The Royal Elite: Ahsan (Elite, Book 2) (22 page)

“As long as you're sure.” Iris cupped Sessily's forearms and glanced through the foyer as if she was wary. Like she thought she might see Bashir walk through a doorway any moment.

“I am. Do you have anything with you? Come up to my room. I was just about to pack.” Sessily drew Iris away from the gathered personnel in the foyer toward the stairs. The waves of relief that her sister was safe remained despite the heartache she fought inside.

“Are you leaving? Where are you going?” Iris asked. “I don't have anything but the clothes on my back.”

“There has been a...situation. I'm pretty sure you and I will be returning home.” Sessily refused to dwell on the things she could not change. The strange pang in her heart threatened to become something all consuming, however, and she struggled to turn her mind from the overheard conversation.

“What kind of a situation?” Iris asked.

Sessily knew that her curious sister would keep asking questions until she found out the answers. “It's a long story. Let's save it for the trip home. Okay? Let's get you cleaned up for now and find out what's going on.”

. . .

There were two things in life that annoyed Ahsan no end. People who shrugged their shoulders at him, and people who thought he didn't know his own mind. Being forced to repeat himself got old quickly, and he grew impatient staring down his father.

The man, however, was right about one thing: Ahsan would not allow Afshar to fall under foreign control. No matter what it took, no matter what he had to do.

Strolling closer to the Emir, a man Ahsan had never really considered a father growing up, he said, “We all have to make sacrifices. My sacrifice is taking a throne I have no desire to sit upon. Your sacrifice is allowing me to rule the way I see fit. The people's sacrifice is learning to embrace a little change. Then, we all win. There will be no marriage and I will not alter either my political or religious beliefs. These are not negotiable conditions, father. I don't want control of the country, but if I have to take it, then I'm doing it my way. Should you change your mind and decide to hand the throne to another, send word. Otherwise, I'll prepare to ascend as soon as you arrange the ceremony.”

The Emir's jaw clenched.

Ahsan set his hand on his fragile father's shoulder, and gave it a light squeeze. Knowing the man would be in his grave soon should have had more impact on him than it did. He was not close to the Emir, had grown up independent and headstrong, bucking the system every chance he got. Only for a moment did he wish he'd had a father who cared more about his children than which one would make the best heir. The emphasis had never been on love, but power, control and cold calculation.

Stepping away, he stalked from the conference room and didn't look back. Not even when a furor erupted between advisors and other important men high in the ruling structure of the Emir's council. He noted the milling security in the foyer, near the doors, and at the mouth of the large hallways. By his order, scouts had been sent out twenty miles in all directions to look for clandestine movement that might indicate Bashir was about to strike. The palace was as secure as it was going to get.

Eli appeared almost out of nowhere, pacing at his side. “Bashir has returned Iris. Late, but she's here, and safe.”

“Really. Isn't that interesting. My brother must have taken me seriously when I said I'd bring his compound to ruin.” Ahsan snapped a look toward the sitting room where he'd suggested Sessily wait and was about to alter course when Eli added, “They went upstairs. I had the staff take salve for Iris's wounds and some new clothes.”

“Excellent.” Ahsan left Eli to oversee the organization of military men and to deal with the Emir's advisors. He no longer expected Bashir to strike, not now when he must be aware the Emir was in residence, but Bashir had never been known for his brilliance in strategy, and so, a close watch must be kept. Anything could happen once the Emir departed, which would be within minutes unless Ahsan missed his guess.

Upstairs, he came to Sessily's door and rapped three times.

A moment later, the door opened. Sessily stood there with her luminous eyes and sober expression.

“Yes?” she asked.

“How is your sister?”

“She's coping. Come in.” Sessily stepped back to admit him.

Ahsan strode past the threshold. Iris, blonde in comparison to Sessily's auburn hair, hovered near the large bed where a suitcase lay open, half packed. Iris, shorter and more frail looking than her sister, had visible bruises on her delicate face and probably more in places he couldn't see. It infuriated him that she'd been so ill treated at the hands of his brother. What he hated more, was the wary way she watched him. Like he was an animal that might attack at any second.

