Bound to the Warrior King Read online

  He walked to his nightstand and took his sheathed sword from the surface. Something wasn’t right about any of this, but he couldn’t sort through what it might be. There was nothing in his mind but a tangle of demons, and he couldn’t see around them to figure out what his next action should be. So he defaulted to what he knew.

  Violence. And the intent to draw blood before any could be shed by him.

  He pulled the sword from the scabbard and held the blade high, walking toward the door, toward the threat.

  * * *

  A thunderous sound woke Olivia from her sleep. She sat upright, her hand pressed to her chest, her heart beating fast. Instinctively, because she was confused, disoriented, she looked to her left, checking to see if Marcus had heard the sound, too.

  But of course he hadn’t. Because he wasn’t there.

  He was dead. She knew that. Was unbearably conscious of it almost all the time. Forgetting now, in a palace in a faraway land, in the bedroom next to the man she was considering marrying in place of Marcus... It seemed cruel.

  She heard the sound of metal scraping against stone and clutched the blanket more tightly. For the first time she questioned her safety. She had made a lot of assumptions about Tahar, about Tarek, based on the fact he was a royal. Based on the fact that this was a palace. Based on her position. She questioned all of it now. Now, when it was too late.

  She got out of bed, grabbing hold of her robe, sliding the diaphanous fabric over her flimsy nightgown. She pushed her hair back from her face and walked quietly toward the door, the marble cold beneath her feet. That unbearable curiosity of hers was warring with her sense of self-preservation.

  You are being overdramatic. You are in a palace. You’re a visiting political ally. Nothing is going to happen to you.

  She was just firmly in that place of paranoid thinking she’d been knocked into after Marcus’s sudden death. Where everything was potentially fatal, and most certainly out to get her. She blew out a determined breath and took another step to the door, cracking it cautiously, peering out at the corridor.

  Her breath froze completely in her lungs when she caught sight of the figure prowling in the darkness. A man, large, imposing. Naked. In his hand was a sword, a deadly, curved blade glinting in the moonlight that filtered through the high-set windows that lined the long hall.

  She should be terrified. And she was, rivulets of fear sliding through her, freezing, increasing the icy terror that wound itself around her lungs. She was also fascinated.

  He turned, long hair sweeping to the side with the movement, and she caught sight of his face. Tarek.

  He didn’t look like anything that should be here in this time. He was like a relic of a bygone era. A Viking warrior or fierce desert marauder. His chest was broad, thick, the muscles of his arms massive. They would have to be to wield the sword the size of the one in his hand. He was a statue made flesh, the perfect specimen of a man lovingly crafted by an artist’s hands. Brought to deadly, feral life.

  He turned away again, prowling down the same length of hall he had done the first time before coming back, moving toward her room. She froze, stopping her breath. She would have stopped her heart for a moment if she had the power. But just like before, he ended his march at the edge of the door to his chamber. A sentry, on guard, weapon in hand.

  He didn’t know where he was, that much she was certain of. Though she couldn’t be entirely sure why she was certain. Perhaps simply because she was reasonably sure he wouldn’t normally stand watch without anything to cover his body.

  A shaft of light fell across his bare back, highlighting the ridges of muscle along his spine and down lower. Now she couldn’t breathe even if she wanted to.

  Her heart thundered a hard and even beat, the blood in her veins running hotter. Faster.

  She had no explanation for it.

  Except that it had been two years since she’d touched a man. But surely she wasn’t that basic.

  So basic that she found herself captivated by a naked man holding a sword, a stranger, when she should be afraid and possibly calling for help.

  But her mouth didn’t work anymore, her throat too dry for words to escape.

  When he turned again, the light fell across his face. In that moment, it wasn’t his beauty she was captured by, but his torture. His pain. It was there, evident in the lines etched into his skin, in the deep hollowness of his eyes.

  She could feel his pain. As though it had invaded her own chest, wrapping itself around her heart and squeezing tight.

  That was when she closed the door. There was an ornate key jammed into the lock and she turned it, securing herself in the chamber. She wasn’t sure she was locking him out, or locking herself in. She wasn’t sure of much at the moment.

  She grabbed the edges of the robe and held it more tightly around herself, climbing back into bed and covering her head. All she could hear now was the beating of her own heart, her own ragged breathing.

  She had a feeling it would be a very long wait for sunrise.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TAREK FELT AS though he hadn’t slept. Odd, considering he now lived in a palace, when before he had lived in the hollowed-out shells of houses not inhabited by anyone other than him for the past two hundred years. One would think he would find better rest protected by guards, in a temperature-controlled environment. With a mattress. And yet, he found he didn’t.

  He’d been awake for only an hour, and already he had been accosted by several members of staff while walking through the halls. So many decisions that had to be made before he had seen to his morning routine.

