Page 27 of The Desert King's Kidnapped Virgin
But if she thought about her mother, she would fall apart, and that wouldn’t help her at all.
So she didn’t.
She breathed in and out, again and again, and she didn’t. She couldn’t.
Mignon was a grown woman and Hope had to believe that she would find her way.
Because she couldn’t allow herself to think anything else.
Her attendants found her there some while later, sitting beneath one of the trees while the fountain laughed, the birds sang, and the desert sun warmed her. They brought her rich coffee and decadent pastries, and so she had chocolate on her tongue and music in her ears when she looked up—caught by more of that magic, maybe—to find Cyrus standing in those arched windows in the King’s bedchamber, looking down.
For what seemed like an eternity, Hope held his eyes with hers. She felt filled with his midnight gaze.
Captured as surely as she was in this harem.
He looked down at her, his face a study of ruthlessness, his gaze stern.
And that, too, felt like glory.
When he turned and walked away from his windows, Hope thought that despite everything, or maybe because of it, she was going to be far happier here than he might imagine. Because whatever else she might feel, she wasn’tafraid.
And that felt more like freedom than it should.
As her days in the desert bled one into the next, that was exactly what happened.
Hope thought at first that Cyrus, having discovered what he clearly thought was proof of her promiscuity, would avoid her. But he did not.
Later that same day she was once again buffed to a gleam and brought before him. This time there was no tower beneath the stars, no pillows on the floor.
Instead, she joined him out on the battlements in the bright heat of the afternoon, and walked with him.
“I thought you had guards for this,” she said as she walked beside him, grateful that she was not dressed only in those harem silks that bared most of her body. They had draped her in different garments, more enveloping, so that she might walk in the sun without burning to a crisp.
Though there was something electric about concealing so much of herself. It made Hope only too aware that she still wore that same silken harem outfit beneath it all.
Judging by the light in his gaze every time he looked down at her, she thought Cyrus felt that same electricity too.
“I ask nothing of the men who serve me that I’m not willing to do myself,” Cyrus told her, sounding as forbidding as if she had suggested he lay about on couches, demanding peeled grapes, while his underlings fussed over him.
“I’m sure that that wins their loyalty,” she murmured. Thinking that was an uncontroversial statement.
He stopped, and frowned down at her. “I do not attempt towintheir loyalty.” As if the very notion was outlandish. “They’re loyal to me because I am the Lord of the desert. Because Aminabad rests between my hands and will do so for as many days as I draw breath. That is what wins their loyalty,omri. They would be loyal to me even if they hated me, because that is the way of my people. It is my role that matters.”
“It was meant to be a compliment,” Hope said mildly.
“You cannot understand.” And his voice was clipped enough that it made her think that he was speaking to someone else. Not her. There was too much bleakness and outrage in his gaze for that. “My people do not put their loyalty up for grabs, or sell it to the highest bidder.” He stood with his back to the great desert, scowling down at her. “I am the Lord of this desert not only because my father was, but because I earned it in sacrifice and struggle. I gave up more than you can imagine. All the softness within me, like songs. I tore them out and made myself what was required. These are the things that matter, Hope. Notcompliments.”
“I’ll make a note to keep them to myself, then,” she shot back, without thinking.
And then nearly jumped out of her skin when Cyrus moved toward her, backing her across the width of the battlements so that her own spine came into contact with stone. Still he kept coming, until he held her there.
Then he reached over to put his hand against her cheek. “I would work more with honey than vinegar, if I were you.”
“You can’t mean more kissing, surely.” She made herself laugh as if he hadn’t gone dark on her last night. As if he hadn’t made more of his ridiculous accusations. “Though I don’t know why you think I would bother to try when all it does is make you think the worst of me.”
“I already think the worst of you. I married you anyway.”
“Why? When you don’t even believe me when I tell you the truth?” She was breathing too hard and she didn’t like that he could see it.
