Page 4 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

“What were you able to discover?”

Clyde’s voice sliced through the silence like a scalpel—precise, cold, and without an ounce of human warmth. He tossed his butter-soft leather gloves onto the corner of Leona Hapsley’s desk like they were beneath his attention.

Leona scowled at the gloves. They landed on her stack of code printouts, water droplets wrinkling the pages she’d just sorted. Her frown deepened as she looked up at the man who never knocked. Not once. Not in the three years she’d worked for him.

“Well hello to you too, Mr. Sunshine ,” she snapped, not bothering to hide the acid in her voice.

Clyde didn’t blink. He didn’t speak. He just stared, his piercing, ice-blue eyes giving away nothing. His tall frame loomed just inside the doorway, all muscle and silence in a black coat that somehow always looked dustless.

Leona let out a sigh of frustration. She’d play the game—for now. But her annoyance thrummed just under her skin, a live current ready to sizzle.

She turned back to her screen, the cool blue light illuminating the dark circles under her eyes as well as her messy ponytail.

This brightly lit office in the suburbs wasn’t exactly the kind of place serial killers or deep web wizards would feel right at home—low ceilings, exposed pipes, the tang of ozone from overworked machines.

Tangled cords snaked across the floor, and glowing monitors lined the walls like chaotic wallpaper.

An ancient electric kettle hissed on the shelf behind her, right next to an unopened can of Monster and a half-eaten muffin she’d long stopped trusting.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, and the image popped back up on the main screen.

“That woman,” she said, tilting her chin toward the monitor, “is Princess Nahla Al-Sintra of Lativa.”

She glanced sideways at Clyde, waiting for the twitch of surprise. Nothing. Of course.

“She’s a rising star in the photography world,” Leona added, her voice gaining traction.

“She’s also got a bleeding heart and the bankroll to back it up.

She sponsors other artists. Runs some feel-good website.

Yada yada. Oh, and the puppy? Already has over two hundred potential adopters. Site’s only been live four hours.”

She leaned back in her ergonomic chair, which creaked beneath her weight. The contrast between the clean lines of Nahla’s life and the cluttered chaos of her own workspace made her snort.

“The pup’s cute, I’ll give her that. And so’s she.” She wiggled her fingers at the glowing image of Princess Nahla Al-Sintra, crouched beside the golden puppy in that gritty Parisian alley. “Makes you wish you hadn’t just stomped out of the shadows like some damn cryptid, doesn’t it?”

Clyde’s brow barely twitched.

“She’s a what?” he asked flatly.

Leona smirked. “A royal princess ,” she repeated with exaggerated enunciation.

“Meaning you’ll need more than a knife and a blackout hoodie to get to her.

You might have to work at this one.” Leona hated the thought of Clyde hurting the lovely woman who seemed like a really nice person.

But Leona also knew that the woman’s death was inevitable. Clyde was just that good.

Clyde said nothing. But Leona knew better than to press too far. He didn’t shout. He didn’t break things. He just… ended people.

Everyone had heard stories.

Some said he could slip inside your apartment and sit in the dark for two days straight without making a sound.

Others claimed he’d once dismantled a man’s car brakes so flawlessly it passed a post-mortem mechanic inspection.

More than one client had requested “slow and painful,” and Clyde had delivered with poisons no coroner could trace—agents that stretched death out over three or four screaming days.

The man practically oozed ice. If he ever felt lust, it probably involved spreadsheets and blueprints.

Or maybe each of his victims’ death was his release , she thought, and shuddered.

Focus.

She leaned forward again, typing briskly.

“I’ve sent the palace schematics to your encrypted inbox.

I got into the security feeds—yeah, the real-time ones—and I’ve tagged all likely access points.

Staff entrances, delivery routes, weak signal areas.

Furniture placement too, in case you need cover or escape options. ”

She stopped, expecting him to leave.

But he didn’t move.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Slowly, she looked up.

He was still staring at her. Still silent.

The air shifted—subtle, like the way a predator might taste wind before striking.

Leona swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “What?” she asked, her voice quieter now. Her heart skipped, just once.

Clyde didn’t answer.

He reached out, grabbed his gloves, turned on his heel, and walked out.

Not a word.

The soft click of the door closing behind him echoed louder than it should have.

Leona exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from her shoulders in slow, reluctant waves. Even after all this time, he could rattle her. He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t need to.

He was Clyde .

She turned back to the monitor, pulling up a new window for an image search. The database yielded few photos of Princess Nahla—unsurprising, considering the royal family’s tight grip on media access. But the few that existed?

Nahla was… gorgeous.

Long, thick waves of dark hair. Piercing blue eyes. The kind of figure that could make a woman cry into her nachos. Even in grainy news footage, the woman radiated confidence and charm.

Leona glanced down at herself—faded sweats, oversized flannel shirt, and a bowl of cold ramen and cheetos next to her keyboard. She crunched a chip and shrugged. Cheetos and stretchy clothes were her domain.

Still… maybe it wouldn’t kill her to step into the sunlight once in a while.

Just not today.

Today, the most dangerous man she knew had set his sights on a princess. And for once, Leona wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to help him finish the job.