Chapter 7
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
The girl had some serious attitude. But beneath it lay a tanker of insecurity and fear, screaming and writhing as he sat with her in the bedchamber that night.
“Don’t you have something to do?” she asked after dinner.
“I’m doing it,” he answered calmly. If he’d been addicted to his phone like a lot of Scions, he might be twitching uncontrollably after hours without any means to doomscroll. But military life had taught him to make the most of silence and solitude. Now he found it grounding.
“Aren’t you going to your own room?”
He hesitated, sloughed his hands together. Had nobody explained the situation to her? “I…” He exhaled heavily. “They told me to stay here. ”
She stared at him blankly. “What?”
“I’m staying. In here, this room,” he clarified with a cockeyed nod. “They said all rooms are full because of the wedding.”
“Here?” she balked. “In my room?” Her gaze wandered to the lone bed. “There’s only one. No way—”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking. Relax.”
“Relax? You know what they could do to me, to us—”
“I do,” he conceded, “and I think that’s their hope—to corrupt you so the king will want to get rid of you, or maybe get rid of me. Which would probably make you happy.”
Leighton faltered, her expression flickering as if she wasn’t sure what to think or say. She rubbed her forehead and wandered to the bay-window seat. “Look, I may not want you here, but I am not coldhearted.” She picked up a throw pillow. “I don’t want you dead.”
“Glad you clarified that.”
She grimaced, then huffed. “But you can’t sleep in here.”
“Don’t plan to.” Truth be told, he’d already decided to crash in the hall, directly in front of her door.
Much as Uriah the Hittite had done after being pulled from battle when King David wanted to hide his sin with Bathsheba.
Because Owen had a gut instinct that said staying in the room through the night would have dire consequences and play into whatever bizarre intentions the royals had for her. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”
The nod she gave was slight, wary. For a long, uncertain moment, she studied him before turning and looking out the window. As if she wanted to say something, but with the belief of listening devices or hidden cameras, they had to tread carefully.
He wouldn’t lie—this was a surprise, her rejecting him and his efforts. Hadn’t expected that. Wasn’t really sure he understood wanting to stay here.
No…
Her reaction wasn’t about want. People holding a line like that didn’t do it out of the same conviction as someone choosing a Mustang over a Camaro.
This was deeper. Leighton truly believed that staying here kept her biological mother safe.
Worse was the thing he guessed she had considered on a surface level—that she herself would die.
He wouldn’t put it past this royal family to do something so evil.
Her resolution was admirable yet faulty. But how did he get her to see that?
Be her friend.
He sniffed, shaking his head. To her, he was only an irritant. A complication.
So convince her otherwise.
Stretching his neck, he leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees. “Can…you tell me what you know about the royals?”
In the cushioned window seat, legs crisscrossed, she hugged the pillow like a shield. “Besides the fact the king and crown prince are capable of this,” she said, indicating her bruised face, “I don’t know much.”
“The princess took you to Paris.”
“That…was a shock.” She brushed her dark hair from her shoulder. “I have no idea why, but for some reason Princess Daria has picked me…to dote on.” She motioned around the room. “I’m here because of her.”
“Guessing the safari was her doing too.”
“Yeah—wait, you mentioned that.” She frowned. “I’d been told it was off.”
Owen flicked his hands up in a question. “Got me. Prince Rayan said we’d be going, that I was to remain with you at all times, even on safari.”
Leighton rose and paced in front of the window. “This doesn’t make sense. Even Paris—I don’t know why she wanted me there. I was nothing but an unglorified bag carrier and coffee courier. Why would she want me on the safari?”
“Is it possible she’s just nice? Maybe she feels sorry for the poor American princess?”
“Never call me that. I am not a princess.” Her expression warned it wasn’t something she’d compromise on. Why? By birthright, she was a princess of the Central Kingdom.
For his own sake, he should keep that reminder at the front of his brain. “Noted.” He shifted to the edge of the chair. “So…is she nice?”
“That’s a relative term,” she said, her pacing amping his own nerves as she chewed her thumbnail. “I mean, she has been nice, but there’s this…darkness behind her words and eyes. Now Aliyah, on the other hand, is nice.”
“Who’s that?”
“Another princess,” she said with a wry grin. “I double-dog dare you to memorize all the names of the Saudi princes.”
He lifted his eyebrows at the challenge. “Double-dog…” Did she really think he hadn’t done his research? “You expect me to memorize fifteen hundred names?”
