Page 60 of Dalla's Royal Guards
Whatever she was—angel, demon, alien, god—it didn’t matter.
He would carve the truth from her one layer at a time.
And then… he would take it for himself.
Seventeen
“You’ve slain me,” Dalla said with mock drama, running her fingers along the silky-soft forest green blouse as she fumbled with the buttons, her fingers trembling. “I shall never recover.”
“Then we should keep you locked in this room,” Musad replied from where he lounged near the doorway, arms crossed and one dark brow lifted. “For your own safety, of course.”
Nasser snorted. “Or ours.”
Dalla cast a look over her shoulder, her lips twitching despite the tremor inside her. “Insatiable monsters—the both of you.”
“Insatiable? Yes. Monsters? Only the kind that like to devour you,” Nasser playfully growled as he leaned in, brushing her side with his shoulder as he passed. “You were the one who begged for more.”
She gasped as she sat down on the edge of the bed. Reaching for a throw pillow, she chucked it at him. He ducked with a grin, catching it mid-air and tossing it neatly back onto the bed again.
Smiling, Dalla pulled on a pair of lightweight black cargo pants that hugged her hips and slender thighs. She slid on matching black socks before rising to step into a pair of ankle boots Musad had found for her. The outfit was deceptively simple—chic, practical, and yet molded to her in a way that made her feel strong… but feminine. In control… and wildly out of it.
She loved the clothes, but it was the lingerie underneath that made her blush.
Soft, lacy pieces of fabric—barely there—cupped her breasts and nestled between her thighs. It felt like the whisper of a secret pressed against her skin, one only they knew. And the way they had looked at her when she tried to get dressed earlier…
Heat flared through her. They hadn’t made it easy.
Now, as the clock ticked closer to the hour, she was to meet Harlem. Her nerves danced like fireflies under her skin, her palms were damp, and her heart felt as if it might hammer its way out of her ribcage. She knew their playful banter had been an attempt to distract her.
What if it wasn’t really him? What if I imagined his voice? What if… what if he has changed?
What if I’ve changed too much?
Forget thecovers, she was seconds away from diving under thebedand refusing to come out! She was so lost in her personal torment that she sucked in a sharp breath when Nasser’s gentle fingers brushed through her hair.
She turned her head and blinked when he slid behind her on the bed, a soft-bristled brush in hand.
“What are you?—?”
“Shhh,” he murmured. “Let me.”
She relaxed with a deep sigh, leaning back as he brushed through her thick, honey-brown locks. The sensation was soothing—almost hypnotic. Each stroke calmed her nerves, like wind smoothing waves on a stormy sea.
“Where did you learn to do this?” she asked, her voice hushed as she closed her eyes.
Musad’s deep chuckle preceded his answer . “Our sister, Lissa. She used to make us do her hair when we were younger. She said she liked the way we braided her hair better than the servants.”
“It was the only thing that made her smile for a long time after our mother left,” Nasser said quietly.
Dalla turned her head, searching his face. His eyes were soft, his touch stilling for a moment.
“She left you?” she asked, surprised.
“She took the family jewels and ran as fast as she could,” Musad said grimly from the doorway. “With her lover in tow, of course.”
“It didn’t last,” Nasser added, resuming the braid. “She got what she deserved in the end. But Lissa… she needed something to hold on to. So we did her hair. Every day.”
Dalla’s heart ached. These men—her men—had carried so much pain, and yet they still gave so much love.