“I'm sorry about your injuries,” he said right away. “Eli said he had salve sent up. If you need medical care, I'll be happy to provide it.”

“I'm fine,” Iris said, fidgeting with the edge of the suitcase.

“This is Iris. Iris, this is Ahsan,” Sessily said. She left the door open and followed Ahsan deeper into the room.

Iris paused, then said, “Nice to meet you.”

“And you,” Ahsan countered. “Is there anything else we can get you? Food, drinks?”

“Yes, there is. If you could send Sessily and me back home, we would be deeply grateful.”

His initial inkling proved to be true. The girls wanted to return to Romania. His gaze landed on Sessily, who couldn't quite meet his eyes. Did she really want to go? Or had her skittish, frightened sister convinced her to get while the getting was good?

“I'm happy to do whatever you both want. When would you like to leave?” Ahsan never took his eyes off Sessily.

“As soon as possible,” Iris said.

It wasn't that Ahsan couldn't blame Iris for wanting to go home. The place where both girls had been snatched from, the place that probably represented comfort and peace. Yet he had unresolved business with Sessily, and he wouldn't allow her to just waltz out of his life without a word.

“Sessily, I'd like a moment alone before I make the arrangements.” He inclined his head to Iris, a more cordial gesture than he gave most people, and pivoted for the door. Letting himself into the hall, he raked his hands back through his hair and organized his thoughts. What should he say? He wanted to ask her and her sister to stay on for a week or more, give them a minor vacation while he prepared to take control of the throne. But if they wanted to leave—he wouldn't coerce them to stay.

In the hall, he paced a few feet one way and a few feet the other. He thought he caught heated whispers in the room beyond, though he couldn't make out any words. Sessily appeared, pulling the door closed behind her. Ahsan couldn't judge her mood, couldn't figure out what she was thinking. Her expression seemed oddly closed off and hard to read.

“Is that what you'd like to do?” he asked straight off. “Go home?”

She crossed her slender arms over her middle and avoided eye contact until the last second. “Yes. Iris is...she's traumatized, as I'm sure you can see, and she just wants to go home. It's been an odyssey for her and she needs time to heal.”

What could he say to that? To deny a woman the right to heal after an ordeal like this seemed cruel, yet he had the urge to press Sessily. To get a more in depth answer out of her. He knew women well enough to know that she'd enjoyed what passed between them the evening before, and that there had been more to it than just sex. She'd spent the entire night in his bed, curled against his chest. If her motive was to scratch an itch, she would have gone back to her room before morning. With the upcoming ceremony to seat him in the position of power, he had little time to spare at the moment for situations that weren't directly involved with ascending the throne.

Stepping forward, he cupped her jaw and bent down to take her mouth with his. He swallowed her gasp of surprise and engaged her tongue, finding all the nooks and hollows beneath. Ahsan wanted a taste of her to remember in the upcoming weeks. It was precious little compared to what he really wanted, but it would have to do.

Breaking the seal of their mouths, he thumbed her chin, staring into her eyes. He didn't miss the flicker of something like sorrow in her own, and wondered over it.

“I'll have you on a plane by late afternoon.” Ahsan kissed Sessily one more time, then stepped around her, heading for the stairs.

. . .

It was one of the more painful things Sessily had ever done, watching Ahsan walk away. She could still taste him in her mouth, could still smell the masculine scent of his cologne. Leaving was going to be much harder than she imagined. But the alternative—to stay and become Ahsan's mistress while he married another woman to produce the required heirs—was impossible. She could no more turn a blind eye to the nights Ahsan would spend in another woman's bed than she could set herself on fire.

No, it was better to go home and lick her many wounds. She needed to get out of this situation with as much dignity as she had left. So she retreated to the bedroom, finished packing clothes that did not belong to her, and helped Iris clean up. After a shower and a change of clothes that Eli provided, Iris looked less like a refugee and more like a person.