  In the desert, he had started a fire early every morning, boiled water for coffee. Usually he ate bread or an instant hot-cereal packet he acquired from different traders that came and did business with him every few months.

  He spent the morning getting into the rhythm of the day. Tasting the weather on his tongue, getting a sense for what the earth had in store for him. He worked hard, and when his brother had need of him, he did dangerous, bloody business. But he would also go many days in a row without ever speaking to another person. Without doing much beyond physical training and tending to his encampment.

  When trouble was brewing, he would attach himself to the Bedouin camps, rallying with the men to see what could be done to protect their borders. Otherwise, he led a solitary existence.

  The palace was never solitary. There were people moving about constantly. And it all seemed to revolve around him.

  He didn’t like it. Not at all. He was the man who waited. Who said, “Here I am, send me.” He was the weapon. He was not the one who wielded it.

  He was now in pursuit of coffee. The breakfasts they served here in the palace were too ornate for his liking. Cheese and fruit, cereals, meats. His brother had always lingered over meals. And Tarek had begun to believe that any indulgence his brother had was one that might cause corruption. Was one he ought to abstain from.

  Food, in his estimation, was yet another tool designed to complete a specific task. It was simply fuel.

  Coffee was a slightly more necessary fuel. A part of his routine he could not forgo.

  He walked into the dining room and saw Olivia sitting at the head of the table, a bit of the type of food he had just been thinking of spread out over her plate. She looked up, smiling. She had a pleasing smile. Pink lips, even, white teeth. He liked the look of it.

  He quite liked the look of her.

  Much like lingering over food, he had never much lingered over women.

  “Good morning,” she said. A dull blush rose in her cheeks. That, he felt, was also pleasing.

  “Good morning.” He felt obliged to return the greeting, though he didn’t agree with her assessment.

  “How did you sleep?” she asked.

  “I would imagi
ne not well. I’m still tired.”

  She nodded slowly. “Oh. You don’t have any insight about why?”

  A strange flash of memory broke over him. Terror. Pain. Restlessness.

  He shoved it aside. These memories, memories long suppressed, had taken on new life when he’d returned. An even more violent life when he’d discovered his brother’s private journals.

  Admission that Malik had ordered the death of their parents. A secret Tarek could never share with the country, for they had suffered so much already at the hands of Malik. His spending had left people poor, bereft, taxed beyond reason with the infrastructure of the city left to decay.

  He could not do further damage.

  In addition to the admission of his parents’ murder had been chronicles of how he’d tortured Tarek. To break him. To ensure that it was never discovered that Malik had ended the lives of the former sheikh and sheikha. To transform him into a malleable weapon to be used at Malik’s discretion.

  If his brother was not already dead—of an overdose, naturally—Tarek would have, in fact, killed him upon discovery of those writings.

  Because Malik had never broken him. He had hardened him.

  His brother had transformed him; there was no doubt. But every drop of blood Malik had spilled from Tarek’s veins had soaked into the earth here. Had bound him, not to his brother, but to his nation. To his people.

  He would not stray from that now.

  “I do not like this place,” he said.

  A servant bustled into the room. “Is there anything I can get you, Sheikh Tarek?”

  “Coffee. And bread.”

  The woman looked at him as though she feared for his sanity, but said nothing as she nodded and then left again. Only he and Olivia remained. He didn’t sit; rather, he began to pace the length of the room. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. “You know I didn’t sleep,” he said, turning to face her. “Tell me.”

  Her blue eyes widened, pale brows arching upward. “How do you know that?”

  The edges of his mouth curved upward. He might have no experience of women, but he could read this one. “You become very still, very smooth when you are holding back an avalanche. There is much beneath the surface, I think. A very diplomatic woman, but occasionally you slip. You have a very sharp tongue. When you’re holding it in check this well I assume it’s because there is much to withhold.”

  The color in her face deepened, and a sense of pleasure curled itself around his stomach. Unfamiliar.

  Satisfaction, he supposed.

  And why not? So often he felt out of his element in this place. It was immensely rewarding to have the sense that he had claimed a victory.

  To go from being the master of his domain, a man who conquered the desert, who thrived in it, to a man who could scarcely sleep. A man who was caged... It was jarring indeed. There was nothing he despised more than a sense of helplessness. And that sense of helplessness had pervaded his being from the moment he had stepped back within the palace walls. That considered, he celebrated this small victory slightly more than was necessary.

  “You sleepwalk,” she said, her words straightforward. Succinct. “Naked. With weapons.”

  Something about that word on her lips sent a burst of heat through his veins. He wasn’t sure why. And yet again he was back in unfamiliar territory. Not just because of what she’d said, and how it made him feel, but because he was...doing things he didn’t remember.

  Out of his own control.

  That settled far beyond disturbing.

  “I was not aware,” he said, keeping his tone flat.

