Page 13 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

Clyde stayed perfectly still, coiled for stealth, his eyes trimming the dim sliver of light beneath the door until shapes came into focus.

He’d slipped in through the palace loading docks—posing as a supplier, asking politely to use the restroom—and from there had worked his way past checkpoint after checkpoint, clipboard in hand, supervising an imaginary security sweep.

If anyone questioned him, he’d smile, nod, and pretend to check something off.

It had been methodical, slow work, but it had gotten him here.

Seventy-two hours slid by in a cleaning closet—three days sharing breathing space with a vacuum that squeaked at the worst possible moments and a mop that forever smelled faintly of mildew and lemon cleaner. He was done hiding.

He had to move fast. It had taken a string of bribes to find where Princess Nahla had been taken; now that he had the location, he couldn’t afford to let her disappear again.

The guards? Idiots. They passed the closet and gossiped about “the intruder” as if some raccoon had been rifling the palace trash. They had no idea the intruder had been snoring two feet from their mop buckets, quietly judging their security protocols—and the sad state of the floor polish.

He’d been waiting for their vigilance to fade—because it always did.

People got lazy. Alertness dulled. Clyde?

Clyde never dulled. He’d napped in swamps, hidden in ventilation shafts, and once spent a night under the buffet table at a United Nations gala.

A supply closet with questionable air circulation and a lopsided shelving unit? This was practically a spa.

When he emerged that night, the kitchen was empty, humming softly under security lights.

The scent of fresh bread and something sugary-sweet filled the air, taunting him.

For three days he’d been surviving on two protein bars and a questionable bottle of lukewarm water.

He was starving—and apparently, the universe knew it.

He surveyed the kitchen like a predator sizing up its prey. Stainless steel counters. A gas stove humming in standby. Pots hanging above an island like shiny, metallic bats.

And then—scones.

Clyde moved toward them with reverence. Three scones remained on a tray, dusted lightly with powdered sugar. He eyed them with suspicion. They looked a little… dark. Possibly baked in a volcano. But still. Food.

He grabbed two, just as a soft clink echoed from somewhere down the corridor.

Damn it!

Stuffing one scone into his mouth and the other into a coat pocket, he turned his head, listening.

Crunch.

Correction—he tried to take a bite. The second his teeth made contact, a pain sharp enough to make him consider religion shot up through his jaw.

“Nggh—!” he grunted, one hand flying to his cheek.

Something tinked onto the floor. Maybe a tooth. Maybe a chip of molar. He didn’t look.

Instead, he tasted blood. Warm, coppery, humiliating blood dripping down his chin from a scone-related injury. A scone! Of all the enemies he’d faced, of all the dangers he’d endured, this was the one that landed a hit.

And now footsteps. Voices. Someone was coming!

Panicked but precise, Clyde moved. His hiding spot was too far. He darted through a service door and yanked open what he thought was another storage closet.

Wrong.

It was a… book closet?

What kind of palace stocked books in a closet?!

He climbed inside anyway, balancing like a deranged contortionist on a stack of hardcovers titled “The Subtle Art of Royal Public Relations” and “Lativa’s Most Charming Bridges” .

One foot braced against a box labeled “Embroidery Manuals, 2005–2009” , the other fighting gravity.

His ass slipped between two shelves, wedged awkwardly against something that felt suspiciously like a very non-consensual handle of some sort.

He held his breath as voices passed just outside.

Dust—flour?—puffed up around his shoes, coating the black rubber soles he kept spotless. He sneezed. Silently. Like a professional.

This was not how legends were made.

He was Clyde , for God’s sake. Feared. Respected. His name was on ten different international watchlists. He’d once singlehandedly dismantled a drug ring while wearing a tuxedo. And now he was stuck in a broomless closet with a bleeding gum and a rock disguised as a pastry.

He looked down at his shoes, now white with mystery powder. He didn’t want to know what it was. It could be sugar. It could be drywall. It could be whatever made the scones so structurally sound they could deflect bullets.

And suddenly—he knew.

This was her fault.

Princess Nahla.

Her puppy photo had triggered this entire mess. Her kitchen. Her scones. Her amateur baking skills were a health hazard. He was bleeding. BLEEDING!

And when he got out of this palace, she was going to pay .

Not quickly. Not easily. No, he would plan something exquisitely inconvenient. A psychological masterpiece of vengeance.