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Chapter Twenty Two

I t was a long time before they had a moment to themselves.

Sami insisted on a medical team giving both Zynara and Petrov a thorough examination when they made it back to the palace despite both of them protesting they were fine.

It was a while before someone came to clean Lottie’s scrapes but she ended up with plasters on both knees like a child, and a few sutures in a cut on her thigh.

Someone even gave her a change of clothes.

The gentleness and respect with which it was done crumpled a few more of the walls she’d built around her heart.

She had never felt so cared for. She felt Zynara’s eyes on her whenever the forest of doctors separated enough for their gazes to meet, but somehow, in all the fuss, the weight of royalty settled on Zynara’s shoulders again and she became distant.

Once the medics had gone, and Petrov had been escorted back to his hotel, they discussed who was behind the attack.

Lottie sat with Bili and Ace on a collection of low sofas in what might have been Zynara’s study.

Zynara’s assistant, Romaissa, bustled in with servants who brought tea and sweetcakes.

“We need to talk about Malik’s line,” Sami said.

Romaissa shot a sideways look at Zynara, but she kept her eyes low.

“The line he crosses over and over again?” she asked, mildly.

She had no such timidity before Sami. She pinned him on an absolutely furious glare and slapped his tea down in front of him with a huff.

“After that stunt with those idiots with guns in the city the other night, I’m absolutely astonished he’s still walking free in the world! ”

“Oh, I wanted him behind bars, don’t you worry.” Sami seemed used to her attitude. “It was Niz who wouldn’t let me.”

They all looked at the Qasira. “He’s my brother,” Zynara said, simply. “And technically, he wasn’t there. On either occasion. You have nothing on him.” She looked sadly at Lottie. Lottie could see inevitability creeping behind her eyes like the dunes across the desert. It was going to swamp her.

Bili cleared her throat. “Well, actually, there’s heaps on the Discord—” she started.

Zynara’s impatience crested first. She glared at the three of them—Lottie, Bili and Ace seated in a neat row on the couch opposite her. The British contingent. They’d never looked more foreign. “And you are?”

Bili made the mistake of looking at Ace before she answered, and Zynara snapped.

“I don’t know any of you, yet you came to my rescue faster than my own people did.

Two of my detail—women who have served me for years—are in hospital with serious gunshot wounds, and yet you three followed me down the mountain while Sami—my own chief of intelligence—was still scrambling.

You have my gratitude of course, but I would appreciate knowing who the fuck you are.

” Her voice sharpened, but Lottie could still hear the tiredness in it. “And who you work for.”

Sami put a hand on her knee. “Niz, it’s fine—”

“It’s not. I’ve had enough of being a pawn in other people’s games. Tell me.”

Sami and Ace shared a long and assessing look and Zynara only seemed to get angrier. “I gave you the order, not him. Tell me now, please!”

Sami nodded.

Ace sat up straighter. “My name is Melanie Swift—”

Lottie couldn’t stop a snort. It had never even crossed her mind that ‘Ace’ might be a nickname. ‘Melanie’ was the last thing she’d expected. Bili smacked her.

“I work for—”

A knock on the door stopped her and Lottie held her breath as a servant walked in and spoke with Romaissa. Was Ace about to reveal the existence of the Circle? An organisation that had operated in complete secrecy since the 1860s?

“The Q’sar wishes to see you, Highness,” Romaissa said.

There was another long sigh. “Of course he does.”

No one moved for a moment, then Zynara unfolded herself and stood. She went to the window first and stared out of it. Dusk was settling over the palace gardens. Lottie could see the sunset painting highlights in her hair.

“Two attempts on your life in the same week, Niz. He’s worried,” Sami murmured.

Zynara ignored him. Everyone waited. Finally, she pulled herself tall and turned back to face them.

“Excuse me, please,” she said. She pointed at Bili and Ace, and sneered slightly.

“Don’t imagine any of you are off the hook.

” The finger pointed to Lottie, then crooked.

“ You will come with me.” She appeared to reconsider. “You will also behave.”

As meek as she’d ever been, Lottie left every smartarsed remark unsaid, and followed the Qasira through the palace.

The Q’sar’s private quarters weren’t grand. They were lived in.

Lottie’s very first glimpse gripped her tight in a way that felt like regret—or longing— neither of which made sense.

