‘No!’
She kicked and she fought and Mikael, who was kneeling with the other suitors as the King sat on his throne, lowered his head and smiled as he heard her scream his name, weep and beg that she wanted to die a virgin spinster if she could just dream of him each night. It was the sound of torture, but it came from love.
Mikael lifted his head and looked to Hussain, who was kneeling to his right. It had to be him, for he was an arrogant and pompous git, but he was sweating now as he was shamed for a second time. Mikael felt another gaze on him then, and looked over into the tired eyes of the King as Layla’s screams continued to fill the palace.
‘Perhaps you can handle her?’ the King said to Mikael.
Fahid was weary and, though he would never admit it, it was quite a relief that Mikael was here today—especially now, as Mikael stood and took over the rebel princess.
He would take care of her, Fahid knew, and he felt the first glimmer of peace as they walked out of the room to the spectacle that awaited. He loved his wild daughter so…
‘Layla…’ Mikael’s fingers gripped her cheeks just in time to stop her biting a guard. ‘It is time to choose your husband.’
Layla thought she was dreaming—for dressed in robes of white and gold, and just so beautiful, was the man who would for ever live in her dreams. Not a night had passed since their parting that hadn’t been spent together in her mind.
‘Mikael…’ She stood for a sixth of a second, then leapt like a cat into his arms.
‘Layla!’ her father scolded as Mikael put her down. ‘You are to follow tradition.’
‘Father, I don’t understand…’ She frowned. She could barely make sense of anything; she looked to her father and simply didn’t understand how Mikael was here or what was going on.
‘Mikael has spoken with Zahid and me today. He wants to give you a life in Australia but you shall return here often. It is up to you if you choose this man as your husband.’
‘Oh, but I do.’
‘Layla…’ The King’s tone warned her of their traditions. ‘What do you do now?’
As she had on the day they had first met, she took the precious stone from her tunic and placed it down.
‘You have to offer your gift to me now,’ Layla said.
Trinity saved the day and retrieved Mikael’s jacket from the room where he had changed into traditional robes.
‘My wallet.’ Mikael handed it over and smiled at the dark bastard he had once been, for he had sworn that if this day ever came there would be a watertight pre-nup; instead he handed her the keys to his home, his passport—she could have the lot.
‘That’s a black credit card,’ he said as she went through his wallet.
‘What’s a credit card?’ she asked.
‘It means I can keep you in peeled, thinly sliced apples prepared by gourmet chefs.’
‘Good.’ Layla smiled.
Then she took out the folded piece of paper that told him she would never forget him, and the online chess name that she had thought might be their only link, and she looked up as Mikael spoke for the first time in Arabic. It was her favourite saying—one Layla had never thought could apply to the man who would be her husband