The Falcon and the Flame
Copyright © Jolie Dvorak 2025
www.joliedvorak.com
All Rights Reserved.

The right of Jolie Dvorak to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author.

The use of this work in any form for the training, development, or research of artificial intelligence systems or algorithms is strictly prohibited without the direct and explicit consent of the author. This includes, but is not limited to, the use of text, characters, plot elements, and any other component of the work in AI training, machine learning, neural networks, or similar technologies. Violation of this provision may result in legal action.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Cover art by Felix Tindall
www.felixtindall.com

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-76387-455-8
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-76387-454-1
First edition 2025

Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Part Two

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Part Three

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Epilogue

About the Author

Also By Jolie Dvorak

Dear reader

Free short story

Notes

This book is set in the fictional country of Ain Zargiers. Nestled on the azure waters of the Mediterranean somewhere near Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia, it is the wealthiest member of the British Commonwealth. The towers of a glittering city give way to the majestic snow-covered peaks of the Atlas Mountains, which in turn crumble into the desert sands. Over it all, the falcons soar, noble and proud—just like the woman who should sit on the throne.

Back in the United Kingdom, British history has also taken a different turn. Five queens have ruled since the 1800s, and Queen Alexandra is the current monarch. Her personal intelligence agency is known as the Circle—and it is ruled by the enigmatic and utterly lethal Nightingale.

Part One

Chapter One

Why was every damn song about love?

Lottie Finch was a bombshell in a red satin gown with a split up her thigh and boobs to make the gods weep. She had a halo of curls, the voice of a sinner and was, as Lottie frequently mentioned herself, as hot as hell—a fact she pushed to every possible advantage and had all her life. It was a game she played to perfection—one that usually got her everything she wanted.  

Well, mostly.

Often.

Okay, sometimes.

She crooned a Frank Sinatra song into a silver microphone like 1959 was cool again and fluttered her eyelashes at an older butch woman propping up the bar in a business suit. She expected a wink at the very least. The woman sipped her whisky and barely moved. 

The fuck? Was she losing her touch? 

And why was every damn song about being love’s fool?

Lottie sang the blues in a piano bar in a dark corner of London. It was a club in Blackcroft, right on the Thames, where the law kept a distance and the city’s oldest, most esteemed criminal families were the truest powerbrokers. Lottie had been part of this world since she first drew breath, and though she’d tried to escape it innumerable times, something always drew her back. The club was dim and dingy with a vintage vibe that suited its clientele—the queer side of London’s elite. You had to know precisely the right person to get through the door of a bar like this. 

Lottie knew everyone.

Twenty-eight was far too young to be as jaded as Lottie felt, but she’d been blessed with a mind as sharp as crystal, a voice like smoke, gin and sex, plus the hips and cleavage to match. Add in a flexible set of morals and she was the entire package. She’d never been shy about using that to her advantage. Singing in London’s most exclusive and dangerous piano bar for the city’s well-healed LGBT elite gave her her pick of well-monied women. Lottie let them take her to bed all the time.

She let them take her. London’s richest lesbians seemed to have a type—and it was Lottie’s magnificent gift that she could be that type—no matter what it was. She had a talent for keeping women happy, becoming just what they needed, opening their hearts, their legs, and loosening their tongues. Money, secrets, favours, intelligence—Lottie would take payment in any form.

She was a spy—plus a few other things—who sang like an angel and fucked even better—but why was every damn song about the state of her heart?

Her accompanist had no mercy. Harry was a wicked old dyke, dapper in a bow tie, a bottomless martini on the top of the baby grand that she only had to tip her chin at for some pretty young thing in the audience to buy her another. She played the jazz standards like they were the blood in her veins, and tolerated nothing less than perfection. She threw them body and soul into a Billie Holiday hit and Lottie nearly rolled her eyes at the irony. 

“Pick it up, darlin’,” Harry muttered. 

“My heart is sad and lonely—” Lottie sang, and gave Harry the finger as she did. She got a grimace-smile back, which was generous considering in the past such disrespect might have won her a spanking. Harry tilted her head to a particular corner of the bar and gave Lottie a significant look.

Lottie sighed into the song, threw her tits out and sang the damn thing properly.

That corner of the bar was most of the reason Lottie was feeling low.

Her boss sat in the corner. The guv. The woman who ruled London. Her codename was The Nightingale and she was, without shadow of a doubt, the most powerful, influential and dangerous woman in the country. 

She was the leader of the Circle. Known only to its members and the Queen of England, the Circle was the world’s finest intelligence agency—ruthless, sophisticated and impenetrable—and it served the crown and the British people at a level above and beyond government and everyday democracy. It had done so since 1862, when Queen Victoria the First had gathered the finest female minds in the Commonwealth to her service. The Circle had continued through the reign of the five queens that followed her. It survived—and neutralised—the one king who tried to take it down, and now it served Queen Alexandra of Great Britain and All Her Realms and Territories.  

The Nightingale herself was devastatingly beautiful, blisteringly brilliant, lethal with a knife and had saved Lottie’s life—more than once. Lottie had been obsessed with her ever since, but the Nightingale barely looked her way. The woman was completely, wholeheartedly and sickeningly in love with someone else.

