Page 26 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Seventeen

“You’ve slain me,” Dalla said with mock drama, running her fingers along the silky-soft forest green blouse as she fumbled with the buttons, her fingers trembling. “I shall never recover.”

“Then we should keep you locked in this room,” Musad replied from where he lounged near the doorway, arms crossed and one dark brow lifted. “For your own safety, of course.”

Nasser snorted. “Or ours.”

Dalla cast a look over her shoulder, her lips twitching despite the tremor inside her. “Insatiable monsters—the both of you.”

“Insatiable? Yes. Monsters? Only the kind that like to devour you,” Nasser playfully growled as he leaned in, brushing her side with his shoulder as he passed. “You were the one who begged for more.”

She gasped as she sat down on the edge of the bed. Reaching for a throw pillow, she chucked it at him. He ducked with a grin, catching it mid-air and tossing it neatly back onto the bed again.

Smiling, Dalla pulled on a pair of lightweight black cargo pants that hugged her hips and slender thighs.

She slid on matching black socks before rising to step into a pair of ankle boots Musad had found for her.

The outfit was deceptively simple—chic, practical, and yet molded to her in a way that made her feel strong…

but feminine. In control… and wildly out of it.

She loved the clothes, but it was the lingerie underneath that made her blush.

Soft, lacy pieces of fabric—barely there—cupped her breasts and nestled between her thighs. It felt like the whisper of a secret pressed against her skin, one only they knew. And the way they had looked at her when she tried to get dressed earlier…

Heat flared through her. They hadn’t made it easy.

Now, as the clock ticked closer to the hour, she was to meet Harlem. Her nerves danced like fireflies under her skin, her palms were damp, and her heart felt as if it might hammer its way out of her ribcage. She knew their playful banter had been an attempt to distract her.

What if it wasn’t really him? What if I imagined his voice? What if… what if he has changed?

What if I’ve changed too much?

Forget the covers , she was seconds away from diving under the bed and refusing to come out! She was so lost in her personal torment that she sucked in a sharp breath when Nasser’s gentle fingers brushed through her hair.

She turned her head and blinked when he slid behind her on the bed, a soft-bristled brush in hand.

“What are you?—?”

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Let me.”

She relaxed with a deep sigh, leaning back as he brushed through her thick, honey-brown locks. The sensation was soothing—almost hypnotic. Each stroke calmed her nerves, like wind smoothing waves on a stormy sea.

“Where did you learn to do this?” she asked, her voice hushed as she closed her eyes.

Musad’s deep chuckle preceded his answer . “Our sister, Lissa. She used to make us do her hair when we were younger. She said she liked the way we braided her hair better than the servants.”

“It was the only thing that made her smile for a long time after our mother left,” Nasser said quietly.

Dalla turned her head, searching his face. His eyes were soft, his touch stilling for a moment.

“She left you?” she asked, surprised.

“She took the family jewels and ran as fast as she could,” Musad said grimly from the doorway. “With her lover in tow, of course.”

“It didn’t last,” Nasser added, resuming the braid. “She got what she deserved in the end. But Lissa… she needed something to hold on to. So we did her hair. Every day.”

Dalla’s heart ached. These men—her men—had carried so much pain, and yet they still gave so much love.

Nasser tied off the end of the braid with a silk cord and kissed her shoulder. “There. Fit for war… or for later, when we unbraid it.”

She released a soft moan and rose, smoothing trembling hands along her thighs, trying to calm the storm brewing inside her. Between being in the same room with Nasser and Musad and her pending meeting with Harlem, she was truly a wreck.

She took a slow breath—and then startled again when Musad stepped in front of her.

He held her gaze with quiet intensity. “We’ll be close. Always.”

She rose and met his lips when he bent to kiss her. His kiss was firm, grounding. And lasted far too short a time.

She nodded, unable to speak. A warm handle slipped into her palm.

She looked down. Her fingers curled around the familiar bone handle of her seax. She let out a shaky breath.

