The Royal Collection. Rebecca Winters

had he anticipated just how much his body would be captivated with the promise of it.

      He had spent thirty years denying his impulses. His needs.

      The prospect of no longer denying certain impulses loomed large. The thought, the very idea, had worked its way under his skin like a bullet, traveling through his body, blooming outward slowly, looking for a place to land where it might destroy whatever it touched.

      Not the most delightful analogy. But then, he wasn’t surprised, considering he was rarely delightful.

      Olivia’s first husband had been delightful. All of Tarek’s research had brought him to that conclusion. He wondered how quickly she would tire of being with a man who wasn’t. Though he had not coerced her into this. Far from that. She had been the one to come to him. The one to present a case for why he needed her.

      Not for the first time he wondered what she was getting out of this. If she had thought to replace what she had lost, to recapture what it was to be royalty, she had most certainly come to the wrong place. Her life in Alansund had been filled with parties, glittering affairs, delightful excursions on the lake, picnics with her husband, the king.

      Tarek could honestly say he would not be engaging in any of that.

      Sex, however, would not be something he denied her. He was ready now. Preparation always brought a clearer head. Now that he had a plan, he would remain in command of his body, of his impulses when the time came. And in that way, he was determined to please her. Because it certainly seemed more desirable than throwing an increased number of parties.

      For a start, it only required there to be two of them in the room. For another thing, Olivia would be naked.

      He could not deny that added incentive.

      He ignored the tightening in his gut. He could not focus on that. He had to focus on getting through this day.

      He turned and faced the mirror, tightening the black tie he wore. When given the option, he had chosen a Western-style suit for the day, seeing as he was marrying a Western woman. He had thought hard about it. Because he cared deeply for his people and for their traditions.

      But in the end, it was Olivia he had dressed for.

      He had no idea of what she might wear. Part and parcel to his avoidance of her, both in the past couple of weeks, and completely today, as she had informed him coolly during their last brief encounter, that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride on the day of the wedding.

      He had not told her then that he didn’t believe in luck. Because she very clearly did, and he did not want to hurt her feelings again. He’d been very put out by the fact that he had. In addition to lacking sensibilities, Tarek also imagined that he lacked feelings. His soft, pretty fiancée most certainly possessed more than he did.

      Naturally, he did not know how to consider them, as nothing inside him reflected her internal workings. Which meant he would simply have to watch. And he would have to try. He could not trust his dealings with the woman to be intuitive.

      The door to his chamber opened slowly and his advisor appeared. “It is time, my sheikh.”

      For the first time in memory, Sheikh Tarek al-Khalij felt fear. For today, he would not face down an enemy, but a bride. His bride.

      However, much like an enemy attack, it was not something that could be waylaid.

      “I am ready.”

      * * *

      Olivia adjusted her heavy veil, trying to quiet the pounding of her heart she readied herself to walk down the aisle. To pledge herself to a man she still felt she barely knew.

      Strange that she was so conscious of that with Tarek. She had to confess, standing there now in her ornate gold-and-white gown, that she wasn’t entirely certain she and Marcus had known each other any better.

      What Tarek lacked was the ability to let those around him see just enough that they might be fooled into thinking they knew him. She and Marcus had shared certain things freely. Smiles, their bodies, small talk. Easy conversation. Neither of them ever asked difficult questions. Neither of them had ever asked questions at all.

      She shoved that thought aside. This was not the time to think about Marcus.

      Though, really, it was inevitable that she would. Think about the other man who had been her husband on the day she was ready to marry another. Maybe, if she was in love with Tarek, she wouldn’t.

      As it was, it was difficult not to draw comparison. To grasp at something to make the situation feel less foreign. To recall her other wedding day in an attempt to make this one feel less significant. It was a cheap trick that even she saw through, and yet, that wouldn’t stop her from trying it.

      She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, and her heart sank down low. This was so different in every way. There was no way she could use the fact that this was her second wedding to calm her nerves. If anything, highlighting the differences between the two only made this feel more terrifying.

      She recalled the bespoke gown she’d worn the first time. It had made headlines around the world. Had set a trend for weddings for the next year.

      This gown was weighted down with the tradition of the nation. Long sleeves, intricate embroidery, a thick belt just beneath her breasts, also gold. In so many ways the difference in gown symbolized the difference between the two unions. The other, light, showy, focused on the couple. This one heavy. Focused squarely on the need of Tahar.

       And of yourself. Let’s not start pretending you’re too altruistic.

      All right, she wouldn’t pretend she was being completely selfless. She quite wanted a place in life. A little bit of security. A purpose.

      And then there was...him.

      She was so attracted to him. But now that sleeping with him wasn’t a spontaneous thing, she found she was quite nervous about it. Now it was the finish line to a marathon of the day, and that put it in a slightly different light than the natural progression of a kiss, or a touch.

      Also in keeping with the theme. Everything concerning Tarek was weighty.

      “Sheikha?”

      Olivia turned, surprised that Melia was already addressing her as such. The servant inclined her head, betraying no nerves in spite of the import of the event.

      “They are ready for you.”

      Olivia nodded, wishing she had opted to carry a bouquet. Something, anything to do with her hands.

      Alas, she had nothing. So she gripped the front of her skirt, lifting it slightly as she walked through the halls toward the small sanctuary that was in a different wing of the palace.

      Her throat suddenly grew tight, a pulse beating in her head. She had to close her eyes against it.

      She had no connections in there. Her parents...well, they weren’t coming. Not a huge surprise, but the phone call last night had still left her nearly hollow with pain.

      Emily wasn’t well. Emily couldn’t stand the heat and the dust. It was hardly fair to leave her...

      And Olivia had said she understood, of course, because it was all she had said for years.

      Only once had she fought back.

      Her fifteenth birthday. She’d told them she would make the cake; she would make dinner. They just had to be there.

      But they hadn’t been. Because Emily had been hospitalized and they’d visited her instead. And she’d been so angry. They’d stayed with Emily all evening. She’d been broken over it. Something in her shattering that had never quite been repaired after.

      When she breathed in too deeply, she swore she could still feel it. Lodged like a barb deep in her chest.

       How dare you miss this? I asked for this. Just this!

       It