Lottie watched with the weight of the spotlight on her eyelashes. Lottie had spunk. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried. She’d thought she was in with a chance when the Nightingale herself had come to spring her from a tight spot in Libya at a time when Lottie was beginning to fear she’d played her last card. There had been a luxury private jet after that—only two of them on the flight back to London. A girl’s got to take advantage of every opportunity offered, right? But the Nightingale had simply smirked, cruelly, Lottie thought, and then resisted every trick in Lottie’s not-insubstantial playbook. 

The woman was inhuman. Had to be. There was no other explanation.

It was just Lottie’s luck that the only woman she’d ever been genuinely interested in was not only her boss, but hopelessly infatuated with another woman.

That other woman was Rose Martin—an ex-cop, Lottie thought darkly, though she also had to admit she was pretty decent. Right now the two of them were kissing in the corner of Lottie’s bar like the world was ending. In her workplace, damn it. Was that fair? The Nightingale had her fingers under Rose Martin’s chin in that greedy, possessive way Lottie had enjoyed a thousand times when she played with other women and secretly wished was real. She wiped Rose’s lips with her thumb when they were done and Rose took it into her mouth and bit it with a cheeky look that nearly lit up the whole damn club. It won her a soft slap to her cheek, fingers around her throat again—and another stupidly long kiss.

Ugh.

Lottie had to squeeze her thighs together and concentrate on her pelvic floor. She sang the wrong verse and hardly heard Harry mutter “For fuck’s sake, Finch.”

It hurt a bit, which was curious because Lottie Finch always prided herself on being note perfect. She was on top of her game. Lottie Finch was one of the Circle’s best operatives. She won every time.

Well, nearly every time.

Mostly.

Really. Often.

Lottie won because she made sure she didn’t have a heart to hurt.

She watched the Nightingale and the Rose canoodling in the corner and considered not having a heart would be whole lot easier to bear if she didn’t have to sing endless fucking songs about it. 

Harry was clearly on a tear. She tinkled the intro to Let’s Fall in Love.

Lottie gave her a sultry smile and mouthed ‘bitch’ but once again Harry gestured to the club. Lottie followed her gaze.

A woman had joined the Nightingale’s table and the whole song tumbled out of Lottie’s lips without her even knowing she was singing it.

The newcomer was striking. Wealthy and queer of course—she wouldn’t be in the room if she wasn’t—but Lottie had the impression of an exquisitely cut suit and the glint of an expensive watch on a slender wrist. She had a natural style that put every woman in the room to shame, and most of the men. Something about the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her head that suggested she carried a power that eclipsed even the Nightingale’s. It was difficult to tell in the low light of the club—even harder with the spotlight blaring down on Lottie’s falsies—but had the Nightingale just stood and bowed to her? 

What the hell?

The woman brushed it away with a wave of her hand then kissed the Nightingale’s cheek like they were old friends—and Lottie wasn’t sure it had happened at all.

One thing was certain—the woman was extraordinary. And Lottie was a hopeless simp for a powerful woman. She sang the rest of her set to her, not even realising the fun Harry was having. Our Love is Here to Stay, Somebody Loves Me, I Can’t Give You Anything But Love. The Gerswhin boys and Cole Porter had some shit to answer for, but Lottie was crooning Nice Work if You Can Get It when all three women at the Nightingale’s table suddenly turned and looked at her.

Even through the dingy club, the woman’s gaze burned on Lottie’s skin like fire.

The women didn’t watch her like other idle audience members enjoying the background music. They watched her with sharp, assessing eyes, with frowns, and decisions on their lips. 

Once, Lottie would have died to have the Nightingale watch her like that. 

Now, she only cared about the mystery woman at her side. 

Every damn song was about love and Lottie could make them sound like sin and salvation, so why didn’t she have a chance in hell of ever loving a woman like that?

Harry had to swat her shoulder to let her know their set was over. “Take five, lady soul,” she said. She followed Lottie’s gaze. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she added softly, nudging Lottie til she stalked off stage. “That’s one conquest you should probably leave alone.”

“You doubting my talents, Harry?”

Harry knew all of Lottie’s talents. She’d helped her refine quite a few. Lottie threw her shoulders back and enjoyed the way the movement drew Harry’s eyes downwards. Lottie had tactics. She had D-cup strategies. She wasn’t afraid to use them.

“Put them away, Finch. That woman out there is way, way out of your league.”

“Who is she?”

But something pretty and far too young for Harry offered her another martini and the moment was gone. When Lottie looked up, the Nightingale and her companions were too.

Lottie could live with that. 

She lived on her wits and she served the Circle. She was a spy by day and sang the blues by night, and life had been far worse too many times in the past. She didn’t need love—not really—but some of those old-fashioned songs sure made it sound nice.

Harry was a total bitch and opened her second set with Aretha Franklin. 

Chapter Two

The scent of jasmine was both relaxing and distracting.

Almost every woman in Ain Zargiers wore jasmine. It grew in most rooftop gardens. It tumbled down the sides of the city’s skyscrapers. It nestled in shaded glades in the lush forests of the mountains, and it clung tenaciously to the last boulders before they surrendered to the dunes. The fragrance drifted around the country from the coast to the desert. 

It reminded Zynara of all she’d lost—and everything she was fiercely determined to save.

She looked up from her screen and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was working too hard, but she knew she wasn’t going to stop. She was close to a break-through. The numbers looked good—she just had to be sure they would scale—

Her assistant appeared through the tangle of plants in the rooftop garden and stopped respectfully near her table. She held a screen in her hands. She bowed.

