Gambling With the Crown(8)

                As if being the preferred one had made life as one of King Zaid’s sons any easier. Their father did not possess a warm bone in his body.

                “I am not the best man to be king. You are.” He could say that without regret or shame. His particular gift was in building structures, in turning steel and glass into something beautiful and functional. He loved the challenge of it, of figuring out the math and science to support what he wanted to do.

                He enjoyed his life, enjoyed being always on the move, always in demand. If he were the king of Kyr, he would not be able to do this any longer.

                Oh, he could build skyscrapers in Kyr—but Kyr was not the world. And a king had many other things to tend to. He loved his country. But he felt its responsibility like a yoke, not a gift.

                Rashid, however, wanted to rule. Had wanted to do so since they were boys. He’d always thought he would be the one to inherit the throne by virtue of his position as eldest—everyone had—until their father announced one day that he had not yet chosen a successor. And would not until the time came.

                If King Zaid had died without choosing, the governing council would have made the choice. There had been no danger of Kyr being leaderless.

                But it had always been a carrot to dangle over Rashid’s head, to make him jump to the tune King Zaid wanted.

                Rashid had not jumped. He’d walked out. To Kadir’s knowledge, his father and Rashid had not spoken in at least ten years. Kadir maintained a distantly cordial relationship with his father, but it was not always easy to do.

                “Be the better man, Rashid. Go and see a dying old man one last time. Give him what he wants and Kyr will be yours.”

                Rashid didn’t speak for a long moment. “I will go, Kadir. But for you. Not for him. And when it turns out as I said, when you are crowned king of Kyr, do not blame me for your fate. It is not I who will have caused it.”

                * * *

                Emily nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a knock on her door. She’d fallen asleep on the couch of her small suite. A sheaf of papers fell to the floor as she bolted to a sitting position, her heart hammering with adrenaline.

                She grabbed her phone where it lay on the coffee table. It was a few minutes after midnight. The knock sounded again and she scrambled upright, looked askance at the papers—there was no time to straighten them—and then whipped the long tangle of her hair out of her face and shoved it over her shoulders.

                She’d changed into her usual sleep set—a tank top and pajama pants—which wasn’t in the least presentable. But the knock was insistent and she moved toward the door once her brain kicked into gear. Something must have happened to Kadir or no one would be outside her door at this hour. If Kadir wanted her, he would call.

                She whipped the door back, unconcerned about criminals—since Kadir’s security had locked down the entire floor they were on—though she was careful to keep the bulk of her body behind the door.

                Kadir stood on the other side, looking handsome and moody, and a wash of heat and confusion flooded her at once. Her stomach knotted even as her brain tried to work out a logical reason for his appearance at her door.

                “Your Highness? Is there a problem?”

                “There is indeed. I need to talk to you.”

                “I—I will come to your suite. Give me a few minutes to get dressed and—”