Page 81 of Dalla's Royal Guards
The memories brushed over her like silk—soft, faded, bittersweet. Musad’s hand slipped over her knee, his touch steady and grounding.
“They do. We’re very proud of Narva,” he said quietly, caressing her with his thumb. “I hope you’ll love it as much as we do.”
Dalla turned to look at him. Her smile trembled, but she nodded. “I already do.”
The helicopter swept around the palace before settling onto the helipad with a soft thrum. The floodlights flared around them, casting long shadows across the ancient stones. Nasser opened the side door and jumped down with practiced ease, then turned back with a grin.
“Hand me your gear,” he called over the wind of the blades.
Dalla passed him her bow and quiver. He placed them to the side before reaching up again. His hands wound around her waist, strong and possessive. She barely had time to react before helifted her down and held her against him—tight, solid, full of fire and fierce emotion. His lips crashed onto hers, a kiss that stole her breath and anchored her heart.
It held promise. And love. And the desperate need never to be apart again.
When they broke apart, their foreheads pressed together for a moment before he stepped back and offered his hand. She took it.
Musad was already climbing out, his boots landing beside her. Together, they retrieved their bags. Dalla slung her quiver over one shoulder and reclaimed her bow, the familiar weight reassuring. The three of them turned as one, walking toward the palace under the floodlights’ glow.
A line of men in dark uniforms waited for them.
Donovan stood at attention, but his eyes softened when they landed on Dalla. Flanking him was a tall, older man with silver at his temples and fire in his eyes—Hari Al-Rashid, the King of Narva.
Dalla slowed, her heart tripping in her chest. Her eyes locked on his face, on the regal lines and weathered grace, and her breath caught.
Gerold,she thought. This is what he would have looked like in his later years.
Hari didn’t speak right away. His eyes swept over Nasser and Musad, shoulders visibly relaxing only once he saw for himself that they were whole. Then his gaze settled on her—and something shifted in his expression. Recognition. Relief. Emotion too great to contain.
He stepped forward, his hands outstretched in silent greeting.
Dalla moved without thinking, her bow sliding into Musad’s hand as she stepped into Hari’s arms. The king pulled her in close, strong arms trembling slightly as he held her to his chest.
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice thick. “Thank you for protecting my sons… and for bringing my granddaughter home.”
Tears burned in Dalla’s eyes, slipping free as she returned his embrace. His embrace reminded her so much of her father’s that for a moment, she was overwhelmed. She buried her face against his neck and held him tightly in return.
When he pulled back, Hari cupped her face in both hands and smiled down at her with a fierce, fatherly love that shattered her from the inside out. He brushed a thumb against her cheek and turned to Nasser.
“I’m proud of you, my son,” he said, clasping Nasser’s forearm. Then he turned to Musad and did the same. “Both of you.”
He took a step back and waved them toward the palace doors. “Now come. I want to hear everything. And curse the gods for not being there myself. Cianna and I have been busy all day baking cookies and brownies to celebrate your return.”
Dalla blinked. “Cookies?”
Hari grinned. “And brownies. Wait until you taste them.”
Musad groaned and rubbed his stomach. “Prepare yourself,” he warned Dalla. “This is a lifelong addiction waiting to happen.”
Nasser leaned in with a grin. “Once you’ve had his cookies, you’ll never want another.”
Hari beamed with pride. “If I ever step down from the throne, I might take my talents to the streets. His Majesty’s Royal Cookie Cart. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
Laughter bubbled out of Dalla, a sound she hadn’t made in days. “You might have a business empire on your hands.”
Their voices echoed in the stone hallway as they stepped into the palace through a side entrance. But instead of the formal grand hall, they entered through the kitchen. Warm light spilled across gleaming countertops. The smell of cinnamon, melted chocolate, and roasted almonds greeted her, making her stomach rumble.
The palace kitchen pulsed with warmth—their laughter and the promise of a midnight treat beckoning. It pulled her back into another time. Memories of when she had snuck down to the kitchen to steal some of Cook’s fresh bread, cheese, and fruit while she guarded the two men she loved.
Not love. Just infatuation. What I feel for Nasser and Musad is much deeper,she thought, smiling at Nasser teasing his father.I could never leave them.