Zynara glanced at her. The woman would wait until Zynara gave her permission to speak. Her name was Romaissa and she’d been Zynara’s personal assistant—amongst other things—for five years now. It was a bit of a record. Zynara chewed through assistants like they were sweet dried dates and she spat the stupid ones out with the seeds.

Romaissa had a masters in political science from Cambridge and a degree in environmental engineering from Ain Zargiers’ own prestigious university. She was wasted serving Zynara, but she possessed a sharp mind Zynara appreciated and was more than happy to take advantage of. 

She took advantage of the woman’s other talents too. Romaissa was willing. It passed the time. 

Being princess had some perks.

Zynara tilted her chin fractionally. Romaissa understood her perfectly.

“The reports from the hydrogen facility you asked for, Qasira,” she said, speaking Arabic. She cast an experienced eye over the papers and screens spread out in front of Zynara on the polished cedar-wood table and placed the screen in exactly the correct place. Her eyes lit up. “Excellent results from the most recent tests. I think you’ll like the numbers. I’ve highlighted all pertinent comments from the technicians.”

“Thank you.”

Romaissa hovered.

Zynara flicked her fingers.

“You have a call with the British energy minister in thirty minutes. I’ve pushed your call with the CEO of British Aerospace to this evening, and you’re meeting the chief negotiator for the Green Futures Alliance summit at four.” 

Zynara stifled a sigh. It never stopped. She wanted to spend some more time with these numbers. She wanted to dive into those results from the hydrogen facility and test some more theories. She had work to do, not politics to play.

“Reschedule the call with the British government. Early evening. Get our own energy minister on that too. I won’t have the Brits trying to get around her and thinking they can come straight to me.”

Romaissa bowed again. There was something else.

“Please don’t be alarmed, Qasira, but your father was asking for you. He’s had a relapse and— and he mixed your name up with your mother’s. He’s fine. His neurologist is with him. I just thought you should know.”

This time Zynara did sigh. “Thank you, Romaissa.” She waved a hand. Romaissa knew what to do. 

Her assistant nodded and withdrew.

Ain Zargiers was the wealthiest country in north Africa—all of Africa, actually, though of course that went without saying. Nestled between Morocco to the west and Algeria to the east, it gleamed like a jewel on the edge of the Mediterranean, its towers stretching higher and shining brighter than those in Dubai. Its people enjoyed prosperity, safety and freedom whether they lived in a modern apartment in the city, a riad in the medina, a fishing village by the sea, a farming town in the mountains or a traditional encampment in the desert.

In colonial times, Ain Zargiers had been British and both nations had benefited from its considerable resources. Crude oil and natural gas, both present in enormous reserves on the other side of the Atlas Mountains, had topped up the sovereign wealth funds of both countries. When Queen Charlotte of Great Britain had drawn up the Balfour Declaration in 1926, Ain Zargiers petitioned peaceably for independence, and it had been granted. Ain Zargiers took its place beside the other Dominion Nations in the Commonwealth—Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa—and like those nations, it was a strong, healthy, secular democracy.

It was also headed by a hereditary ruling family in much the same way Britain was, however in Ain Zargiers, the monarchy was more than just a figurehead.

In Ain Zargiers, the king—or rather, the Q’sar—held veto power over all levels of government, though this power was rarely exercised. His Excellency, Idris Al-Hakim Al Azraqui Ain Zargier, Q’sar As-Salam—officially translated into English as Idris the Wise of Noble Azraqui Lineage, Father of Ain Zargiers, King of Peace—actually was wise, noble and peaceful.

He was also Zynara’s father.

Zynara looked out at the city from the rooftop garden of her father’s palace. 

Azzouan, the capital, sat in the belly of a wide bay that shone with the azure blue of the Mediterranean. At one end, high on the hills, the palace sprawled its ten centuries of red brick pavilions, courtyards, gardens, fountains and luxurious rooms over the extensive property. The palace gardens gave way to the medina—the old city—and at its edge, in the middle of the bay, the towers of the modern, new Azzouan pierced the endless blue of the sky. 

It was a green city, both in terms of its grand old trees and cool, courtyarded gardens in almost every district, but also because of its policies. Ain Zargiers was a world leader in renewable and sustainable energy, and that was all due to the tireless work of Zynara and her father.

It was what she was still working on now—if she could get these numbers to behave.

She dropped her eyes back to her screen, dappled in the trellised shade of the garden. She glared at it. “The ratio is off,” she muttered, seizing a pen and immediately scribbling alternatives on a piece of paper. “If the process isn’t scalable—”

“—then it’s useless,” a familiar voice finished for her.

Zynara tried not to frown, but her lips tightened. How many more interruptions? Sami Habash strolled into view, a tray with a silver teapot and two delicate cups balanced effortlessly on one hand.

Show off.

He cast a knowledgeable eye over her work, then placed the tray carefully and deliberately on the report Romaissa had just delivered.

He knew her too well.

“What are you doing here?” she grumbled.

“Drinking your tea.” He poured them both a cup. “You’ve been up here for hours. Again.”

“I’m fine. I’m working.”

“You’re always fine.” He settled into a chair opposite her and grinned annoyingly. “You’re always working. Let me guess—more green aviation fuel wizardry? Haven’t you saved enough of the planet already?”

“Define enough.”

“Hmm. Fair.” He chuckled. He found her foot under the table and kicked it like an irritating older brother. 

He wasn’t her irritating older brother, but he’d been best friends with the one she’d had. After Rayan had died, Sami stuck around to take on the role. He’d had a feeling the younger princess would need a friend. He’d been right. 