  “It would account for why you don’t feel rested in the morning,” she said. “Why don’t you sit?”

  “I’m not in the frame of mind to sit. I have business to attend to.”

  “It won’t hurt you to eat breakfast,” she said, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth.

  “What is so funny?”

  “We already sound like a married couple.” She put her hands flat on the tabletop, looking down at them. “My husband never took time for breakfast. He would eat something terribly unhealthy while he drank a coffee on his way into the office.”

  She looked sad, and he did not know what to do with that. “He sounds as though he was suited to this kind of life.”

  “He loved his country. Though he was often in a hurry in the morning because he had stayed up too late at a party the night before. And he was rushing to catch up from the moment his feet hit the ground to the moment he lay back down. He was very young, with a lot of weight on his shoulders.”

  “I am not so young, yet I find it quite the weight.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty. I believe.”

  Little lines of concern wrinkled her brow. “You aren’t sure?”

  “I lose track. It isn’t as though anyone has ever baked me a birthday cake.”

  She frowned, the expression creating deep grooves by her mouth. She seemed, in his estimation, unduly distressed by his lack of baked goods. “No one?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, battling against a memory that was pushing against his brain. “But I would have been much younger.”

  It would have been when his parents were alive. And he never could remember back that far. Sometimes...sometimes he saw his father’s face... So serious. So earnest. And he was speaking. But the words were muddled. He could never hear them properly.

  He never tried.

  Mostly because accessing those memories required him to wade through the ones that immediately preceded them. The years spent in the palace before he had been sent to the desert.

  The years that had turned him to stone.

  “I always had a birthday cake. Though I didn’t always have anyone there to share it with me. When I was older I would go on trips with friends. Cruises and things. I made sure I didn’t lack for company when I got older.”

  “Why didn’t you always have people to share with when you were young?” He found he was interested.

  “My parents were busy,” she said, looking away. “I’m twenty-six. If you were curious.”

  “I wasn’t.” It was the truth. He was curious about her, but age meant little to him.

  “I suppose since you aren’t exceptionally curious about your own age, I can’t be surprised.”

  “Is age something people care about?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “How long have you been out in the desert?”

  “Since I was fifteen, I would say. Not solely in the desert. Primarily. I returned to the palace periodically to speak to my brother. But I rarely stayed overnight.” He did not like this place. He had not liked to be in close quarters with Malik.

  He had the dark thought that he liked the entire world much better now he didn’t have to share it with his brother’s soul.

  “I’m amazed you can carry on a conversation as well as you do.”

  “I spent a lot of time with various Bedouin tribes. Off and on. Mostly I’ve lived alone. I don’t dislike it.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Did you dream when you were alone?”

  Tarek frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you dream last night?”

  He tried to remember, but everything was fuzzy again. “It wasn’t a dream. Something else. Something woke me. Pain.” Memory. Not dreams. But he didn’t want to tell her that.

  Just then a servant appeared with a cup and an insulated pitcher, along with an assortment of rolls in a basket.

  Olivia arched a brow. “Have a seat.”

  It hit him then, one of the things that seemed so strange about her. “You are not afraid of me.” He took a seat where his food had been placed and set about pouring a cup of coffee.

  “Last night I
felt afraid,” she said. “But you had a sword.”

  A sharp, hot pain lanced his chest. “I did not hurt you or threaten you, did I?”

  “Would you feel bad if you had?”

  He turned her question over slowly. “I have always taken the protection of women and children seriously. I would not like to hurt you. Or cause you fear.”

  “You speak like a man,” she said, “but I wonder if you feel things like a man.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re very deliberate in your responses. Most people would know right away how something made them feel.”

  “I have not spent much time examining my internal workings.”

  She pinched her lips, her expression assessing. “You are very well-spoken. It won’t be the manner in which you speak that we will find problematic, only the things you say.”

  “You could always write my speeches for me.”

  “I assume someone at the palace already does.”

  “I released the majority of the staff that worked under my brother.”

  “What did he do that made him so bad?” she asked.

  Pain lanced his skull. “He just was.”

  “Why do you sleepwalk?”

  Frustration boiled over inside him, sudden, hot. “I don’t know,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was not even aware that I did. How on earth would I know the reason?”

  “I had to take sleeping pills for a good six months after... Sometimes sleeping is hard.” She swallowed, her pale throat expanding and contracting. That part of her was pleasing, as well.

  “I’m not going to take sleeping tablets. It would compromise my ability to act if the need arose.”

  “You’re surrounded by guards here.”

  “You forget, I was used in addition to palace guards, and an army.”

  “True. But now you’re the king. And I only have thirty more days.”

  “Twenty-nine,” he said.

  “No. Definitely thirty. I was only here for a few short hours yesterday, and we barely interacted.”