Forged in the Desert Heat. Maisey Yates

continued on, moving up a narrow cobbled street, past the dense crowds, and through more neighborhoods, the houses starting to spread out then getting sparser. The cobbles turned to dirt, a path that followed the wall of the city, in an olive grove that seemed the stretch on for miles. Then she saw it, a glimmer on the hilltop, stretching across the entire ridge: the palace. Imposing. Massive. Beautiful.

      White stone walls and a sapphire roof made it a beacon that she was sure could be seen from most points in the city. Bihar might have thoroughly modern buildings that nearly touched the sky, but the palace seemed to be a part of it. Something ethereal or supernatural. Unreal.

      Zafar urged the horse into a canter and the palace rapidly drew closer. When they arrived at the gate, Zafar dismounted, tugging at the fabric that covered his face, revealing strong, handsome features. Unmistakable. No wonder he traveled the way that he did. There was no way he would go unrecognized if he didn’t keep his face covered. No way in the world.

      He reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out...a cell phone. Ana felt like she’d just been given whiplash. Everything about Zafar seemed part of another era. The man had ridden a freaking black stallion through the city streets, and now he was making a call on a cell phone.

      It was incongruous. Her brain rejected it wholly, but it couldn’t argue with what she was seeing. Her poor brain. It had tried rejecting this entire experience, but unfortunately, the past week was reality. This was reality.

      “I’m here. Open the gates.”

      And the gates did open.

      She was still on the horse, clinging to the saddle as Zafar led them into an opulent courtyard. Intricate stone mosaic spiraled in from the walls that partitioned the palace off from the rest of the world, a fountain in the middle, evidence of wealth. As were the green lawns and plants that went beyond the mosaic. Water for the purpose of creating beauty rather than simply survival was an example of extreme luxury in the desert. That much she knew from Tariq.

      As if the entire palace wasn’t example enough.

      She looked at Zafar. His posture was rod straight, black eyes filled with a ferocity that frightened her. There was a rage in him. Spilling from him. And then, suddenly, the walls were back up, and his eyes were blank again.

      They were met at the front by men who looked no more civilized than Zafar, a band of huge, marauder-type men. Desert pirates. That’s what they made her think of. All of them. Her escort included. One of the men, the largest, even had a curved sword at his waist. Honestly, she was shocked no one had an eye patch.

      Fear reverberated through her, an echo along her veins, a shadow of what she’d felt when she was taken from the camp and her friends, but powerful enough that it clung to every part of her. Wouldn’t let her go.

      She was in his domain. Truly, she had been from the moment she’d been hauled across the border from Shakar to Al Sabah, but here, with evidence of his power all around, it was impossible to deny. Impossible to ignore.

      His power, his strength was frightening. And magnetic. It drew her to him in a way she couldn’t fathom. Made her heart beat a little faster. Fear again, that was all. It could be nothing else.

      “Sheikh,” one of them said, inclining his head. He didn’t even spare her a glance.

      “Do you need help dismounting?” Zafar asked.

      “I think I’ve got it, thanks.” She climbed down off of the horse, stumbling a little bit. So much for preserving her pride. She looked over at Zafar’s sketchy crew and smiled.

      “We shall need a room prepared for my guest. I assume you saw to the hiring of new servants?”

      She nearly laughed. Guest? Was that what she was?

      The largest man nodded. “Everything has been taken care of as requested. And Ambassador Rycroft says he will not be put off any longer. He insists you call him as soon as you are in residence.”

      “Which, I suppose is now,” Zafar said, his voice hard, emotionless. “Take the horse.”

      “Yes, Sheikh.”

      If any of his men were perturbed by the change in status they didn’t show it. But then, she imagined that Zafar had always been the one in charge. That he had always been sheikh to those who followed him.

      Questioning him wasn’t something anyone would do lightly. He exuded power, strength. Danger. Everything that should have repelled her. But it didn’t. It scared her, no mistake, but it also fascinated her. And that scared her on a whole new level.

      “Your things?” the other man asked.

      “I have none. Neither has she. Remedy that. I want the woman to have a wardrobe of new clothing before the end of the day. Understood?”

      The man arched one brow. “Yes, Sheikh.”

      Oh, good grief. They were going to think she was the starter to his harem. Or at least they would think she was his mistress. But there was no way to correct it now. This was an unprecedented point in Al Sabah’s history. Zafar was taking over the throne, and the entire palace clearly had new staff. Zafar would be an completely different sort of leader to the one they’d had before, that much was true.

      And it would be such a relief, not just to the people here, but to Tariq’s people. She knew that things had been strained between Shakar and Al Sabah, that Tariq had feared war. He’d called her late one night and expressed those fears. She’d valued that. Valued that he cared enough to tell her what was on his mind, his heart.

      It was part of why she’d fallen in love with him. Part of why she’d said yes to his engagement offer. Yes, her father had instigated it. And yes, he was a driving force behind it, but she wouldn’t have said yes if she wasn’t genuinely fond of Tariq.

      Fond of him.

      That sounded weak sauce. She was more than fond of him. Love was the word. No, theirs wasn’t a red-hot relationship. But so much of that was to be expected. Tariq was old-fashioned and he’d courted her like an old-fashioned guy. It was respectful.

      Plus, he was so handsome. Smooth, dark skin, coal eyes fringed with thick lashes, strong black brows...

      She looked back at Zafar and the memory of Tariq and his good looks were knocked completely from her head.

      Faced with Zafar, the sharp angles of his face, black beard covering most of his brown skin, obsidian eyes that were more like a dark flame and his lips...she really was quite fascinated by his lips...well, it was hard to think of anything else.

      He wasn’t smooth. His skin was marked by the sun, by wind. There was nothing refined about him. He was like a man carved straight from the rock.

      She wasn’t sure handsome was the right word for it. It seemed insipid.

      “Shall we go in? It is my palace, though I have not been back here in fifteen years. I was born here. Raised here.”

      Which meant he’d come into the world like everyone else, rather than being carved from stone, so there went that theory.

      “Must be...nice to be back?” She watched his face, saw no expression change. If she hadn’t caught that moment of intense, dark emotion at the gates, she would think he felt nothing at all. “Strange? Sad?”

      “It is necessary that I’m back. That is all.”

      “I’m sure you feel something about being back.”

      “I feel nothing in general, Ms. Christensen,” he said, addressing her by her name, any part of it, for the first time. “I should hardly start now. I have a country to rule.”

      “But you’re...human,” she said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement. “So, I’m sure you feel something.”

      “Purpose. Every day since my exile there has been one thing that has enticed me to open my eyes each morning, and that has been the belief that my people