“This is the blade that slew a thousand men,” Musad teased, securing it to her belt with practiced ease.

Her lips parted as Nasser rose from behind, pulling her gently against his body and kissing her neck. His voice was a whisper against her skin.

“We’ll always protect you.”

She turned when Nasser ran his hand up her arm and looked down as he attached the brooch where a hint of her breasts showed. She recognized it as the one she’d used to kill an assassin a dozen plus lifetimes ago.

She raised her hand and touched it reverently.

“It belonged to a man who wanted to erase a king. And it saved one instead,” she whispered.

Nasser tilted her chin, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that held lifetimes. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

Her breath caught.

She had no words. Only emotions—blazing, vast, and terrifying in their depth.

Musad’s voice gently cut through the silence. “It’s time.”

She nodded, took a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders.

Nasser placed his hand on the small of her back as they exited.

Once they were in the hallway, he threaded his fingers through hers as they walked to the lift.

They traveled down the elevator in silence.

The polished metal walls reflected their tension.

As the numbers ticked past, Dalla swallowed thickly.

Dalla hesitated at the elevator’s threshold, her feet rooted to the floor.

What if it wasn’t him?

What if it was?

She swallowed hard, forcing her limbs to move. She gave a brief nod to Musad and Nasser—both hanging back, watching every corner of the floor.

She stepped out, crossing the open expanse.

On her left, the railing dropped to the lobby below.

The second floor opened to a lush, modern space—a mezzanine balcony with glass railings that overlooked the elegant lobby below.

Green wall panels of living plants climbed toward the ceiling.

Plush chairs in vibrant hues dotted the lounge spaces.

On one side, the doors to the conference rooms stood open and empty.

On the other, a sleek sign pointed toward the café.

Inside the restaurant, families sat in clusters. Children squealed over desserts. Laughter bubbled in the air, blending with the aroma of roasted coffee and grilled meats.

The café was less formal than the restaurant downstairs. It was real. It was alive. And it made the moment feel surreal.

She paused at the threshold, heart thundering. Glancing over her shoulder, she sought a brief connection with Musad and Nasser before she turned back.

And then… she saw him.

In the far corner, seated at a table framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, sat a tall, striking, black man dressed in tailored charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt.

The only things that seemed different from their last meeting were his clothing and the setting.

His eyes still held that intensity—the weight of centuries buried beneath a patient, knowing gaze.

Everything else disappeared.

The polished world dissolved—wind, fire, and sand rising in its place. She was no longer Dalla in the 21 st century. She was Dalla of the Sands. And she was staring into the eyes of the man she had once known as Hakeem.

Drawing a deep, calming breath, she gathered her nerve.

And walked toward Harlem.

Musad stood just inside the mezzanine level, frozen, watching Dalla walk away from him.

Every step she took sent a crack through his resolve.

The second floor of the Simdan Hotel was nothing like the war-torn cities he had patrolled in his military days.

This place was calm, even lush. Modern wood-paneled walls offset gold-veined marble, suspended lights floated like fireflies above planters filled with soft greenery, and the occasional hush of an espresso machine from the nearby café broke the quiet like a gentle exhale.

But inside him?

All he felt was chaos.

The cool air did nothing to ease the heat pounding through his veins.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, forcing himself to stand still as Dalla’s sun-kissed braid swayed just below her waist with each step.

She walked with purpose… but he saw the tremble in her hands, the tightness in her shoulders.

Everything in him screamed to move, to close the distance, to reach for her and pull her back, to shield her with his body and lock her away from whatever might lie ahead.

He shifted forward before he even realized it.

A hand gripped his forearm.

“Don’t,” Nasser said quietly.

Musad whirled around, ready to snap. The words caught in his throat the moment he saw his brother’s face.

Nasser wasn’t trying to stop him out of indifference.

Staring into Nasser’s eyes, he couldn’t help but see the same torment reflected at him.