“You’re already running circles around everyone. You’ve single handedly steered our country into a brave green future. You’ve planted solar farms in the desert and wind turbines in the mountains. You export renewable power to Europe and you’ve already got them addicted to your green hydrogen. And now you want to replace jet fuel? You’re going to burn out before you save the world.”

He didn’t mention her father.

She finally looked up at him. He winced a little at whatever he saw in her eyes. “I don’t have time to burn out,” she said. “My baby brother is threatening all kinds of idiot energy repeals once he takes the throne. I need to get these projects moving now.”

Sami leaned forward. “You think he isn’t going to tear them down even if you do get them moving, Niz?” He used the nickname her big brother had given her. He was the only person she tolerated it from. “He’s written a ‘manifesto’. Have you seen it?”

“I just said I don’t have time.”

“He’s unhinged. Determined to remodel democracy to suit his billionaire mates. It’s insane. He’s going to strip this country for parts and sell it to the highest bidder. You should never have relinquished your claim to the throne.”

“Not this again, Sami.”

“You have to talk to your father. He postponed his abdication because he doesn’t trust Malik. He’s waiting for you.”

“It’s already signed into law. Fait accompli. Nothing to be done.”

“You must be the one to succeed him—”

“Enough!”

Sami didn’t even blink. “I taught you how to ride a bike, Niz. Don’t use that regal tone on me. You know I care.”

Zynara looked past him, through the lattice and the palms, past the billows of jasmine and the red stone edges of the palace. There, in a prominent corner of the royal estate, was her younger brother’s—Malik’s—garishly inelegant ‘house’. He’d built it a few years ago, declaring himself bored with the family home, and needing ‘room to breathe.’ It was a symbol of everything Zynara had come to despise about him: excess, carelessness, and a total disregard for responsibility.

Everyone knew it wasn’t just a house. 

“I just wanted— I wanted to get away,” she muttered. “I just wanted to work.”

“And you have. Everything you’ve achieved has been incredible. That doesn’t have to change.”

Of course it did. She couldn’t rule her country and lose herself in the wonderfully complex, fascinating problems of hydrogen liquefaction, to say nothing about the carbon sequestering programs she was planning in the desert. They had the potential to completely neutralise all of Africa’s emissions—and half of Europe’s. She wanted to dive into that potential and push it to its limits. She wanted to—

She knew she was treating the work as a kind of penance—she wasn’t blind to that. She’d been away in Europe pursuing her freedom when both her mother and then her older brother had died. She’d rushed home to find her father heartbroken and her family, the bedrock she’d always believed would be there for her, destroyed. She worked to save her country even if she couldn’t salvage what was left of her family. 

She was torn.

“What am I supposed to do?” she sighed.

“You know what you’re supposed to do,” Sami replied, his gaze steady over his glass. “Step up.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“And we’ll keep going over it until you listen.” Sami gestured broadly to the garden, the thriving capital below, the flicker of turbines in the foothills of the mountains. “This is all you, Zynara. You’ve been leading for years—your father knows it. The country knows it. He’s pushed back his abdication date because he knows Malik isn’t ready. He’s hoping you will change your mind. Laws can be rewritten.”

“Just for me? Again? That’s peak entitlement. I would never ask for that,” she whispered.

“Oh, don’t be so humble. That’s not the attitude that’s driven you to the top of your field. Stop lying to yourself. You’re smarter than that.” Sami’s voice was firm now. “You gave Malik the chance to prove himself and he failed. He’s going to tear down everything you’ve built and party on the ruins. Your people depend on you. Malik will bleed them dry.”

Zynara turned her head. Stubbornness was a family trait. She drilled her fingers on the table. “I wanted freedom, Sami. I still do. I don’t want to be Q’sar.”

“You call this freedom?” He waved his tea at the schematics, the endless work that consumed her. “You’re already doing the job.”

For a long moment she didn’t respond. He was right. Freedom had meant running away from the strictures of royal life, but she’d matured since then. She’d been shielding her father’s illness from the country for years. He’d chosen an abdication date when his multiple sclerosis diagnosis was first handed down. That deadline had approached faster than any of them anticipated and he’d extended it another twelve months. She knew her younger brother was the wrong person for the crown.

“Malik is the heir. End of discussion.”

Sami sighed. “You’re as stubborn as your father.”

“He still has time.” 

“You’re pretending he’s not as bad as he is because it’s easier than admitting you’ll have to make a choice soon. Hmm?”

Zynara’s phone buzzed, saving her from answering that pass-agg shit. She glanced at the screen and her lips curved in a faint smirk. She tapped out a response.

“That doesn’t look like work.” Sami raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not. Just considering tonight’s distraction.”

They both looked over at Malik’s house.

“Really?” Sami pulled a face. “Another of Malik’s guests? Why do you do it, Niz?”

“Why not? They’re convenient. My little brother is rubbish at many things, but he does have good taste in women.”

“Shallow, vacant, money grabbing party girls from the UK? They’re here with only one thing in mind.”

“Exactly. No complications.”

Sami seemed to accept that. “He’s got some newbies arriving in a few days.”

“And you’ve already vetted them?”

He shrugged. Sami wasn’t into women, but he always made sure Zynara was safe.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the past and the burden of the future hanging heavy in the air with the scent of jasmine. Zynara missed her mother. She missed her older brother. She wished her father was well. She wished her younger brother wasn’t such a fool. 

