Page 83 of Dalla's Royal Guards
“Then, you and Nasser must do everything in your power to keep her safe.”
Musad met his gaze and saw the truth there—the pride, the fear, the deep well of relief at his son’s safe return. It softened something inside him.
“We will,” he said hoarsely.
Hari stood, pausing beside him. He rested his hand on Musad’s shoulder, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick.
“I love you, Musad. I’m damn proud of you and Nasser.”
The words struck deeper than he would have expected. In that moment, Musad heard all the nights their father had stayed awake waiting for news. The pressure of ruling. The pain of watching his children go off on a mission that could end in tragedy. The pride… and the fear.
“I love you too,” Musad said quietly.
Hari nodded and stepped away, retreating toward his rooms.
Musad stood alone in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the two glasses. He rinsed the glasses, set them carefully on a towel, and drew a deep breath.
The silence stretched again—but this time, it felt like peace. It felt like the breath between heartbeats. Like a door opening instead of one closing.
He turned and climbed the stairs, each footstep slower than the last. At the top, he paused outside Nasser’s suite. There was no sound. No voices. His chest tightened with nerves he hadn’t expected. It confused him. He wasn’t a boy anymore—not that he’d ever brought a woman home, not even for a single night.
Dalla wasn’t a woman to share just one night with.
She was… everything.
He raised his hand to knock before he stopped and lowered it. With a softly muttered curse, he turned towards his suite.
The soft glow of a lamp greeted him in the living room. Another lit the hallway. He walked toward the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt. He had just loosened the cuffs when he saw a movement.
Nasser stood in the doorway, his own shirt unbuttoned, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips.
“About damn time,” Nasser said.
Musad blinked. “What?—?”
He heard the shower turning on, and he turned as Dalla’s soft voice called from inside the bathroom.
“Nasser, do you know when Musad will be back?”
Dalla stepped out, wrapped in a towel, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She paused when she saw him—just for a heartbeat—then her entire expression softened.
“Musad,” she whispered.
She lifted her hand toward him.
The breath rushed out of him as if he had been punched in the chest.
Nasser said with a grin. “Took you long enough. What’d you do—tell him the whole saga?”
Musad lips twitched, and he nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, next time make it the CliffsNotes version.”
Musad chuckled as his doubts, fears, and questions slipped away. A low growl of need slipped from him when Dalla dropped the towel. A wicked smile curved her lips.
“I hope I’m not going to have to wash myself,” she teased.
“I call dibs on her back,” Nasser muttered, stripping out of his clothes.
