Page 41 of Desert King's Forbidden Temptation

He stalked to the door and pressed in his code again, pushing the thing open. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’

She nodded, excitement and anxiety at war within her. Stepping into the cabin, she reached for the light switch, flicked it, then frowned when it didn’t do anything. She flicked it again.

‘Uh-oh.’ She pulled her phone from her pocket, turning on the torch function, moving into the kitchen and rooting around for candles and matches. She presumed both would be available, given there was a fireplace in the corner. In the third drawer down, she found what she was looking for, and busied herself arranging candlesticks in glasses, bunching them together.

The result, a few minutes later, was more light, but far, far too much ambience. Her veins felt sticky. He stepped into the cabin, and even in the dim light of the candles, she saw the look on his face as he scanned the room.

‘The lights aren’t working.’

He moved to the switch and tried it himself. Nothing.

‘The generator should still be powering things. I’ll go and inspect it.’

He departed quickly, evidently as keen to avoid a night in a candlelit cabin with her, as she was him. She paced the floor as she waited, listening to the sound of the night now—birds, the breeze in the trees, and nothing else. It was so quiet up here. So peaceful.

She stopped walking and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. It was easy to understand why he and his father would come here.

‘It’s fried,’ he said with a shake of his head, striding back into the cabin.

‘Fried?’

‘A casualty of the earthquake. It will have to wait until tomorrow.’

‘Candles it is then,’ she said, aiming for a lighthearted tone and failing.

He looked around, and she almost laughed, because for the first time since meeting him, he looked lost.

She understood.

They were fighting this thing so hard, and yet here they were, stranded in a beautiful cabin on the edge of the world, as stripped away from the concerns of royalty and nationhood as it was possible to be. But none of it was real—their isolation was just an illusion. In the morning, he’d still be the Sheikh of Savisia, destined to marry her best friend.

She crossed her arms over her torso and moved to the sofa, weaving around him carefully, sitting right on the edge.

‘I’ll check the bed,’ he said stiffly. She heard the tone of his voice and understood. He was holding on to his control carefully, but it was taking effort.

This was insufferable.

‘What for?’

‘So you can sleep in it.’

She furrowed her brow. ‘You can’t be meaning to sleep on this?’ she said, her hand slicing through the air. ‘It’s far too small.’

‘I’ll sleep on the floor.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she responded with a shake of her head. ‘I’ll take the sofa; you have the bed.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Why? It’s logical.’

‘You are a woman and the bed is more comfortable. Naturally you should sleep there.’

She didn’t know how to tell him she wouldn’t be doing much sleeping, knowing he was within a couple of metres of her. ‘That’s ridiculously old-fashioned. I’m fine with the sofa.’

‘But I’m not.’

‘Yeah, well, what are you going to do about it?’

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