CHAPTER FOUR

      “HOW DID YOU NOT REALIZE the child had survived?”

      Sayid swallowed, looking out at the sea of people who sat, awaiting an explanation on how it was that an heir who had been lost to them, was now found.

      Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, dripped down his back. The irony of it was not lost on him. He had looked into the cold eyes of death and had felt nothing, had stared down men with guns, dodged land mines on the battlefield, and he had felt nothing. No fear. No hesitation. But here looking down at the reporters, he felt cracks forming, felt something in him starting to break.

      He was not a public speaker. He was not a man of words at all.

      “There was much confusion following the death of my brother and his wife. The accident was… there were many people involved and it was not immediately made known to us that the sheikha had survived long enough to give birth.”

      “And is this the nanny?”

      “Yes,” Sayid said, focusing on a spot on the back wall, not letting his focus stray to Chloe, or the tiny bundle she clutched in her arms. “Chloe was simply doing as instructed. Protecting the heir of Attar.”

      “A true heroine,” said a female reporter in the back.

      Sayid nodded, trying to come up with something to say, something that wasn’t on the carefully planned script he’d gone over in his head, but his brain was moving slowly, words hard to grasp on to. “Chloe took a potential risk to her own safety to protect the child. She is indeed a heroine.”

      “And when will the heir be free to step into the position of ruler?” This from another reporter at the back.

      Sayid gritted his teeth, fighting against the hostility burning in his veins. He craved the desert right then, the freedom of it. Craved the heat of the sun, the cleansing quality of it. It had the power to strip a man, burn away everything but that which was necessary.

      Right now he felt as if he couldn’t breathe, the walls closing down over him. “He must reach the age of majority before he can rule.”

      “Then is it to be understood that matters of national diplomacy will be handled by you until then, Sheikh?” asked one reporter, well-known for his rather antigovernment stance.

      “There is no one else,” Sayid said, the answer falling flat. “If there are no more questions, we are done here.” He turned and stepped down from the podium, going to Chloe’s side and placing his hand on her elbow, guiding her from the press room and into the corridor.

      “The security guards will ensure the press stay put for the next fifteen minutes. I don’t want them watching which wing of the palace we go to.” That angle of the conference was straight in his mind, and he relished the return of control, of certainty.

      Chloe looked at him, wide blue eyes strangely calm. Strange, because he felt like there was a live monster roaming around inside of his body and she had just passed through the same situation, yet looked unaffected. “You know a lot about security.”

      “That’s as intelligent an observation as if I had said you know a lot about molecules. It is my duty. Who I am.”

      “I was giving you a compliment,” she said, her tone stiff, “it won’t happen again.”

      “It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

      “You’re a frustrating man.”

      “And you aren’t the ideal woman, but here we are.”

      “You are…” Her cheeks turned pink, anger glittering in her eyes now. And it gratified him. Made him feel a sense of satisfaction that she wasn’t quite so calm. “You are such an ass.”

      “You say that like you think I might care. Like I might be able to change it. I don’t think you understand, Chloe, this is all there is to me.”

      She blinked slowly. She was upset now, he could tell. And he found he liked it even less than her calm. “I have to go and study.”

      “And I’m certain that Malik can find more papers for me to sign. He finds my discomfort amusing, I think.”

      “Will I see you again today?”

      He shook his head. “I should not think so. You won’t require my presence, will you?”

      “I shouldn’t think so,” she said, echoing his words.

      “Good,” he said, clipped. “Then I will go about my business, and you may go about yours.”

      Sayid turned away from Chloe, away from those unguarded eyes, and headed back toward his office. A tomb for the living, in his opinion. Each step sent a spike through his body, caused a subtle breaking inside.

      He had told Chloe that the palace was preferable to prison. Today, he wondered.

      “So soon? But you just promised me a reprieve.”

      Sayid looked at Chloe, perched at her desk, her red hair pulled back into a haphazard knot, black glasses framing, hiding, her eyes. “A reprieve from what?”

      “Your presence. I’m doing course work.” She looked away from him and back at the computer, but not before he noticed a dull flush of red staining her cheeks. It took a full second for his mind to process what that might mean, but his body had already reacted to it, blood rushing through his veins, hot, fast.

      He shouldn’t feel anything for her. Least of all for her blush. She was prickly. At best. If he tried to make a move on her she would likely freeze his cock off with a calculated stare.

      It was the strangest thing, because she could be witty, evidence of a sly sense of humor and a brilliant mind. And she was a soft touch with Aden. But if he stepped over the invisible boundaries she’d set around herself and the little prince, she went on full-scale attack.

      The memory of catching her arm as she tried to strike him, of pulling her soft body up against his, flashed through him.

      No. He should not feel anything for her. He shouldn’t feel anything full stop. But his defenses were down after the damned press conference. Cracks in his armor he had yet to repair. Control, impenetrable shields, were essential tools in his arsenal, and they did not work during press conferences. Did not work when addressing his people. Headlines about him were not kind. He lacked charisma, caring.

      But he was at a loss as to how he was supposed to step into this new role while still clinging to the things his uncle had instilled in him, with rod and fist. Things that were, he knew, a matter of life and death.

      He battled to get control over his body.

      “Sorry,” he said, matching the annoyance in her tone, portraying that he was most definitely not sorry. “There is a celebration happening in the streets in Aden’s honor. In your honor.”

      She