The Sheikh’s Pregnant Lover (Sheikhs of Al-Dashalid Book 1) Page 10

  Hannah couldn’t breathe.

  She felt like a rat in a maze. There might be a treat at the end, but someone else determined where she could go, what she could do. It was worse than not being able to travel at all—she couldn’t even choose her own destinations.

  “This—” She managed the single word.

  “I know. It’s perfect,” Kyril said.

  “This isn’t what I want.”

  Kyril’s mouth dropped open. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  Hannah’s mind raced. She simply couldn’t live with someone who controlled every aspect of her life like this. It would drive her insane. She needed some autonomy, some small power over her life, and she felt it slipping through her fingers with every moment she spent on the yacht.

  Hannah gave Kyril the business card back and stood up, straightening her back. “Thank you very much for the escape.” She looked him straight in the eye. “It was wonderful. But when we return to the palace, things have to change.”

  “What?”

  “Either you and your family need to give me some space to live my life, or I’m going to move out of the palace.” It was the right decision. She knew it the moment the words left her lips.

  Kyril scoffed. “That won’t be possible. It’s not safe for you outside the palace now. You’re a member of the royal family, pregnant with a possible heir, and that makes you both targets.” He stood up, the distance between them miles wide. “It’s my duty to protect you. I need to keep you safe, and that means I need to keep you close…or at least in approved surroundings.”

  It was as if he hadn’t heard her at all.

  Hannah’s chest went tight and cold. She was an adult woman. Getting married didn’t make her Kyril’s property, or his duty. The icy freeze in her chest was replaced by a scorching anger, and her face went hot. It must be tomato red—she could feel it in her cheeks.

  With a burst of horror, she saw the rest of her life laid out before her. Kyril, always seizing control. Her own being shrinking to the size of a ceremonial figure. The walls of the palace would seem more like a prison. All that space outside in the gardens—it was only an illusion if she could never truly leave. Living in the palace was lovely, predictable, and boring, and the yacht was taking her back to that place as quickly as it could. She wanted out. A place to breathe. A place to run. But they were in the middle of the sea.

  That didn’t mean she had to stay in this suite with Kyril.

  “When we get back,” Hannah said evenly, “I’m moving out of the palace. Until you can see me as a person who can take care of myself—an adult—I refuse to be smothered like this. I’m done.”

  Kyril took one step toward her. “Hannah—”

  She raised a hand in the air, stopping him. “I’m done.” She wouldn’t raise their child to be a hothouse flower, overprotected and fragile. And she wouldn't live that way herself. “I’ll allow our marriage to stand, because I know it’s important for our baby to have access to both parents. But this, between us?” Hannah stood her ground. “The romance is over.”

  Hannah walked out, heading directly for one of the smaller suites on the yacht. Her heart sank with every step.

  To her disgust, she’d been right. She’d been right all along that marrying simply for residency, for parental rights, had been the best idea. She should have stuck to her guns, stayed independent, made her own plans. Married in legal status only.

  And worst of all?

  Kyril didn’t love her. He only wanted to do his duty. All his charms—they were a false front, and she’d fallen for it.

  Hannah closed the door behind her, fell onto the bed, and cried.

  17

  The suite in the palace was made awful by Hannah’s absence. Kyril felt the emptiness sink into his lungs with every breath. Every painful breath.

  She’d stayed true to her word. When they’d docked at the port, she’d insisted on leaving without him, taking a cab to a hotel. He didn’t know which one she was at yet, but he’d sent Hameen after her—how could he not?—and was certain the man would report in when she was settled in her room. Kyril hated this helplessness. He hoped Hameen had the sense to suggest one of the better hotels in the city, one with security.

  It hurt him, feeling so helpless. His skin felt rough and sensitive, and being in the suite they’d shared wasn’t helping.

  He’d made a mistake.

  Many mistakes.

  That much was clear.

  But which mistake, exactly, had pushed her to leave him like this? He could understand her need for freedom—he’d wished for the same thing as a teenager, when royal responsibility had chafed like a tight collar. There were plenty of times when he’d wished for a different life. A less conspicuous life. Over time, Kyril had come to see that responsibility as a blessing. He could make people’s lives better on a grand scale, and that wasn’t a privilege granted to just anyone.

  He’d wanted to make Hannah’s life better. Was that so wrong? He’d wanted to protect her.

  Perhaps he should have protected her from his mother and sister. They’d swooped in on her with the wedding planning, giving her hardly any room to breathe. Kyril didn’t relish a confrontation with his mother, much less when she was parked with his sister.

  He put a hand to his chest, trying to calm the ache that radiated from his breastbone. He couldn’t sort all of it out. The only thing he did know was that he loved Hannah, and she was gone.

  Overprotective. She’d been angry because he was overprotective, but Kyril knew how easily things could go wrong in the world. The fire at his boarding school had been proof of that. He’d claimed everyone was accounted for, but one boy had been left behind. He’d been rescued by the fire crew—in the end, he suffered only from mild smoke inhalation—but it taught Kyril the value of double-checking. Triple-checking, if need be. The memory took him back to that day on a current of sheer feeling. The shame had been nearly unbearable. It had changed his life forever.