Dalla.

She had undone them both.

Musad’s chest heaved as he turned away and walked to the balcony railing.

The polished metal was cool beneath his hands.

He leaned forward, staring down at the lobby below—an open space with clean modern lines, where the glittering lights of a city reborn filtered through expansive glass windows.

A group of tourists passed beneath him, laughing and snapping photos of the gold-and-marble reliefs carved into the wall.

The clink of cutlery from the lower restaurant drifted up along with the distant notes of piano music.

It felt wrong. Like the world was too peaceful for what was happening inside him.

“I’m terrified,” Nasser said beside him, his voice low, raw.

Musad didn’t look at him.

“I’ve never felt like this,” Nasser continued. “Like… like if she doesn’t come back to us, I won’t know how to breathe.”

A muscle jumped in Musad’s jaw.

He pressed his hands harder to the railing, gripping it so tightly, he was amazed the metal didn’t bend. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, trying to push against the sharp ache rising in his chest.

“I always thought it would be you,” he finally admitted, voice barely more than a rasp.

Nasser turned his head. “What?”

“I always thought—hoped—that we’d find someone…

someone to share. Someone who could give us a reason to hope again.

” He opened his eyes and stared out at the cityscape beyond the glass.

“But I didn’t think I’d feel it. I thought you’d be the one to love.

I thought I’d just be there—supporting you. Protecting her.”

“And now?”

Musad’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Now I’m afraid that if anything happens to her, I won’t survive it.”

He forced himself to breathe. Deep. Measured. Trying to find logic again.

“That’s why I left earlier. If I’d stayed, I would’ve tied her to the damn bed, called Raja and demanded he send a transport. I was going to haul her back to Narva if I had to throw her over my shoulder to do it.”

Silence stretched between them. Nasser released a dry chuckle.

“You and me both. We should have done it.”

The tension eased between them, just a little. But not enough.

“She wouldn’t have let us. She’s right,” Musad said after a moment. “The immediate threat is over. Cianna, Mario, and Lissa are safe. No one knows who Dalla is. No one knows she’s with us.”

Nasser shifted beside him.

“No one except Harlem Jones,” Musad added, his voice like steel.

They both looked toward the café now, where Dalla had disappeared moments before.

Musad’s expression hardened.

“If this Harlem is a threat…” he said, voice turning cold, “I’ll remove him.”

Nasser’s jaw ticked, but he nodded. “We’ll protect her. Whatever it takes.”

Musad pushed off the railing.

“That’s long enough.”

Musad strode toward the café entrance with Nasser a step behind him.

His gaze swept over the crowded interior.

The restaurant was alive with conversation and the clatter of plates.

It smelled of cardamom, freshly baked bread, and strong coffee.

Families gathered around low tables. Children laughed, their voices cutting through the soft jazz playing in the background.

Musad’s focus narrowed.

Dalla sat near the back, her profile elegant and composed, facing a man whose presence radiated quiet power.

He was tall, dressed casually. His skin gleamed like rich mocha under the lights.

He sat with a casual grace that was misleading.

Musad knew a predator when he saw one, and Harlem Jones was at the very top of the food chain.

The man turned his gaze to Musad and Nasser.

Musad heard Nasser’s muttered oath as their eyes met Harlem’s.

Harlem’s lips curved into a slight smile.

Not a smirk.

Not a threat.

Just a knowing smile.

Then he bowed his head as if in greeting.

Musad’s spine stiffened. Ice laced through his veins.

He knew that, somehow, this man knew everything.

The danger wasn’t in the man’s build or the ease of his posture.

It was in his eyes.

Eyes that had seen too much. Lived too long.

Musad didn’t hear Nasser hiss his name in warning. He was already moving, drawn forward by a force he couldn’t name—rage, protectiveness, fear, love—all braided together until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

He didn’t care who this man was.

If Harlem was a threat to Dalla, he would end him.

Whatever the cost.