The Sheikh's Collection. Оливия Гейтс

      She stared at him for a moment, her wide, grey eyes dark with sadness, and then turning darker still with acceptance. Slowly she nodded.

      ‘Very well,’ she said, and without another word she turned and left the tent.

      Khalil stared at the empty space she’d left, his mind spinning, his heart aching, hating that already he felt so bereft.

      * * *

      It had been worth a shot, Elena told herself as she walked back to her tent, escorted by the same men who guarded her. They didn’t speak and neither did she, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to manage a word. Her throat ached and she was afraid that if she so much as opened her mouth she’d burst into tears.

      Back in her tent she sat on her bed, blinking hard to contain all the pain and hurt she felt. Then suddenly, almost angrily, she wondered why she bothered. Why not have a good cry? Let it all out? No one was here to hear her or think her weak or stupid or far too feminine.

      She lay down on her bed, drew her knees up to her chest and swallowed hard. Crying—letting herself cry—was so hard. She’d kept everything in for so long because she’d had to. Men like Markos were always looking for chinks in her armour, ways to weaken her authority. Shedding a single tear would have been just handing them ammunition. The only time she ever cried was when she had nightmares.

      In Khalil’s arms.

      She hadn’t consciously, deliberately accessed that hidden, vulnerable part of herself for years, and it was hard to reach it now, even when she wanted to. Sort of.

      She took a shuddering breath and clutched her knees harder, closed her eyes and felt the pressure build in her chest.

      Finally that first tear fell, trickling onto her cheek. She dashed it away instinctively, but another came, and another, and then she really was crying. Her shoulders shaking, the tears streamed as ragged sobs tore from her throat. She pressed her hot face into the pillow and let all the misery out.

      It was not just sadness about her wrecked wedding, or Khalil, but about so much more: the needless deaths of her parents and the fact that she hadn’t been able to grieve for them as she should have. Her broken relationship with Paulo, her shattered trust. The four lonely years she’d endured as Queen, working hard for the country she loved, suffering Markos’s and other councillors’ sneers and slights, trying desperately to hold onto the one thing her parents wanted her to keep.

      And yes, she realised as she sobbed, she was crying about Khalil. He’d helped her in so many ways, opened her up, allowed her to feel and trust again. She’d miss him more than she wanted to admit even to herself. More than he’d ever want to know.

      * * *

      Khalil turned back to the reports he’d been studying, reports detailing Kadar’s response to Aziz, polls that confirmed outside of Siyad he was not a popular choice as Sheikh. It was news that should have encouraged him, but he only felt restless and dissatisfied—and it was all because of Elena. Or, really, all because of him and his reaction to her and her proposal.

      He should have said yes. He should have been strong and cold and ruthless enough to agree to a marriage that would stabilise his country, strengthen his claim. Instead he’d let his emotions rule him. His fear had won out, and the realisation filled him with self-fury.

      ‘Your Highness?’

      Khalil waved Assad forward, glad to think about something else. ‘You have news, Assad?’

      Assad nodded, his face as stony and sombre as always. Khalil had met him eight years ago, when he’d joined the French Foreign Legion. They’d fought together, laughed together and saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion. And, when the time had been right for Khalil to return to Kadar, Assad had made it possible. He’d gathered support, guarded his back.

      None of this would have been possible without Assad, yet Khalil still didn’t trust him. But that was his fault, not his friend’s.

      ‘Is something the matter?’ he asked and Assad gave one terse nod.

      ‘Aziz has married.’

      Khalil stilled, everything inside him going cold. He’d always known this was a risk, yet he was still surprised. ‘Married? How? Who?’

      ‘We’re not sure. Intelligence suggests someone on his staff, a housekeeper or some such.’

      ‘He married his housekeeper?’ Poor Elena. No matter what she had or hadn’t felt for Aziz, it would still be a blow. And with a jolt Khalil realised he shouldn’t even be thinking about Elena; he should be thinking about his rule.

      Aziz had fulfilled the terms of his father’s will. He would be Sheikh.

      And Khalil wouldn’t.

      Abruptly he rose from his chair, stalked to the other side of the tent. Emotion poured through him in a scalding wave, emotion he would never have let himself feel a week ago. Before Elena.

      She’d accessed that hidden part of himself, a part buried so deep he hadn’t thought it existed. Clearly it did, because he felt it all now: anger and guilt. Regret and fear. Hurt.

      ‘All is not lost, Khalil,’ Assad said quietly, dropping the honorific for once. ‘Aziz is still not popular. Secretly marrying a servant will make him even less so.’

      ‘Does that even matter?’ Khalil bit out. ‘He’s fulfilled the terms of the will. He is Sheikh.’

      ‘But very few people want him to be.’

      ‘So you’re suggesting a civil war,’ Khalil stated flatly. ‘I didn’t think Aziz would go that far.’ And he wasn’t sure he would either, no matter what he’d thought before. Felt before.

      Risking so much for his own crown, endangering his people, was not an option he wanted to consider now.

      Things were changing. They’d already changed.

      He wasn’t the cold, ruthless man he’d once been, yet if he wasn’t Sheikh...

      What was he?

      ‘A civil war is not the only option,’ Assad said quietly. ‘You could approach Aziz, demand a referendum.’

      Khalil let out a mirthless laugh. ‘He has everything he wants. Why would he agree?’

      ‘There is something to be said for a fair fight, Your Highness,’ Assad answered. ‘Aziz might want to put the rumours and unrest behind him. If he wins the vote, his throne is secure.’

      And Khalil would have no chance at all. He would have to accept defeat finally, totally—another option he didn’t like to consider.

      ‘There are a lot of people in Siyad,’ he said with an attempt at wryness, and Assad smiled.

      ‘There are a lot of people in the desert.’

      ‘Aziz might not even agree to see me. We haven’t seen each other since we were children.’

      ‘You can try.’

      ‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly, accepting.

      ‘You still have the stronger position,’ Assad stated steadily. ‘You always have. The people are loyal to you, not to Aziz.’

      ‘I know that.’ He felt his throat go tight. Did he really deserve such loyalty? And did he dare trust it? He knew how quickly someone could turn on you. Only the day before his father had thrown him out of the palace, he’d sat in on one of Khalil’s lessons, had chucked him under the chin when Khalil had said his times tables.

      Stupid, childish memories, yet still they hurt. They burned.

      ‘So you will speak to Aziz?’

      Khalil ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes gritty with fatigue. A thousand thoughts whirled through his mind, and one found purchase: one way forward, one way to solidify his position and strengthen his claim