  He couldn’t stay still any longer.

  Kyril wandered through the suite, aimless, looking for any place he could feel at home. He tried the bedroom. The exercise room. The library.

  There wasn’t anywhere. Not the sitting room, not the office, not the den.

  Finally, he found himself in the nursery.

  It was immaculate. A folded blanket hung neatly over the side of the white crib Hannah had chosen, a splash of yellow in the gray and white scheme. Everything about the room seemed soft and soothing. Kyril sighed. Would his child ever sleep in here? Without Hannah, it seemed to lack something—a soul, perhaps. He turned to go, but the clutter on the desk caught his eye.

  Hannah had made a little workspace for herself next to the changing table, which she’d already stocked with neat stacks of diapers, wipes and cream. The surface of the desk was scattered with small objects, and one larger one. It looked like a craft project. It was a craft project. But which one of the many she’d started was this?

  He went closer.

  It was a mobile, half assembled, and it was nothing like the mobiles Hannah had shown him in the magazines he’d given her. Those were miniature pieces of art, with abstract pieces to coordinate with the rest of the nursery. This wouldn’t be like that at all when it was finished. The objects surrounding it on the desk were mementos. They belonged to Hannah, and he recognized quite a few of them. A miniature Eiffel Tower. The little figurine of the gondola. Those two were already attached to the mobile.

  He sat heavily on a low chair next to the desk, the mobile in his hands.

  It was utterly impractical, that thing. Too crafty for his taste—how could she be sure the ornaments wouldn’t come off?—but it was the only thing in the whole suite that felt like Hannah. It was entirely unapologetic for its loudness, for the quirky arrangement of the ornaments, for the way it was handmade.

  Kyril ran his thumb over the smooth surface of the gondola, and his heart pulsed, a sharper ache.

  It was an international mobi
le, that was clear, and all the colors and trinkets reminded him powerfully of her. Hannah had been bold enough to insist on her own way, even in the face of his power. She’d planned her own trips. She’d been so satisfied at the end of every day, even with aching feet and a sunburn. When everything went right, she relished it. Her plans in Venice had been arranged down to the minute, and he knew that if he’d let her carry on with them, she’d have done it all.

  Even when she’d pushed back against his protectiveness, it had been wonderful. It had all turned out wonderfully. Who knew baklava could work as an appetizer? She’d made them visit every ruin in Rome, even after he forbid her from seeing the Tarpeian Rock from the summit, and all afternoon in that bouncing Jeep, he’d had the time of his life with her hand in his. Kyril never would have hired that particular driver, but that was the magic of Hannah. With her, things seemed to turn out just right. Even the wedding ceremony on the yacht had been perfect. Far better than signing a document in a stuffy office, as he’d arranged.

  Except this time.

  He’d driven her to the edge, and in typical Hannah fashion, she’d leapt into independence. Kyril turned the mobile over in his hands. She wasn’t just willful, he realized. She was strong. Her life had made her strong in a way that he hadn’t yet appreciated. He was certain that she wouldn’t be so strong if it hadn’t been for those early hardships.

  He’d underestimated her.

  Kyril let out a short breath, regret washing over him. He loved Hannah, and he respected her. He respected the way she moved in the world. He respected her capabilities. And he respected her strength of self.

  He’d done a poor job of showing it. A very poor job. And that was why she was somewhere in the city, alone, and he was here. Alone.

  It was clear to Kyril then, as clear as the glass in Venice, that he was in danger of losing her.

  The tighter he tried to hold her, the more she would push away.

  The more he tried to shelter Hannah, the faster and farther she would run.

  If he kept this up, he’d lose her for good.

  Hope rose, fiery in his chest. He couldn’t lose her.

  He stood up from the chair, holding the mobile tight in his hands. Kyril knew in the depths of his soul that he had one final chance…and he knew what he would do with it, for better or for worse.

  18

  Hannah leaned back against the pillows piled high on her bed, trying to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy in this hotel. The bed felt wrong, somehow, and no matter how many pillows she stuffed behind her, her back still ached. If she was being honest, her heart ached, too. It had been exhilarating to make her own plans again, to get into that car without another person telling her what to do. But after two days of being in the hotel room, the exhilaration had worn off. It seemed so…empty.

  She needed a distraction.

  Her trusty purse lay beside the bed, and Hannah sat up with a groan, reaching for the handle. It felt heavier than ever before, but she hauled it up on the bed with her nonetheless. She gave it a familiar pat. The bag had been with her for several years, all through her tour, all through her honeymoon with Kyril, and it was with her still. Unlike Kyril. The thought made her stomach turn.

  It was cluttered with all sorts of mementos from Rome. She found what she was looking for at the very bottom—a neat stack of postcards, tied together with a length of ribbon.

  Her sister should have something from her. She didn’t have an international plan on her phone, and with a stab of guilt she realized it had been quite some time since she’d called Helen, or even emailed. She hadn’t even shared the news of her marriage. It was something she wanted to do in person, so a postcard would have to do in the meantime. Though…would it be anything to announce? She couldn’t quite face the idea of telling Helen that she was married but that she was already separated from the father of her child. Not that they were getting a divorce, but…

  It was too much. Back to the postcards.