Sami stood and brushed imaginary dust from his trousers. He was a stylish bastard. A casual, white linen suit, far more expensive than it looked. “Why don’t you come down to the club instead?”

Zynara snorted. Sami owned a club in the old quarter—the medina—and he fashioned it after the gin joints and cafes of time gone by. His heart was locked in the 1930s, and he channelled Humphrey Bogart from Casablanca with every pore of his body. Secretly Zynara loved the place, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Because you’ll ply me with your cheap gin and play jazz at me on that rattletrap old piano you love. You always try to set me up with someone’s sister.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“I have fifty international delegations flying in tomorrow for the Green Futures Alliance, I have the CEO of British Aerospace on the hook for a 400 billion pound green fuels deal, I have the British Energy Minister to pin down in a long term electricity purchase contract, and” —her eyes flicked back to the file Sami had covered with the tea tray— “and I’m so close to mathing out this liquid hydrogen problem—”

“But you can fit in one of Malik’s party girls.”

Zynara glared. “Fuck off, Sami.” She said it gently. She knew he cared.

He bowed. “As you wish, Qasira.” He softened. “But you’re playing a dangerous game. If you burn out, Malik wins by default. He’s out there planning the fossil fuel party of the century. None of us can afford that.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Sami smiled faintly. “Good. Now, are you going to actually drink the tea?” 

“Tea will not solve the energy crisis.”

“No, but it might keep you human.” He strolled away, hands in his pockets.

Zynara rolled her eyes at his back, but reached for the tea anyway. Her fingers lingered on the rim of the glass as her eyes fell on the schematics. Sami was right—she was spending too much time saving the world and not enough time living in it. 

Her phone buzzed again. The blonde thing she’d chosen for the evening sent a selfie taken beside Malik’s infinity pool, cocktail in hand, bikini leaving nothing to the imagination. She could see the woman’s eagerness through the phone.

She’d do.

Zynara grimaced. She had a reputation in Malik’s party house. She didn’t mind living up to it. Zynara liked her women compliant and happy to do whatever she asked—because the look in their eyes that said they knew exactly how big their payout would be at the end of their stay stung like hell. Maybe she took that bitterness out on them. Maybe it hurt just as much that they seemed to enjoy it.

She was a princess—as much as the term didn’t suit her—and she was wealthy beyond most people’s wildest dreams. She’d never had a single liaison where those simple truths didn’t colour any affection her conquests might have had for her. Oh, they primped and smiled whenever they saw the Qasira, but it was never clear to Zynara if it was her they wanted or her money. 

Luckily, in almost every case, Zynara found it easy to leave her side of the bed cold and return to the science and the politics of ruling in her father’s stead. Perhaps that was the best her heart could hope for.

Shagging her way through her younger brother’s harem passed the time but it could hardly be called living.

She ignored the message and returned to the work.

Chapter Three

They’d been summoned to the Nest.

More exciting than that, they’d been told to pack their bags. Lottie was just about to ask for how long and what for when designer luggage was delivered to their flat. A specific list of designer clothing labels was included in their instructions. There were the usual briefing documents of course, but there was also ten thousand pounds which landed in each of their spending accounts with the strict requirement the money only be spent on designer fashion. 

That focused Lottie’s attention.

“Bullshit,” Bili swore.

“Get in,” Lottie added, the thrill of a brand new game buzzing like a thousand volts in the middle of her chest. She loved her job. “Dover Street Market? Oxford Street? Mayfair, babes!” 

“At least!”

Bili was a fellow agent for the Circle. She was Lottie’s opposite in almost every way. She had an Oxford education, rich, cultured parents and a family who loved her, complete with nieces and nephews and endless birthday parties. Lottie had a degree from the school of hard knocks, painstakingly earned after no fewer than five high schools refused to have her back, a junkie mother in Bethnal Green, and rumours of a younger brother currently doing time for cooking meth, except she wasn’t a hundred percent on that point because she wasn’t entirely sure who her father was.

Bili had long sleek black hair, gorgeous tan skin, and eyes so dark it was hard to tell where her irises stopped and her pupils began. Lottie’s mousy blonde frizz defied detangler, her sallow white-girl skin never saw the sun, and her eyes weren’t quite blue, weren’t really green, and couldn’t be described as grey.

Not that any of that mattered. Lottie and Bili had been besties ever since the Circle sent them on a mission to Latvia three years ago. Bili’s quick thinking and Russian language skills got Lottie out of yet another teensy tiny mess she’d inevitably found herself in, and they’d gotten smashed on Stolichnaya in the aftermath. They’d kissed, laughed at their absolute and total lack of chemistry, then picked the pocket of the nearest businessman for a giggle and hacked his credit cards. They had a shared love of fashion and danger, and that, it turned out, was all they needed. They looked after each other.

They swanned through London’s exclusive boutiques like goddesses and spent the Circle’s money, collecting expensive paper shopping bags indecent with famous brand names. Twenty thousand quid bought a surprisingly small amount of actual fabric.

That was the point, Lottie supposed, admiring the dresses. That one was going to cling to her arse like honey.

Lottie may not have had Bili’s natural advantages, but she more than made up for it with shit-tonnes of self confidence. She couldn’t wait to see Harry’s face when she strolled casually into the bar in this little number and let her know she wouldn’t be singing this week. She had a mission. The excitement went to her head like a drug.

Especially when the summons to the Nest turned out to be to the office of the Nightingale herself.

