Chapter 5
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
“Go, go, go!”
The man’s urgent words had played over and over again in Leighton’s head since that moment on the street in Paris.
An hour ago, she and the other princesses had returned to the palace under guard.
The princesses had been ushered into the king’s reception hall, or whatever they called it.
She had been forced to wait a while with Khalil, her new-but-temporary guard since Asim had been injured in the Paris incident.
Finally, Khalil turned to her. “It is time. Do not speak to the king unless he directly asks you a question.”
The doors opened and she entered. The long, narrow space had twenty-foot ceilings heavily adorned with plaster and intricate designs.
Six chandeliers hung overhead in pairs of two, forcing her gaze straight down the middle of the room to the central couch where King Faruq sat, flanked by his advisors on their own seating arrangements.
Couches and tables lined the walls on either side with dozens of men in white kaftans and ghutras.
In the front, right corner, Aliyah and Daria were moving to settees. Aliyah gave her an apologetic smile, but when Leighton’s gaze shifted to the king—and connected with his eyes—she remembered to avert at the last minute, but not before seeing him rise.
Oh mercy, she’d angered him already. Pulse stampeding, she stared at the glossy floor, though keenly aware of his black shoes clipping nearer.
Having reached her, he hooked a finger under her chin and nudged it upward.
Still, she looked elsewhere.
“Look at me!” he demanded.
Twitching at the terse command, she popped her gaze to his.
His beard was peppered with gray. Brown eyes studied her. “I see your mother in you…”
She hated this man. She shouldn’t—it wasn’t Christ-like—but he had raped her mother. Out of spite. And she resented having his attention trained on her.
“She had that look too.” He pitched her head backwards, then returned to his settee and nodded to his eldest son.
Crown Prince Maaz leaned forward and gave her a hard look. “Did you enjoy the trip?”
Knowing this prince did not approve of her in his home, Leighton guessed the question was a trap.
Staring at the inlaid black designs in the marble floor, she made herself offer a benign reply.
“It was an unexpected honor to be invited.” A smile would be a nice touch, so she put one on her face. “It was my first trip to France.”
He stood, and it seemed the very movement stirred a wake of heat toward her. “That is not what I asked,” he bit out in irritation.
Dread churning, Leighton knew she had to enter his trap. “Yes,” she admitted quietly. “Princess Daria was exceptionally kind to include me.”
“She was,” he pronounced as he paced closer, treating her as if she were on trial and he the prosecutor. “Many in this House believe she was too kind. That you were treated to an excursion far beyond your right.”
Treated? Had he forgotten that she’d been attacked? That a man had nearly strangled her in a botched robbery? Yet…his point was valid. Since he had not directly asked a question, she kept her lips pressed together.
“Perhaps,” he said with a sneer, “at the hotel, you managed to get hold of the princess’s phone. Send a secret message to someone to help you escape.”
Leighton started. Mind racing, she frowned that he was accusing her of orchestrating the attack. Outrageous! Ludicrous! But she had no proof of her innocence. Too, arguing with him would only earn his backhand.
“You have nothing to say for yourself?”
Oh, she had plenty. A quiet answer turns away wrath…
She wet her lips as she thought of an answer that would turn aside his anger.
“I was never left alone while on the trip, Your Highness.” This might be a good time to try and convince him she had no desire to escape, yet she knew she could not bring herself to lie.
If she said she did not want to go on the trip in the first place, he would accuse her of being ungrateful. It was an impossible situation.
He stared at her hard as quiet rankled the receiving hall, all eyes trained on her. “The man who put his arm around your neck—do you know him?”
“No, Highness.”
“What did he want?”
“He demanded money.”
“And did you give it to him?”
“I had none to give,” she said plainly. The unfairness of being targeted then and now sent her pulse into overdrive, but she forced herself to remember… If I am here, Ummi is not.
“And you are sure you did not know him?” Crown Prince Maaz demanded as he stood over her, staring her down with the full weight of the entire royal House.
Leighton started. “Quite sure.”
Scratching his beard as he paced around her, he grunted. “It makes no sense when you, an unknown, is attacked and not the princess.” He returned to his cushioned settee at the front, next to the king.
