There was a huge lump in her throat now. Huge. It was like she’d swallowed all the pain she’d ever felt and was about to choke on it.
He picked up a pen on his desk and flipped it in his fingers as if he needed something to do. As if he was irritated. “You are carrying my child and we are going to marry. There’s nothing to say yes to.” He fixed her with a hard stare. “But if you could say no, would you? Knowing what’s at stake for everyone involved, would you say no and deny your child the opportunity to be my heir? Or your sister the chance to have her own child?”
Sheridan’s throat hurt. “I didn’t say that.”
He threw the pen down and sank into his chair again. “Then I fail to see the problem. You will be a princess consort, habibti. You will have a life of privilege. And you will be the mother of our child, which is what you’ve assured me you want. Or am I mistaken? Would you rather leave the child with me and return to America once he is born?”
Sheridan clenched her fists in her lap. Once more, it was a good thing there were no weapons handy. “This baby might be a girl, you know. And no, I don’t want to leave her with you.”
“Then we will marry immediately and be done with this matter.”
This matter. As if marriage and children were the equivalent of deciding where to go on vacation or which carpet to order for the new house.
“Thank you for settling that.” Sheridan got to her feet. She was shaking with rage and fear, and sick with the helplessness she felt. “I guess I’ll return to my rooms now and await your next command. How I got through life for twenty-six years without you to tell me what to do is quite the mystery. I’m pleased I don’t have to think for myself a moment longer.”
“Careful, Sheridan,” he growled.
A sensual shiver traveled down her spine at the sound. Oh, what was it about him growling at her that turned her on? She’d just told him off for being autocratic, so why did part of her thrill at the edge in his voice?
“Why? If I make a mistake, you’ll just tell me what to do to correct it.” She sank into the deepest curtsy she’d yet done and then turned and strode toward the door. He was there before her, his arm shooting out and wrapping around her before she could escape.
Her breath caught as he spun her around. “You dare to walk out on a king?”
“You aren’t my king,” she said hotly. But her body was melting where it touched his and that inconvenient fire was beginning to sizzle through her.
“Maybe I am,” he said, his voice heavy and angry at once. “Maybe I am utterly your king.”
Her reply was lost as he ripped the hijab from her hair. “You’re mine now, Sheridan,” he said hotly, backing her against the wall and pressing his body to hers. “And I keep what’s mine.”
And then he brought his mouth down on hers. Sheridan stiffened. She was determined to fight him, to keep her mouth closed to his invasion, to push him away.
But she did none of those things. Of course she didn’t. Rashid al-Hassan was an unstoppable sensual force and he had a power over her that she couldn’t deny. His tongue slid between her lips, demanding her response—and then they were kissing each other frantically, hotly, with all the pent-up passion of the past few days of deprivation. She’d never had such a physical connection to a man before. A connection that went against sense and reason and just was.