She was a hired gun. Why would a room like this make her wish for a life she’d never even known?

Lottie scammed her way through everything.

She’d never found herself wanting something she couldn’t steal.

But this? This was shabby. In a palace of luxuries, there was nothing here even worth lifting, yet it was all worth more than anything Lottie had ever owned. This was a home.

There were books everywhere—laying open on a vast cedarwood table, spilling out of shelves, stacked on footstools.

Cushions were strewn on hand-woven carpets.

Both the cushions and the carpets were worn, as if they’d been chosen thirty years ago and been comfortable ever since.

A tattered throw-rug was just the same, draped over a leather chesterfield that had seen better days and had three open books face down on its back.

A guitar leaned against an easy chair. There was a lute in the corner. Every surface not covered by books supported a forest of photo frames. A collection of glass paperweights gathered like bubbles on a side table and a forgotten cup of tea sat with them—in the company of yet another book.

Low lamps lit the room and mosaic-glass lanterns hung in the windows that led out to the gardens. A powerful fragrance of jasmine drifted in on the evening breeze, mingling with something warmer. Spices, slow-cooked meat and stone-baked bread.

The king of Ain Zargiers was clearing a space on a low table for dinner, and he smiled at Lottie.

“You must be the young woman who saved my daughter.”

His voice was rich and deep. Again, that curious tightness squeezed Lottie’s throat.

This man was royalty, sure, but he spoke with the warmth of a father—that useless brand of creature Lottie had never known and never had a need for—and the way he looked at his daughter, the way he welcomed Lottie into his life hit her hard.

How could she suddenly be grieving something she’d never experienced?

The Q’sar looked frailer than she’d expected. The elegant man Lottie knew from media shots was schlepping around in traditional robes that had definitely seen better days, and the twinkle in his sharp eyes seemed to anticipate all the contradictions Lottie was feeling.

She hovered, unsure, but he winked. She grinned back. Zynara watched the two of them, then strode forward to kiss her father on the cheek—royalty as ordinary as anyone.

“Twice,” Zynara said, lightly. “But I’d prefer you didn’t go on about it, Baba. Her head is big enough as it is.”

The Q’sar’s eyebrows shot up, then he swatted Zynara’s arm and thrust a pile of books at her. “Come in, Charlotte Finch. Sit down. We are in your debt. Ignore my daughter. I am grateful.”

A servant with a tray brought the meal to the table and the Q’sar waved him away when he began to serve. Zynara dropped to the cushions beside the Q’sar’s armchair and ladled a rich tagine into bowls. Lottie hesitated, then lowered herself onto a floor cushion like she belonged there.

Which she absolutely didn’t, but damn she wished she did.

She listened to the Q’sar grill Zynara about her ordeal.

They swapped between English, Arabic and Tamazight, not to hide what they were saying from her, but because that seemed to be the way they thought—English for politics, Arabic for engineering, Tamazight for affection—and Lottie admired and envied that too.

Their voices drifted over her and made her think of Memeti and life, choices and opportunities.

She watched Zynara and marvelled at how vulnerable she looked, sat on cushions chasing stew around her bowl with flatbread.

How tender this moment felt, and how lucky Lottie was to be in it.

Under the table, Zynara slipped off her shoes and pressed the arch of her foot against Lottie’s thigh. Every now and then, her toes curled. It felt casual.

It felt like love.

When the meal was done, the Q’sar finally turned to Lottie. “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “What brought you to Azzouan?”

Lottie opened her mouth. Closed it. Her instinct was to lie. Default to some slick, practiced cover. But Zynara was watching her too. Not the cool, collected Qasira. Just a woman watching her with curiosity and trust.

Lottie really, really wanted to be worthy of that trust.

“I’m sure you know about your son’s party girls,” she started, carefully.

“Of course.”

“And I know your intelligence people work closely with our team in the UK.”

He nodded.

“So you already know who I am,” she said.

Two sets of gorgeously warm eyes regarded her patiently.

There were so many chances here—wonderful possibilities that swirled around the glisten on Zynara’s lip, the heat of her foot on Lottie’s leg, the relief that had coursed through her entire body when she kissed Zynara after the crash, the feeling of family that was here, and the safety of home like she’d never known.

So much potential to completely fuck this up.

She took a deep breath.