Four hours after that, the women were escorted to a waiting limousine out front and driven away from the palace.

Sessily never got to say goodbye to Ahsan. He wasn't waiting by the car with his penetrating stare and didn't escort them to the airstrip.

And he certainly wasn't on the luxury jet when she and Iris boarded.

While Iris quietly exclaimed about the plush interior of the plane, Sessily stared out the window, watching the expansive desert first at ground level, and then from the air. The palace came into view below after a few minutes, sprawling white against the sands.

Then it was gone, existing now only in memory.

The day Ahsan ascended the throne of power was dry and hot. He strolled up the long entrance way to the main palace doors, largely ignoring the gathered politicians, advisors and lawyers. The discreet 'suggestions' they'd been throwing at him for the last seven days had already worn his patience thin, and he was in no mood to pander to their lobbying.

Behind, four of his security team trailed at his heels, silent and watchful.

Attired in a fine suit of black, with a silver vest, white shirt and his favored boots, foregoing the tie much to the chagrin and horror of his personal assistants, he knew he looked sharp. Regardless, his clothing was hardly what the current Emir would want him to wear. The Emir preferred traditional garb for ceremonies and events, but the man would take what Ahsan gave him and like it. He'd said a hundred times he was doing it his way, and he meant to stick by his word to the letter.

Striding into the ceremony room between two doors that servants opened, he approached the high, elaborate throne piped in gold and adorned with rich jewels. This room was even more grandiose than Bashir's, with tall columns lining the walkway he now tread, and more gold layered the marble floors. All the seating sported luxurious fabrics and the walls were inlaid with intricate patterned tile. Lines of gold framed the patterns, making the entire room gleam. It was as if Midas himself had been there, leaving a wide swath of the precious metal in his wake.

The ceremony itself, televised on both local and global channels, was less about pomp and circumstance and more about paperwork. Ahsan, disregarding the Emir's look of disapproval at the thrown open vee of his white shirt, recited the necessary oaths and signed no less than five documents, officially transferring to him the title and power of Emir. There were handshakes and head bows and wishes for a successful reign.

When the Emir stepped aside to offer Ahsan the throne, a rite of passage and tradition when the title was passed down, Ahsan declined to seat himself there. He had little drive to lord over a room full of politicians who would shortly pick his bones clean with their incessant drivel about this law or that one. Instead, he flashed the cameras a broad smile, a daring wink, and retreated. Gasps of shock at his deviation in protocol followed him back out the doors and into the sunlight. Immediately, three more of his personal guard flanked him, a precaution Ahsan could not do without. Not in the open, not with Bashir's men lurking somewhere in the throng.

Not now that he was Emir, with no wife, no heir, and a target on his back.

Declining all interviews, he sank into the comfort of a cool limousine. Whisked away from the scene, Ahsan reclined against the seat, one arm draped along the back. Funny, he thought, that he felt no different than a half hour before. As serious as he took his new responsibilities, he did not experience a rush of power or have the desire to strut around, gloating over his status. There were more important matters to deal with, such as finding and culling all people involved in Bashir's trafficking rings. His brethren in the Royal Elite had sent him updates throughout the week, explaining leads, following trails, and wearing down informants until they sang.

Progress had been made choosing and assigning his own people to replace those of the Emir, but none could take their positions until the official signing of the documents. Now would come the hard part—the transition. The Emir had already protested some of the changes, all of which Ahsan ignored. He liked to run a well oiled machine, and he wanted his own people in place to make that happen.

His schedule for the next seven days left little in the way of private time, a necessary evil of his new title.

While he watched the sights of the city fly by out the window, he let his mind roam to more pleasant
things. Like a pair of blue eyes, a sweet mouth, and a skein of auburn hair he wanted to run his fingers through. He didn't have time for much, but he had time to remember how her mouth felt under his, how her body responded with passion, and the way she breathed his name in the aftermath.

He warred with the idea of throwing responsibility to the wind and flying to Romania, title be damned. In the end, reason won out. He directed the driver to take him back to the palace where a menagerie of tasks awaited.