His Defiant Desert Queen(66)

For a moment inside the car there was no sound.

Mikael shook his head, dazed.

“Jemma?” Mikael’s hard voice cut through the stillness as he turned toward her.

She lay crumpled against the door, her face turned away from him.

“Jemma,” he repeated more urgently, reaching for her, touching the side of her face. It was wet. He looked at his hand. It was covered in blood.

* * *

She was flown by helicopter to the royal hospital in Ketama. Mikael traveled with her, holding her hand. Mikael’s chauffeur walked away with cuts and bruises like Mikael, while the driver of the other car didn’t need a helicopter. He’d died at the scene.

Jemma spent hours in surgery as the doctors set bones and dealt with internal bleeding. She then spent the next few days heavily sedated.

Mikael refused to leave her side. Fortunately, he was the king, and this was the royal hospital named after the Karim family, so no one dared to tell him to leave her, either.

The doctors and specialists had all said she’d be okay. She was simply sedated to help reduce the swelling. She would mend better, and be in less pain, if she were sedated, and resting.

Mikael wanted her to rest, but he needed to know that she was okay.

So for three days he slept next to her bed. Nurses brought coffee to him. His valet brought him clean clothes daily. Mikael used Jemma’s hospital room shower when needed.

He struggled with that last day, the beach trip to Tagadir, her reaction when he told her he was sending her away, and then the silent car ride before the sports car slammed into them.

Was the accident karma?

Was this his fault, again?

He leaned over the bed, gently stroked her cheek, the bit of cheek he could reach between all the bandages. The shattered window had cut her head badly. They’d picked glass out for hours before finally getting the side of her head stitched and stapled closed.

He’d been furious that they shaved part of her hair, but the doctors insisted they had to. Now he just wanted to see her eyes open. He wanted to hear her voice. He needed to apologize and tell her he loved her and it wasn’t lack of love that made him send her away, but the need to protect her, and do the right thing for her.

She didn’t understand how much she meant to him. She was laughter and light and life.

She was his soul mate.

His other half, his better half. Yes, his queen.

That afternoon on the beach, she’d said hard things to him, but she’d also spoken the truth.

Mikael’s battle wasn’t with her. His battle was with himself.

He didn’t like himself. Didn’t love himself. Couldn’t imagine her, her of all people, loving him.

And so he was sending her back to a world he wasn’t part of, sending her to people who were more deserving.

Mikael closed his eyes, his fist pressed to his forehead, pushing against the thoughts and recriminations, as well as the memories tormenting him.

He should have been a better son to his mother. He should have denounced his father once he realized his father had lied, that his father had broken his promise to his mother. He should have given his mother the assistance, advice, and support she’d needed.

But he hadn’t. And she’d died alone, in terrible emotional pain. And he couldn’t forgive himself for his part in her suffering.

How could he?

He squeezed his fist tighter, pressed harder against his forehead, disgusted. Heartsick.

She’d be alive now if he’d given her help. She’d be alive if he’d acted when he should have. It would have been easy. Asking forgiveness was not that complicated. It was simply a matter of pride.

His eyes burned and he squeezed them shut, trying to hold the burning tears back. Forgive me, he thought, sending a silent prayer up to his mother.

And not that he deserved any help, or protection, but Jemma did. Jemma deserved so much, and maybe his mother could pull a few strings up there. Maybe his mother could do something on Jemma’s behalf.

Help her, Mother. Help my Jemma. Help her heal, if you can.

And then gently, carefully he lifted Jemma’s hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to her skin.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, holding her hands, his lips pressed to her skin, but he wouldn’t let her go. He refused to let her go. He needed her.

He loved her.

He couldn’t be the man he wanted to be without her.

She had to survive and forgive him. She had to survive to be his friend, his lover, his companion. She had to survive so he could make things right with her.

“Forgive me, laeela,” he whispered, exhausted by the vigil by her side, but not wanting to be anywhere else, either. He wouldn’t leave her. Not now. Not ever.

Her eyes fluttered. Mikael sat forward. He stroked her brow, where her delicate, dark eyebrows arched. “Forgive me,” he repeated. “I need you to come back. I need you with me.”