“I’ve never actually met her—you know—face to face,” Bili whispered, as they followed a suited woman up the stairs of the stately home in London’s exclusive St James. The Circle called the building the Nest and a secret network of tunnels under London and the Thames linked it to Buckingham Palace and the halls of power. 

“She’s cool,” Lottie said, breezily. She was trying to be cool herself. “Just be yourself.”

Bili snorted and swatted her shoulder. “Probably advice you shouldn’t take.”

The woman they were following gave them a glare. 

As soon as her back was turned, Lottie grabbed Bili’s hand. They dissolved into giggles.

The atmosphere in the Nightingale’s office was cool. Icy. The Nightingale herself—Evelyn Knight—sat behind a vast mahogany desk, impossibly upright and the very picture of precision and control. She wore an enviable tailored suit, the jacket buttoned low at her waist. 

She was hot, powerful, insanely confident and breathtakingly dangerous—everything Lottie admired. Lottie had been both inspired and terrified by Evelyn Knight from the very first moment she’d set eyes on her. That had been seven years ago, and Lottie’s life had changed immeasurably since then. She had the strongest feeling the Nightingale was about to change things up even more.

She felt the game tingle in every fibre of her being. 

Lottie noted the position of the players in the Nightingale’s office—Evelyn at her desk, her 2IC Dr Mak Whitlock standing with her back to the large windows, a younger woman Lottie vaguely knew as Ace near the unlit fireplace. In the middle of the room, two leather sofas faced each other across a low table.

Two uncomfortable wooden chairs were positioned before the Nightingale’s desk.

The directive was obvious.

Lottie ignored it.

Instead, she slouched to the middle of the room and slung herself into one of the sofas. She did her best to look as if she did this shit all the time, legs crossed, one arm draped over the backrest, her lips in her best cocky grin. She heard Bili’s intake of breath at her boldness. She didn’t miss Ace’s appreciative snort. Mak’s chuckle was the cherry on top, but the measured click of the Nightingale’s heels on the wooden floor as she stalked around her desk to sit neatly on the sofa opposite was the beat of Lottie’s heart.

Round one to Lottie Finch. 

Fuck, she loved her job.

“The Q’sar of Ain Zargiers has multiple sclerosis,” Mak announced, “a fact known only to an extremely select number of people and which, of course, needs to remain utterly confidential.”

Lottie raised an eyebrow. That intel came with stakes that were higher than her usual jobs. “You’re trusting me with it?” she joked. 

Mak didn’t even look up. “I’m trusting you to do your job, Finch.”

Lottie grinned, unfazed. “Always do.” But if Mak could spell out what that actually was, Lottie would find it handy. “And that is…?”

Dr Mak Whitlock was a stern woman in her sixties with spiky white hair and an impressive array of tatts on well-muscled upper arms. On the few occasions Lottie had run into her in the club that operated on the lowest levels on the Nest, the woman had shown an absolutely devastating taste in leather jackets, band shirts and studded belts. She could move too, for an old broad. Lottie liked her. 

Mak gave her a hard stare. Lottie remembered the briefing documents she’d barely skimmed and left unread on her phone. She smirked back.

“When he was first diagnosed, the Q’sar set a date for his abdication—a stop gap against his declining health. He told family, the head of his intelligence agency, a few other trusted friends—but the decision was not made known to the public.” Mak’s tone was clipped. All business. “That date came and went three months ago, despite the Q’sar’s condition deteriorating far more rapidly than expected.”

Lottie grimaced. “Men with power, right?” 

“Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking,” Mak said. “The Q’sar’s problem is that years ago, his eldest son, Rayan, was killed in an accident. In her grief, the next in line to the throne—the Qasira Zynara—relinquished her claim to the crown in favour of her younger brother, Malik. And ever since then, Malik has shown himself to be a corrupt, self-serving playboy who avoids royal duty like it’s contagious, has oil money burning holes in his pockets, and a hard-on for screwing over his own country.”

Bili huffed. “Always the way.”

“The Q’sar knows his youngest son isn’t the man for the job, and the Qasira—who is ideal for it—doesn’t want it. The abdication date has been pushed back twelve months. The old man is trying to buy time, and he’s paying for it with the last of his health.” 

Ace tapped her phone and sent some pictures to a screen above the fireplace. The Q’sar looked sophisticated, greying elegantly with a load of laugh-lines and an easy smile. His son glowered moodily in expensive Italian suits and million-dollar wristwatches. 

“Malik is pissed he’s not on the throne yet,” Bili deduced.

“Correct,” said Mak. “And our assets in Ain Zargiers tell us he’s becoming increasingly impatient. He’s aware that business—in fact, most of the wider international powers—would prefer his sister in the role. We have intelligence that suggests he’s about to seriously disrupt his sister’s business interests and destabilise her position.”

It wasn’t too hard to figure out what came next. 

“And it benefits Britain if Malik has a little accident?” Lottie was freaking brilliant at little accidents. Chaos was practically her middle name.

The Nightingale gave a long-suffering sigh. 

“Lottie, Bili, you’ll be flying to Ain Zargiers tomorrow. Your covers have been provided and the operation parameters are clear. The Green Futures Alliance of Nations is holding its annual summit in Azzouan, a global event which will be hosted by the Q’sar and his daughter. Qasirim Malik is expecting new arrivals to his party house—women his team personally selects to keep his business partners entertained. You will be among them. You’ve agreed to the mission. You’re familiar with his reputation.”

