Page 5 of Her Vow to Be His Desert Queen

She laughed.

Khalil waited patiently for Sidonie to stop laughing, watching her green eyes light up and her pale, creamy, freckle-dotted skin flush.

He remembered that laugh. Remembered the way it lit her up inside. Remembered how it had used to make him laugh too, which he’d always found curious, as he’d never had anything to laugh about.

It had been so long since he’d seen her. So long since he’d heard that laugh. So long since he’d laughed at anything himself. He’d almost forgotten how.

If he’d still been her friend, he would have laughed too. But he wasn’t her friend, not any more, and so he only looked at her, drinking in the sight.

She was different. He’d been able to tell the moment he’d walked in.

Her fire-red hair was piled up on top of her head in her usual bun—he remembered her sticking a pen in it to hold it in place when they’d used to study together—but it wasn’t messy the way he remembered it. It was neat and tidy, not a hair out of place. No stray curls falling down around her ears and the back of her neck, softening her lovely, heart-shaped face.

She wasn’t in one of the colourful dresses she’d always worn either. Tonight she was in severe black trousers and a crisp white shirt, a black jacket folded neatly on the seat beside her.

She didn’t smile at him, not the way she’d used to. Those green eyes of hers had been nothing but hostile ever since he’d sat down, and even the way she was laughing right now had an edge to it that held no amusement.

Are you surprised? After you ignored her for five years?

He hadn’t ignored her. He’d cut her off completely. Which made coming back to England a gamble, but one he’d been willing to make.

Yet he’d been away a long time and, with the memory of their last meeting echoing in the space between them, this had never been going to be easy.

It had to be done, though.

He was here to hold her to her promise. She had to be his wife.

He’d wanted her even back when they’d been friends. Right from the first moment he saw her standing in the stacks in the college library, her red hair glowing in a shaft of dusty sunlight, her skin pale as porcelain, her eyes green as grass.

But an affair with her had never been on the cards. She’d been nothing but sunshine and warmth, while he’d been all darkness and doubt, and he hadn’t wanted any part of his darkness to touch her. Friendship was all he could do and friends they were.

Until that night in Soho when she’d told him she loved him, and he knew he couldn’t be friends with her any longer.

He’d been in shock that night, not expecting her confession. No one had ever said those words to him before, not one person, and to hear them from her...

Every part of him had wanted to take her in his arms and cover her mouth, kiss her senseless, tell her that he loved her too, that he didn’t want to leave her. He never wanted to leave her.

Except his father had died and his country was in turmoil, and he’dhadto leave. He had to take the throne he was heir to. He was responsible for protecting his people and it wasn’t a duty he could walk away from.

So he’d walked away from her instead.

Love wasn’t permitted for kings; he’d learned that from an early age. Emotion in general wasn’t permitted. Kings had to make hard decisions, they had to do terrible things to protect people, and for him to make those decisions and do those terrible things he had to be hard too. Harder than stone.

It had been necessary to walk away from her. He couldn’t be the man he’d been in England, Sidonie’s friend. He couldn’t be a man at all. He had to be a king. And so that was what he’d become.

He’d told her he wouldn’t be coming back to England, and that she shouldn’t contact him again, because he’d had to. It had been harsh, but he hadn’t wanted her to live in hope he’d ever return her feelings, that he’d ever return, full stop.

It was always the sharpest cuts that healed the fastest.

He’d never thought he’d go back on that decision, either, not until the question of marriage and heirs had been brought up by his advisors. Not until he’d looked at the list of potential queens that had been suggested, and he’d seen they were all women with families who wanted position and influence in his court, perpetuating the cycle of intrigue and corruption once again.

He’d always intended to rule differently from his father, and his time in England with Sidonie had taught him about the power of laughter. Of happiness. Of hope. He wanted that for his people after the trauma of his father’s reign, and, while he couldn’t provide that laughter and happiness and hope himself, his queen could.

A queen like Sidonie.

He’d been toying with that idea while he’d looked over marriage contracts, which had then got him thinking about the promise Sidonie had written on that serviette. The one she’d made him sign.

It had come to him then, blindingly, that the answer had been staring him in the face all this time. The woman who’d taught him how to laugh, how to enjoy the simple pleasures in life, how to be an ordinary person, the woman who’d given him a taste of happiness... She could be his queen. She could bring all those precious qualities he’d once admired, her honesty and empathy, and warmth, to Al Da’ira. She could help him bring joy back to a country which had been crushed under the heel of a tyrant.

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