Special Deliveries: Heir To His Legacy: Heir to a Desert Legacy. Elizabeth Lane

aide kept on avoiding his eyes. “You know that the people are… they are restless.”

      “They do not like me,” Sayid said. “That is the crux of the issue.”

      “You are not… personable.”

      Sayid laughed, the sound void of humor, his body void of humor. “Am I not?”

      “It has been said, Sheikh.”

      “Not by you, certainly,” he said, eyeing the man who had served Rashid so faithfully.

      He did meet his eyes this time. “Certainly not.”

      “It is of no consequence. I am not the permanent ruler of this country. Soon enough, my nephew shall take over and I will go back to my more palatable position outside of the public eye.”

      “In sixteen years. That is a reality you cannot ignore.”

      It was the truth. It wasn’t like submitting to physical torture. As a ruler he had to lay open pieces of himself, show personality. Be nice. At least when his hands were bound, when he was being whipped, burned, he could shut down the pain, allow it to rest on his skin like armor, recede inside of himself and simply endure. Survive.

      But that was not what was required of a ruler. And he knew nothing else.

      “Are you questioning my competence?” he asked.

      “Not in the least, Sheikh.”

      “Be sure you do not. You are dismissed.”

      Malik nodded and turned away from him, walking out the door. Panic, momentary but intense, shivered over Sayid’s skin. He would have to face a people who distrusted him tomorrow, would have to find words to speak to them. Words of comfort. Diplomacy.

      It simply wasn’t what Sayid had been trained for. And trained was precisely the word that should be used. From the time he’d gone into Kalid’s care, he’d been conditioned to see life in a certain way.

      And at sixteen, it had been cemented. He had been broken, remade. A man who could, physically, endure all.

      But he was no diplomat, no compassionate ruler.

      All of the civility, the grace and manners, had been bred into Rashid. Sayid had gotten none of it. Sayid was a weapon, a living, breathing weapon. It was all he knew. It was all he’d ever done.

      Control was necessary. A drop in control could lead to unspeakable horror. A girl forced into marriage, her child torn from her body against her will. Soldiers captured and killed. Tortured.

      His weakness had caused those unspeakable horrors. Cracks in his armor leading others to ruin.

      Leading, ruling, would require him to deal with people. Not simply enemies and soldiers. It would require the kind of openness, caring that would create a breach he couldn’t afford. One he could already feel deep within his soul. A soul he had not been aware of until recently.

      “I don’t appreciate you… scheduling my evening without talking to me.”

      Later than expected, Chloe walked in, her curves encased in a simple black dress. There was nothing particularly sexy about the dress. Nothing modern or interesting in the cut. But the way it flowed over her curves, molded to her breasts, made it spectacular.

      She looked very much like a woman who had only just given birth, her figure plumped, exaggerated, and yet he found he liked the look.

      “I would apologize, but I’m not at all sorry. Have a seat.” Breathing felt easier than it had a moment ago. He could only attribute it to Malik’s exit.

      She walked in slowly, blue eyes narrowed, glittering. “If you wanted to have dinner with me, all you had to do was tell me earlier.”

      “I don’t want to have dinner with you, I need to discuss something with you,” he said. “I thought it might be convenient to do it over dinner.”

      She blinked. “Oh. Well.” She sat in a chair farther down the table and across from his.

      “Come closer.”

      She scooted one chair over.

      “Across from me,” he said.

      She rolled her eyes and stood, making her way down the table and taking the seat opposite him. “What exactly do we need to discuss?”

      “We need to make sure there is paperwork that backs up our story. I would like to put you on payroll.”

      “I don’t want money from you.”

      “Because you already got money?” He didn’t bother to soften the words.

      “I… that’s…”

      “Don’t pretend you don’t need it, you do. You admitted it was part of the reason you agreed to carry Aden in the first place.”

      “Yes. But I wanted to come here to care for him. I need to. I’m not going to accept money for…”

      “While you are here, you can obviously have no other form of employment. In my mind that means you should be paid for your services.”

      She recoiled slightly, blue eyes wide. He didn’t understand the woman. She had never once claimed she felt like she was Aden’s mother, and it stood to reason, as she was not. Yet she seemed unable to part with him, and now unable to accept compensation for caring for him.

      “I am going to set up an account in your name and I will deposit money into it as I see fit, no matter whether you agree to this or not.” He needed her to take the money. Needed to put her in a neat, easily understood position, not simply for appearances, but for himself.

      “Are you always like this?”

      “Always. It is one of my more effective personality traits.”

      “It’s one of your more impossible personality traits. Actually, I’ve only glimpsed this one personality trait in you. Do you have any more?”

      “Not that I’m aware of. I get the job done, Chloe, that’s who I am. I make sure everything works. That my people, my family, are safe and provided for. It’s why you are here, for Aden’s well-being.”

      “Fine. Set up an account.”

      “You aren’t planning on taking anything out of it, are you?”

      “I despise men like you,” she said, her voice a low hiss. “You think you can just… control me. Take absolute…. You just think that you can buy someone. That you can own a woman simply because you have power and status and bigger muscles. It’s not impressive. I see you exactly for what you are.” She stood up, her frame trembling. He had no idea what had set her off, but he had a feeling it went deeper than a simple dinner invitation and a demand she take his money.

      “A man making an attempt at protecting his family legacy?”

      “A man who needs to… demonstrate his testosterone by posturing like an… animal,” she spat.

      Anger spiked through him, unreasonable, completely unusual. He should simply let her words slide off. But for some reason, they stuck into him like barbs, tore at his pride. Perhaps it was because he knew how wrong she was. That to be an animal, he would have to act with gut emotion. Intuition borne of feeling. And he possessed neither. The realization made him frighteningly, acutely aware of the void in him. The pit that seemed as though it could never be filled.

      He felt poised on the brink of it. As if the tendrils of darkness reaching up for him might wrap themselves around him. Might drag him down into the abyss.

      He stood, pushing his chair backward. “An animal? Is that what you think I am?”

      “You’ve dragged me back to your lair.”

      “I brought you here,” he growled, circling the long table slowly, his fingertips brushing the top of each chair he passed, “at your request.”