the wisps of cloud floating overhead in the dusky sky. This was his life now. He’d finally been trapped, like he’d known would happen the whole time. Whether by marriage or the crown, the jester was here to make him face the music.
“Ready to cooperate?”
Anwar sighed heavily, following the trail of a small curl of cloud that looked like a scorpion’s tail. He hoped, at least, that this girl and her baby weren’t secretly poisonous villains, ready to sting him at any chance. But was that too much to hope for? Every example of marriage in his life signaled a dismal destiny ahead—affairs, scandal, sadness.
His own mother and father were the rare exception, but his mother had passed when he was only ten, leaving his father heartbroken and lost. Which was its own form of misery stemming from marriage.
“I’m ready.” Anwar steeled himself, reaching for the hand the sentry offered to help him up. On his own feet, he considered his chances of success at running again—but the man was too fast. And really, a part of him was curious to see the paternity test results. There was a chance this could blow over, if the test proved the girl a fake.
But also, there was a chance that he had a son.
Glancing at the wisp of scorpion tail in the sky, it had mutated into a mesmerizing swirl.
Maybe this was a rabbit hole he could sink into just a little bit deeper.
***
Hours later, Anwar awoke with a start. He was sprawled over the armchair in his apartment, facing the darkened window, neck screaming from the hours spent in a strange position. He’d come here to sit in quiet and contemplate his life, but instead he’d fallen asleep. Typical. He reached for his phone, heart racing. Two a.m.
He’d been in the middle of a dream—a terribly sexy dream. But something had woken him up.
He gulped, adjusting his pants against the rock-hard erection.
Rawnie had come to him in his dream—pure flowing dresses and dark come-hither eyes, so lithe and soft that all he could do was gape at her in his mind’s eye.
“Don’t you remember me?” Rawnie approached from a stone archway leading to a wide open meadow. Wind tousled her hair, curls spilling over her shoulders.
“I never forgot you,” Anwar admitted. He reached to touch her cheek but she turned from him.
“I am not yours to touch.” She sauntered around him in a circle, like a cat eyeing prey. “Not yet.”
“So you will be?” He turned to follow her circuit, entranced by the woman and her energy. The sunlight beat down on them; sweat prickled his brow. The scent of flowers arrived with the wind and he grabbed for her wrist, but she dodged him.
“You can never bind me.” Her voice came out low, sultry. “I belong to no one.”
She turned suddenly, gesturing to a fat old tree behind her, one that hadn’t been there only moments before. A trapeze bar hung from a thick limb, swinging in the breeze.
“That is my home.” She blinked up at him, smiling sweetly, the moment lingering for an eternity.
“But come with me,” he pleaded. He went to reach for her again but stopped himself. Desperation thrummed through him.
She laughed throatily, trailing a finger along the crest of his shoulders. Goosebumps flared all over his body.
“I’ll come when I want…” She lifted a brow, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. “But hopefully you’ll make me come again.”
Anwar sighed loudly, rubbing his eyes like it might wipe the dream from his memory. Her words still burned in his mind, playing on a loop that he couldn’t ignore. I’ll come when I want. He still remembered how hard she’d come with him. It was pure, raw, from the depths of her being, with her ankles hooked around his neck, her body a fascinating display of curves and angles, body twisted against his like a question mark.
Rawnie had never left his mind since she’d shown up with the wind in her family’s traveling circus last year. The earth-shattering orgasm they’d shared together had forged a connection he’d never shared with anyone before; certainly not a random hook-up like he was used to.
He stood and shuffled toward his bed chamber, stretching against the painful spasms of his back as he righted himself. Each step reminded him of a simple fact: Rawnie was in this building. This palace. He could have her if he wanted.
Or could he?
He doubted she’d come looking for a sexual liaison; if the kid really was his, no doubt she wanted to leave the baby and run, or maybe extort him for cash. He wasn’t sure what a Romani woman might do in this situation, but it most certainly didn’t mean she was here hoping to hook up with him again.
He groaned. That unexpected encounter with Rawnie might never leave him…and now there was possible proof of that passionate night. A baby with eyes so blue and clear he almost had to be his son.
As he eased into bed, questions circled inside his mind like determined vultures, but above the fray and question marks, the curve of Rawnie’s smile emerged, like the steady hand on his back telling him everything was going to be okay.
***
Rawnie squinted against the shaft of sunlight entering her chambers, thankful for the light and the warmth and the high thread-count of the sheets and the soft
ness of the pillows and the never-ending stream of food and water that was brought to her at the slightest hint of need.
Life at the palace was certainly royal; vastly different from how she’d been raised, and thousands of levels higher than what she was accustomed to.
But she could get used to it. Not that she would ever have the chance. Each passing second inside the palace reminded her that she was a foreigner, a stranger, an intruder. The way Anwar avoided her gaze and only glanced at their child told her how little he wanted to believe the turn of events.
If she could have avoided coming, she would have. Not that he would care about what led her to travel nearly six hundred miles alone with an infant.
A soft knock at her door, one that she already recognized as Fatin. She cleared her throat. “Come in, please.”
Fatin poked her round, brunette head inside the doorframe. “Prince Anwar would like to see you. Shall I help you dress?”
“I can manage, but thank you.” Rawnie smiled at the maid, sliding out of bed. Anwar Jr. had been rousing slowly that morning after his earlier feeding session; she cooed down at him as he looked around, eyes wide and clear. She scooped him up and nuzzled him, giggling into his belly as he gurgled.
She nursed him until he was sated, then placed him back in the crib as she rifled through a small assortment of clothes some maids had provided. As she looked through the options, she rolled her neck around, satisfying pops and clicks happening as her limber body woke up for the day. Being a contortionist was part genetics, part giftedness, and part practice. And this trip had taken a toll on her daily regimen.
Joining a different circus might be her only chance at financial independence. Once Anwar Jr. was weaned, she’d look for work. There was no other way, since she couldn’t imagine the prince would ever truly accept their child as his own.
What were you even thinking coming here? Tears clogged her throat. She’d been waiting for the graceless rejection since crossing the threshold; every minute spent in the palace felt tense and expectant, like crossing a rotten bridge, waiting for the one weak spot to fall out.
She slipped a loose white shift over her head, pairing it with a fringed vest that came to her waist. Adding golden flats made her feel somewhat put together, like this might have been an outfit she’d purchased herself somewhere on a whim.