“I agree,” she said, breathless at the unspoken accusation. When he snapped a glower at her, she remembered herself and fell silent.
“It is suspicious that you arrive here,” he continued, “are chosen to go on this trip, and suddenly, my sister—who has never been a source of attacks—is at the center of one.”
“Your insinuation cuts me deep. I did not ask to be here or ‘arrive here,’ but I have never given any complaint or fight, despite horrific treatment, and now I am—”
But Prince Maaz flew off the settee, and struck true and hard, knocking her to the ground.
Even as she caught herself, she saw others coming too. Panic streaked through her chest, and she huddled there, covering her head. Felt spittle land on her arm and clothes. Hands slapped at her head as she curled into a ball. Pain exploded through her side from a kick, making her cry out.
“Enough,” a voice commanded distantly. “Khalil!”
The doors clattered open, and the men receded, revealing the king.
“Remove her from the hall,” King Faruq ordered.
Aching, crying, she hunched to protect herself even as she heard the quick steps approach. Her temporary guard grabbed her arm and pulled hard. Pain pinched her shoulder as she scrambled to get upright before he ripped it out of the socket. He thrust her through the doors.
Sniffling, she trembled and stumbled. Fought the tears, her cheek throbbing from Maaz’s hit. It felt stiff, probably from swelling.
“You idiot,” Khalil hissed as he marched her through the hall, his grip unrelenting and agonizing. “I told you—” He tensed, then abruptly stopped, giving a sharp nod to the side. “Highness.”
Struggling to see past the tears to see what diverted him, Leighton noted Prince Rayan striding into view. Had he come to give her a private beating? She cowered, anticipating more cruelty.
“You should remember, Khalil,” Rayan said calmy, blandly, “that even though she earned the ire of our king, she still belongs to him.” His gaze pointedly went to the grip that would no doubt leave a bruise.
The vise slackened, and she shuddered around another shaky breath.
Prince Rayan considered her for a second. There was something in his expression she could not decipher. Disappointment?
“If you will excuse us, Highness, I must return her to her room.” Khalil gave a curt bow of his head, then started walking again, yanking her onward.
Leighton stumbled through the grand foyer, shooting one last look to Prince Rayan, who stood there, arms folded as he watched her being dragged away. Why did he look regretful?
The ten-minute hike back to her chambers was made in virtual silence, which suited her fine.
She did not even care when he all but threw her across the threshold, then slammed and locked the door.
At least here, she was alone, safe. Though “safe” was relative.
Itching to wash off their spittle, she hurried into the bathroom.
Pulled out clean clothes, stripped, and showered.
That night, she curled up on the bed and sobbed into the pillow. When she awoke hours later, she found the room dark. Aches in her side and arm made her groan as she rolled onto her back. Recalled the mob. The hits. All blaming her for this fiasco.
Her thoughts traveled back to Paris and what happened.
As she’d told the royals, she had no idea why the man had attacked or where he’d even come from.
Arm over her eyes, she couldn’t figure out how she’d missed the burly man or why he’d targeted her.
Anyone paying attention would’ve known she was the least of the four Arabic women on that street.
It hurt—she had done everything right. Played the subservient girl. Obeyed the rules. Then some man tries to rob her and she gets blamed!
Though her eyes watered again, she fought it off. Gritted her teeth. This was her choice. She sat up in the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest. Wiped her eyes. I choose to be here. To save Ummi.
In her mind, she heard the men hawking up loogies to spit at her. Felt the slimy impacts on her cheek and eyes.
God, please, give me the strength to endure this.
The lock on the door rattled, yanking her attention to it. A moment later, Khalil stormed into her dark solitude, hesitated, then hit the switch.
Light exploded through the room, making her eyes ache after crying.
“Get up. Cover your head.”
Confused but moving in compliance with the command, Leighton scooted to the edge of the bed.
“Hurry! The king is waiting.”
Oh no.
Hood smothering him, Owen worked to cooperate with the thugs hauling him through the air-conditioned structure.
The pace slowed, doors opening as he huffed beneath the thick fabric.
He had no concept of time before he was pushed to his knees and the hood—along with more than a few strands of hair—was ripped off.