Carrying the Sheikh's Heir(9)

                Sheridan Sloane was a pretty woman, though not especially striking in any way. She was of average height and small boned, with golden-blond hair of indeterminate length since it was wrapped in a coil on her head. Her eyes, wide as she gazed at him, were a blue so dark they were almost violet. There were bruises under them, marring her pale skin.

                She was tired and overwhelmed and no match for him. She was the sort of woman who did what she was told, in spite of her small rebellion earlier. She was a pleaser, and he was not. He would order her to come with him, and she would do it.

                But, as he watched her, her body seemed to grow stiff. He could see the shutters closing, the walls rising. It was an unpleasant surprise to find she had a backbone after all. Still, he’d broken stronger people—men, usually—than her.

                She shifted until she was sitting fully upright, her feet swinging onto the floor now. She faced him across a small tea table, her eyes snapping with fresh sparks. He was intrigued in spite of himself.

                “You are the king? You could have said that right away, you know, and saved us a few steps.”

                He arched an eyebrow. “Yes, but what would you have done then? You nearly fainted when I informed you that you had been inseminated with a king’s sperm.”

                Her lips pursed. “I nearly fainted because it’s been a long, stressful day. Do you have any idea how my sister took the news, Mr.—oh, hell, I have no idea what to call you.”

                “Your Majesty will work.”

                Her face flooded with color. And there went that little chin again, thrusting into the air. Who was she trying to convince that she was a tigress? Him, or herself? Before he could ask, she imbued her voice with steel.

                “I realize we find ourselves in an untenable situation, but someone inserted your sperm into my body a few days ago. I think that warrants a first-name basis, don’t you? At least until this is resolved.”

                Rashid would have coughed if he’d been drinking anything. As it was, he could only glare at her. She shocked him. Oddly, she also amused him. It was this last that should alarm him, but in fact it was the first normal thing that had happened to him since he’d taken the throne two months ago.

                He shouldn’t allow any familiarity between them. But she might be carrying his child—his child!—and it seemed wrong to treat her as a complete stranger. He thought of Daria, of her soft brown eyes and swollen belly, and he wanted to stand up and flee this room. But of course he could not do so. He was a king now, and he had a responsibility to his nation. To his people.

                And to his child.

                Daria would want him to be kind to this woman. So he would try, though it went against his nature to be kind to anyone. He was not cruel; he was indifferent. He’d learned to be so over the hellish years of his childhood. If you did not care, people couldn’t hurt you.

                When you did... Well, he knew what happened when you cared. He had the scars on his soul to prove it. The only person he cared about these days was Kadir, and that was as much as he was capable of.

                He inclined his head briefly. “You may call me Rashid.” And then he added, “I suggest, however, you do not do it in front of my staff. They will not understand the informality.”

                She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her upper arms almost absently. “You can call me Sheridan, then. And I don’t see why you need worry about your staff. We won’t know for another week if there’s a baby. I can call you with the information, if you’d like. Then we can decide what to do if it’s necessary.”