  They were pleasingly glossy, and Hannah flipped through them one by one, smiling in spite of herself. The pictures were gorgeous, idealized versions of every place she’d visited in Europe. There was one from Paris, one from Berlin, and many, many more from Italy. She’d come back to Italy more than once.

  When she reached the Venice and Santorini postcards, a quiet joy rose to the front of her mind. They’d had such an amazing time, she and Kyril. They’d shared so much laughter, and now she was laughing alone, in a decent-enough hotel room. She could practically hear his disapproval now. There must be somewhere else to go, he’d say. The security here isn’t worthy of a member of the royal family. Our child should be better protected.

  The postcards were supposed to be distracting her from her current heartbreaking predicament, but it wasn’t working. All she could think of was Kyril.

  Well, what else was there to think about? What else was there to do? Why not allow herself to linger on his features, on his laugh, on the way he stood so confidently between Hannah and the world? She could spare a few minutes to wallow in her sadness.

  But when she focused on his face, in sharp relief in her mind, she found she couldn’t wallow at all. The memory of his grin made her grin. And they’d been through so much together! The lava cake incident would be a highlight for the ages, and Kyril—oh, he’d been so intent on making sure everyone was safe. Especially her. Her above all. She could still feel the way his arms had cradled her on the way out of the villa. He’d been calm and strong, everything she’d wished for when she and Helen had spent all those years alone.

  Hannah dropped her postcards to her lap with a sigh, hot tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She loved Kyril. It was a truth she couldn’t avoid, as much as she wanted to avoid it by writing out this postcard.

  She wiped furiously at her eyes. Why couldn’t he stop protecting her long enough to see that what she needed wasn’t someone to smooth out every bump in the road, but a companion to share the ride, no matter how bumpy it got?

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she told herself sternly.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Hannah bolted upright, her heart singing with hope.

  She dashed to the door, pausing only once at the mirror to dab at her eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

  He stood in the hallway, his dark gaze apologetic and hopeful, too.

  “Kyril,” she said softly, ignoring the flood of relief she felt at the sight of him. She steeled herself against his aura of power.

  “May I come in?” It wasn’t a demand, but a request.

  She held the door steady. “Are you going to listen to me?”

  Kyril nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “I won’t let you in until you admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “Admit that I’m capable of living my own life.”

  “I know,” Kyril said, his eyes sincere. “You are more than capable. I was wrong to do what I did.”

  “How exactly were you wrong? Tell me, and then we’ll discuss coming in.”

  “I was controlling,” Kyril said. “I did things against your wishes. I tried to make every decision for your best interests, but I didn’t consult you.”

  “You’re getting there.”

  “I didn’t respect your independence.”

  “That’s right,” Hannah said.

  Kyril cleared his throat and tried again. “Will you let me in?”

  She looked him square in the eye for a long moment.

  “All right.”

  He stepped inside,

  Hannah closed the door carefully behind them. To her surprise, she saw he was carrying the mobile from the nursery. Kyril caught her looking.

  “What’s that? A parting gift?”

  “I brought this,” he began, eyes blazing, “because it reminded me of you. And it reminded me that you’re not a fragile, delicate flower. You’re strong, Hannah. You’re so strong.”

  She smiled, then straightened ou
t her face and waited. “I am.” Joy fluttered in her veins, but Hannah didn’t let it get the best of her. Not yet.

  “I sat there in that empty nursery, thinking of how poor a job I’d done at honoring your strength, and I knew. I had to take a chance on you.”

  Hannah fought the temptation to accept his apology immediately. “Before you go any further—”

  “Hannah, let me—”

  “No.” She interrupted him without hesitation. “Before you go any further, I need to know. Are you saying this because you love me or because you want to salvage your reputation?”

  He did not look away. “I want to salvage my reputation. But more than that, I love you.”

  “I don’t know that I can take your word for it.”

  “Then let me say something else. You’re perfect for me.” She scoffed, but Kyril kept speaking. “My family and I had no right to try and force you to fit into our notion of what my wife should be or how you should live. If that happened—” He laughed. “If that ever happened, if I managed to protect you from everything in the world, you wouldn’t be the strong Hannah who’s perfect in every way. Who fits me in every way. You wouldn’t be the independent woman I love.”

  Hannah felt one tear slip down her cheek, then another.

  “I love you, Kyril.” She trembled in front of him, and he put the mobile on the hotel dresser and took her in his arms. From head to toe, she relaxed in his embrace. His touch was the sweetest thing she’d experienced all day. Maybe all year.

  She allowed him to hold her for a moment, then straightened up. She found herself drawn to the mobile. “Oh—you finished it.”

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind. This was my project. You shouldn’t have taken it over.”

  “Apologies,” said Kyril.

  “That said—” It was the perfect combination of both of their sensibilities. He’d participated in the arrangement without overpowering her vision, which was exactly what she wanted out of a life together. “You did a nice job.” She turned back to him and kissed his cheek.