Page 15 of Sheikh's Secret Love-Child
“You are the mother of the crown prince of Khalia,” he’d said, and she didn’t really care for the exaggerated patience in his voice. Much less the echo of what Yadira had said to her—telling her exactly what the party line was here in this fanciful place and more, where it had come from. “Regardless of how you feel about that role, it, too, comes with certain expectations.”
Shona had sniffed. “Your expectations sound like your problem, not mine.”
“And yet I think you will find that my expectations are very often treated as law,” he’d said in that same mild way that it had occurred to her belatedly was misdirection. Because nothing about him was mild, especially as he lounged there before her, looking lazy again when she knew it was a lie. And if she paid closer attention, she could hear the steel beneath it. “Whether you like it or not, Khalia is an absolute monarchy.”
But Shona had never been one to back down in the face of defeat, certain or otherwise. “I’m not entirely certain that your laws pertain to me. Is there an American embassy? I’d like to talk to them about any number of things. Such as how you got me into the country in the first place, since neither Miles nor I have passports.”
He’d smiled as if she delighted him, and Shona hated the part of her that pulsed at that, as if that was what she’d wanted all along. “You are mistaken. Both you and Miles have passports. I ordered their issue myself.”
“How could you order—?”
But she cut herself off. Because it had taken her a moment, but she understood. He wasn’t talking about American passports.
“Congratulations,” Malak murmured, those dark green eyes of his gleaming. “You and my son are Khalian citizens.”
She’d breathed in, then out, and she’d still felt unsteady. “Your congratulations are a lot like getting sucker punched. In case you wondered.”
“How strange. Most women liken the faintest shred of my attention to a gift from the heavens. Perhaps there is something the matter with you.”
“I can think of a great many things that are the matter with me,” Shona had said tightly. “Every one of them another reason I can’t possibly stay here.”
But Malak had only shrugged, as if the subject was closed and he’d grown bored with the discussion.
The security detail hadn’t given her the message she got then. The private jet, the palace—all of that had registered, certainly, but it hadn’t truly penetrated. Even the clothes he wore that so clearly marked him as who he’d claimed to be. Because this was the moment it really hit Shona that this man—the one-night stand she’d been sure she would forget eventually, despite her son’s dark green eyes—was really and truly a king. And not a king in the tabloid sense, all silly highbrow scandals and the dedication of war memorials. But an old-school king of dungeons and orders from on high. The kind of king who could demand anything and whole populations would leap to do his bidding.
A real king, in other words.
The truth of it shuddered through her, bringing heat and what she assured herself was dismay.
“You’re welcome to leave at any time,” King Malak told her in that same tone that reminded her he was well and truly finished discussing the matter, in case she’d had any doubt. “I will instruct the guards to escort you to the royal airfield and fly you back the moment you wish to go, with my compliments. But Miles stays.”
So Shona had stayed, too, of course. It wasn’t as if there was any other option.
And because she stayed, she was forced into a role she had never wanted. Not that anyone had asked her what her feelings on the subject might have been.
Every morning, Yadira woke her and they engaged in the same routine. Yadira would lay out clothes befitting the queen that Shona was not and Shona would ignore them, marching over to her dressing room and rifling through it until she found something—anything—that approximated the jeans and T-shirt she would have worn if she could. That meant a great many tunics and trousers, but it was better than the alternative. Yadira would then pretend she did not disapprove of this while serving Shona and Miles their breakfast near one of the fountains in their expansive suite.
If she squinted, it wasn’t terribly different from the mornings she’d shared with Miles back home. The two of them had often eaten breakfast together, then set about their days. But instead of rushing through a breakfast that was often no more than cold coffee she didn’t have time to microwave, then racing off to the cleaning job that she’d taken during the hours that Miles was in preschool to help make ends meet, she was able to enjoy a meal and strong coffee. Miles did as he pleased as well, spending his days playing with his nannies, and learning from them, too, as Shona had been informed when she’d claimed he needed more structure.
“He is getting personal attention from his nannies, all of whom are highly trained in child development,” Malak had informed her in that high, holy-king voice of his when she’d complained to him at one of those meals she refused to eat. “It is the same education I received at his age and yes, there is a great deal of playing as well. Do you have actual concerns about his development, Shona? Or is it that you dislike losing control?”
She had dared not answer that the way she longed to do.
And besides, she had her own horrors to fill her days. Shona was forced into what Yadira called comportment classes.
“I don’t need classes,” she’d told Malak, coldly and with fury.
“Whether you do or not, you must take them if you wish to stay here,” he’d replied. She still refused to eat with him. She stood there in the center of his dining room, pillows everywhere, candles flickering, and the balcony doors open to let the night in. She declined all offers—and demands—to sit. And she thought her stubbornness was getting to him. She could see it in that glittering heat in his gaze. She interpreted it as a victory. “Or you can fly back to New Orleans tomorrow. Your call.”
“Do you ever get tired of making threats?”
He’d smiled. “I am the king, Shona. I do not make threats. My wishes are commands and my preferences law.”
Which meant Shona suffered through the stupid classes, such as they were. A week into it, she couldn’t tell which of them hated the experience more—her or her advisors, who openly despaired of her.
“You must at least try,” they would tell her.
“I don’t want to try,” she would reply.