She laughed and slumped onto the window cushion. “It was worth a try.” Leaning back against the wall that framed the little alcove, she sighed and twisted up her face. “I will never believe anyone here is truly interested in friendship or welcoming me to the family.”
He was relieved to hear that. “What do you think they hope to gain by holding you?”
“Faruq wants my mother.”
That was what Yasmina had said as well, but… “Why?”
Ire unlocked, she looked ready to level up. “Are you kidding me?”
“Hey.” He flashed his palms at her. “Just trying to get a lay of the land. Understand what’s happening, so I can better anticipate threats to you.” When she didn’t immediately rail or argue, he let himself continue. “I’m here to protect you, Nouri.”
She huffed. “No, Apollo, you’re a prisoner just like me now.”
Man, he hated that she called him that—she said it in a tone that put him on one side of the line and her on the other. But he couldn’t argue the prisoner thing. “Fair, but I don’t have to let that rule me.”
A frown flickered across her olive skin. “What does that mean? Are you saying I am?”
He gave a weary smile. “It means that we might not—yet—be able to control our situation, but we can control ourselves. For me”—he put a palm to his chest—“maintaining calm not only helps me remain focused but also keeps my mind in check, allowing said mind to work through hot spots with intelligence, with intent, so I can respond appropriately.”
Sunlight streaked through the window and glanced off her caramel irises. “Are you always this…”
“Strategic?”
“I was going to say arrogant.”
“This is not arrogance but mission readiness. Drilled into me after five years in the Army.”
“If you’re trying to lecture me about how I’m handling this—”
“Whoa.” Man, he couldn’t win for losing. “Power down, Supergirl. We’re on the same team.”
“No, we’re not. Because there is no team. I was doing just fine before you got here.”
“Yeah, that bruise looks real fine.” Not helping, Apollo. “You don’t have to be the sacrificial lamb. She’s safe, fine. The team—”
“Enough!” She glowered, reminding him they were likely being listened in on. “I won’t let you ruin anything. As far as I’m concerned, you can leave.”
“Actually, I can’t…”
With a roll of her eyes, she stomped into the bathroom and closed the door.
Again? Owen dragged his hands over his face with a groan and slumped back against the seat. God, You gotta help me out. This…is beyond me.
How was he supposed to help her, save her, if she wouldn’t let him?
And if he didn’t—bam. Another “close but no cigar” tick on the scoreboard of his life. Would this be three strikes, you’re out?
When he heard the shower turn on, he realized he did not have any supplies to shower and shave. At 2200, it was unlikely he could disturb Rayan to get some. How was he supposed to take care of things?
Surely this wing had a standalone bathroom. Maybe it’d have soap he could use. Only one way to find out…
First, he snagged a pillow from the window seat, then stepped out into the hall.
And because he was not going to risk losing his objective on his first official night on the job, he used the key to lock the door.
Although, it’d serve these royals right if she escaped.
The reality was that she’d likely get caught and either beaten or killed.
He set the pillow next to the door of the inset space for her apartment, then glanced up and down the concourse looking for someone to ask about a bathroom and toiletries. At the rail that ran around the open-to-below atrium, he searched for help. Nobody. Man. How—
“What are you doing?” hissed a woman.
Owen glanced behind him and found a woman in a black abaya standing there with a stern expression. “Hi, I’m the guard for Nouri. But I don’t have a shave kit. I need to take care of business.”
Wow, that got embarrassing fast.
With a huff, she waved him to follow her…right back toward Nouri’s door. She reached for a panel and swiped a key, and a hidden panel popped. She flicked it open and indicated him toward it. “Use.”
Surprise had him peeking inside—a private bath.
Wow. “Thank you,” he said, glancing at her.
“And toiletries?” But she was already gone.
With a shrug, he slipped into the bathroom, eyed another door, wondering if this was a jack-and-jill, and anchored the bolt lock.
Beneath the counter, he found extra toiletries and quickly brushed his teeth and cleaned up.
Before leaving, he grabbed a washcloth, stepped out, and pulled the panel almost completely shut before stuffing it along the lock to prevent it from catching.
This way he could come back later to shower.
Satisfied, he returned to her apartment alcove and retrieved the pillow. He dropped it on the floor, swallowed his pride, and lay on his back, arms folded over his chest. Why hadn’t he thought to grab a blanket?