Page 23 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

Breathing in, Nahla held her breath for a long moment, squinting down the length of the arrow with one eye closed—because that’s what the guy in the video did—then… release!

The arrow flopped to the ground at her feet with all the menace of a fallen twig.

“Darn it!” she muttered, hands on her hips. That one had actually felt promising.

With a resigned sigh, she stooped to pick it up, brushing a leaf off the fletching.

The bow and arrows had been part of a sports cabinet she’d discovered thanks to a well-meaning palace servant.

There had been soccer balls, a croquet set, baseball gear, and an odd tangle of cricket equipment that looked like it required a physics degree to play properly.

She had considered the soccer ball for half a second—until she remembered her complete inability to kick anything without falling over.

And running? No, thank you.

Archery, however…now that looked civilized. You stood in one spot, breathed calmly, aimed gracefully, and let your arrow fly. Very Katniss Everdeen meets royal self-care. It didn’t require speed, stamina, or even shoes with proper traction. It was the thinking woman’s sport.

After watching two—okay, eight—training videos on how to hold, notch, aim, breathe, and release, she’d been convinced that archery was the sport for her.

Plus, she’d found a delightfully secluded courtyard surrounded by thick hedges and tall trees.

A place where her arrows could disappear into the greenery and not end up hurting anyone.

Notching the arrow again, she narrowed her eyes at the straw target. It stared back at her blankly, as if it knew it was perfectly safe.

Very carefully, she settled the shaft of the arrow into place, adjusted the grip on the string, inhaled through her nose like she’d been taught and— release!

The arrow shot forward!

“Yes!” she whispered in triumph, pumping her fist like she’d just won the Hunger Games. The arrow had actually left the bow this time. It hadn’t gone far , but it didn’t drop like a rock either. That was progress. Solid, measurable, confidence-boosting progress.

She beamed and notched another arrow.

Over and over again, she shot, retrieved, adjusted, and tried again.

Her success rate could generously be described as “aspirational.” Most of her arrows veered dramatically to the right or left, occasionally launching into a bush or thwacking harmlessly into tree bark.

She was starting to suspect that the target had been enchanted with a “you shall not pass” spell.

At one point, she thought she heard a soft click of a door closing in the distance, but she assumed it was just a servant coming out to ask her if she needed tea or perhaps an emergency bandage.

She didn’t look back. She was busy becoming an archer of royal fame.

Focusing once again on her breathing, she drew the bowstring back, adjusted for her personal brand of deviation, aimed just slightly to the left to counter her overcompensation, and—

THWACK!

The arrow sailed high over the target and ricocheted off the window trim behind it.

Nahla winced. “Darn it!” she hissed. That had sounded expensive.

Her enthusiasm dipped. “This is harder than it looks.”

Still, she wasn’t about to give up. If the internet could turn people into sourdough experts during quarantine, then she could learn to aim a stick.

Besides, wasn’t that the point of life? You pick up something that seems straightforward, realize it's actually ridiculously hard, then keep doing it anyway because you’re stubborn and wearing a cute pair of leggings.

With a mutinous glare at the target, she retrieved her arrows once more. Somewhere in the hedges, a bird chirped encouragingly. Or maybe it was laughing. Either way, she squared her shoulders and notched again.

One of these days, she was going to hit that target.