That part of the mission Lottie and Bili had discussed at great length. Neither of them had any problems with that.

“Glorified courtesans?” Lottie grinned. “On Her Majesty’s money? Nice. Can you thank her for the wardrobe? We weren’t completely sure what the dress code for the harem is these days, but we improvised. We can instagram our outfits, if you like.”

Bili snorted, but Evelyn’s sharp look cut through the humour like a knife. “Call it what you will. You’ll have access. Proximity. If you play it right, you’ll get her attention.”

Lottie’s cheek stalled like Evelyn had slapped it away.

“Her?”

“For fuck’s sake, Finch.” Evelyn’s tone was icier than Lottie had ever heard it, and she’d been on the receiving end of Evelyn’s disdain on any number of occasions. “Your mission has two clear objectives. We want Malik out of the line of succession and we want Zynara on the throne. You have licence to create exactly the kind of havoc you’re both so very good at. Whatever bullshit Malik has planned needs to be avoided and the man himself needs to be so thoroughly discredited that neither his father, his country nor his oil-guzzling business associates will want him on the throne. Bili, short of killing him, do whatever it takes to bring him down. Lottie,” —piercing eyes fixed on her, and Lottie shifted involuntarily in her seat— “you will focus on the princess. Zynara. She is the point of the entire operation.”

“Zynara?”

That was news to Lottie. She thought they were there just to buzz Malik. She’d only taken the job because she was a girl of flexible morals—for the right money, her sexual preferences could be flexible too. Being paid to fuck with and fuck up a rich prince in the glittering city of Azzouan? Fuck yeah! She didn’t know anything about the princess, but she had no trouble leaping to conclusions.

“The princess is queer?” she asked.

“The Qasira,” Mak clarified. “In the Zargieri version of Arabic that forms just one of the country’s official languages, Q’sar is the term for ‘king’, Qasirim means ‘prince,’ and you will refer to the princess as Qasira or you will be asked to leave the country quicker than you can pack your bags. Do not mess that up, Lottie.”

“I speak some Arabic,” Lottie pointed out.

“We know.” The Nightingale was mild. She was also deadly.

Lottie swallowed. Evelyn Knight knew everything.

“Over the last decade, Qasira Zynara has transformed Ain Zargiers from the fossil fuel powerhouse it was in colonial times to a world leader—the world leader—in green energy,” Mak said. “She even has the Chinese playing catch up. Britain’s grid and most of Spain, France and Germany’s are dependent on Zargieri electricity. If she reclaims her position and takes the throne, all that continues. Under Malik, the country once again becomes a playground for oil and gas tycoons. Your job is to get close to her, Finch. Protect her from whatever Malik is planning. Get her to reconsider. Zynara must take the throne when her father abdicates.”

Lottie leaned back in the sofa, her grin wide. “You want me to schmooze a princess and save the world? Should I bring flowers, or is she more a champagne and strawberries kinda girl?”

Mak huffed a smile into her shoulder. Evelyn didn’t. 

“Zynara is smarter than you think. Smarter than you.”

Lottie didn’t want to boast, but she doubted it. She might not have Bili’s Oxford education, but she was far from stupid. “Noted. I’ve charmed tougher crowds.” She spread her hands and indicated the Nightingale before her.

Evelyn’s expression set like cement. “No, Finch. You haven’t.”

Bili nudged her. Lottie could already tell she was going to play the ‘calm, rational and professional’ card, showing the Nightingale she could keep Lottie’s extravagances in check. They were a good team.

“You do realise what we’re walking into?” she asked Lottie. “We’re also Malik’s ‘hostesses’. He’ll have us entertaining billionaires, moguls and sycophants all while trying not to blow our cover.”

Lottie shrugged. “Sounds like my Saturday nights in London. Only warmer.”

The Nightingale lost her patience. “Have you read the briefing, Finch?”

“Guv, how can you even ask?” Just the right note of offended outrage. 

Evelyn waited.

There was total silence. 

Lottie made a critical miscalculation and wittered into the ice. “Of course I have. We’re rich socialites looking to party with the hottest prince in Ain Zargiers. Discredit the playboy prince, seduce the princess and secure her on the throne.”

“Have you read the briefing?”

Lottie held her nerve and the Nightingale’s eyes, then deliberately shrugged. “I’ll read it on the plane. You know me.”

Evelyn exploded out of the sofa and stalked to a window, each footstep a bullet in the chill air. She stood with her back to the room, but she didn’t say anything.

Hoo! Lottie took a steadying breath. Slight wobble from the junior agent there, but the Nightingale had definitely taken a hit.

Round two to Lottie Finch.

Mak pulled a face. “Cut the crap, Finch. The Qasira is nothing like the women you’ve manipulated before. She’s brilliant, disciplined and intensely loyal to her country. Underestimate her and you fail.”

“I get it.”

Mak tilted her chin at Ace and the woman threw a series of images of the Qasira to the main screens. She looked familiar, but only because the princess was a regular figure in the global news. Lottie mostly paid attention to world events. She saw a press shot of Zynara standing tall beside her father, both of them smiling the fake, shallow smiles the ruling elites seemed to think were sufficient. The next shot showed her speaking at a podium, her father nodding approvingly in the background. 

