Bound to the Warrior King. Maisey Yates

the brilliant thing about being sheikh. What do you want to wear? Who do you want to be?”

      “I do not have the capacity to care about such a thing as clothing,” he said, “but perhaps there is a connection I am missing?”

      She straightened, indicating the well-fitted white dress she was wearing. “Clothing is important. It presents a certain image. I would like to think mine conveys quiet luxury and sophistication. Something people prize in a queen, or so I was told.”

      “I...I see how that could be.”

      “Good,” she said. “You care about your people. I know you do.”

      “More than my own life,” he said.

      Her stomach tightened, that conviction, that bone-deep certainty of his opening up a cavern of longing from deep within. To have someone care about her with that ferocity. With that strength.

      She swallowed hard. No. Even letting herself think about that was dangerous.

      “We are in a new age in Tahar,” he said, his tone grave. “And I am able to lead us there. I will. Let us show them.”

      “Well, seeing as we can’t put you on the back of a white stallion brandishing a sword, I’m going to go with a power suit. I’ll make some phone calls. We will be in touch.”

      With that, she walked out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, and beat a hasty retreat back to her own quarters. She needed some time alone. Needed some time to think. She had to get a handle on herself, because she couldn’t act in such a stupid, unthinking way again.

      If nothing else, her own response to him, the emotional fallout of it, was reason enough.

      She knew better than to need. Knew better than to depend on anyone.

      She simply needed to remember.