She was elegant, of course—royalty couldn’t afford not to be—but if the intel was to be believed, Zynara was also the second wealthiest person in Ain Zargiers. A renewable energy mogul to rival the fossil fuel billionaires. Independently generated wealth too, though Lottie was pretty sure daddy had given her a leg up. Impeccable suits, a subtle butch vibe that the mainstream probably wrote off as businesslike and professional. Dark hair pulled back in a sleek but functional ponytail that revealed a thorough lack of personality. Amazing shoes, though. Her personal staff probably chose her wardrobe for her. She probably dined on stylists for breakfast.

The press clearly loved her. Half of the shots were posed to perfection—a conference in Geneva, in front of the Ain Zargiers flag, stepping off a private jet. Each image screamed poise and sophistication—and fuck tonnes of money.

Lottie sneered. So, a model princess, then. 

This one was going to be easy.  

“Malik is a snake,” Mak said. “We have credible intel that suggests he killed his own brother to get to the throne. He would have killed his sister too, but she stepped out his way at just the right moment.”

“Why aren’t we simply eliminating him?” Bili asked.

“Malik and Zynara are cousins of the Queen. Our Queen. Alexandra. They’re younger, but their mother and Alexandra’s mother were sisters. The Queen of England would very much prefer if you could avoid killing any members of her family.”

That was fair. Annoying, but you couldn’t argue with a royal directive, Lottie supposed.

“Family or not, Malik is dangerous. Both of you will need to perform at your very best. Keep your wits about you—and keep Ace in the loop. She’ll be with you in Azzouan, but not at the palace.”

“Piece of cake, Mak.”

Evelyn spoke to the window. “Remind me where we met, Finch.”

That took the wind out of Lottie’s sails a little. She didn’t say anything.

“Well?” Evelyn spun on one heel. She popped the button of her jacket and the leather weapon holster she wore underneath it was clearly visible. The butt of a Walther PPK Compact. Lottie sulked. Nice piece. Classic. So Bond.

“Libya,” Lottie muttered.

Evelyn smiled like a shark. “Where in Libya?”

“Abu Salem women’s prison.”

“And how many men were trying to kill you that day?”

Lottie blew out an irritated sigh, then quickly turned it into bravado. She ticked them off on her fingers. “Well, there was a drug lord, two illegal arms dealers, and that guy I totally fleeced at poker—”

Between them, low on the seat of the couch where the others couldn’t see, Bili flicked her thigh.

There was another chilly silence.

“I tolerate your disrespect, your foolish overconfidence and your ridiculously overblown ego, Lottie Finch, because you are—as much as it pains me to admit—an exceptionally good operative.”

Lottie smiled. Widely. Bili flicked her again.

“But if you fuck this up, do not think for one second that I will not drop you right back in that filthy Lybian hellhole and leave you there to rot.”

Lottie mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?” Evelyn’s voice was velvet and iron.

“Yes, Nightingale. Sorry, Nightingale.”

Evelyn smiled tightly.

Ouch. Game, set and match to Evelyn Knight. Slaughtered by the sheer devastating power of one magnificent eyebrow and a level of icy control Lottie could never hope to emulate.

“We won’t let you down, guv,” Lottie said, more circumspectly. But there was one more thing bothering her. “Why me?”

Evelyn looked at Ace and the woman sent one more picture to the screen. 

It was a profile of the Qasira taken in a dark club. She was reclined in a chair, her elbow hooked over its back. A forgotten glass of whisky was held loosely in long, elegant fingers that dangled idly from her wrist. Her attention was focused utterly on a view in front of her, something out of sight of the camera. Her lips were parted but a slight smile curled the corner of her mouth. Whatever she was watching had her entranced. 

Lottie blinked. She knew exactly where that picture was taken—that was her dark club. That was Harry’s piano. There was the Nightingale and Rose Martin all blurry in the background. The Qasira was the extraordinary woman who’d appeared at the guv’s table the other night and stolen the love song right out of Lottie’s mouth. 

Lottie’s heart flipped. Her pulse raced double time. 

Qasira Zynara of Ain Zargiers was looking right at Lottie Finch.

“Oh,” Lottie breathed.

The Nightingale’s sigh was pure resignation. “Oh,” she repeated. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the door. “Now, get out. And do not fuck this up.”

Lottie shook it off as they tumbled down the stairs to the Circle’s tunnels and operations rooms. Ace kitted them out with a weapon each, listening equipment and the rest of the usual spy gear. Lottie’s excitement levels kicked up all over again.

Bili rolled her eyes. “Water off a duck’s back, hey? I’d be bricking it if the Nightingale spoke to me like that.”

Lottie didn’t know anything about ducks, but she knew the Nightingale. They went way back.

“A prince for you and a princess for me. Think we’ll end up with tiaras if we play our cards right?”

Ace smacked the back of her head. “You’re going to get eaten alive, Finch.”

Lottie stuck one hand on her hip. Ace’s eyes followed it and got lost somewhere around her tits on the way back up again. Lottie thrust her strategies out and grinned, wholly unrepentant.

“Sounds like a good time,” she said.

Chapter Four

Asleek black SUV, fully electric and whisper quiet, picked Lottie and Bili up from the airport and drove them through the city of Azzouan to the palace.

Both agents had been to Ain Zargiers before. Cheap Ryanair flights and English being an official language of the country meant many Brits favoured the country as a last-minute getaway location. Like any tourists, they’d shopped the main boulevards in the city and lazed on the pristine white sands in the islands of the Archipel des Azures.

They’d never been to the palace.

Their car was waved past guards at the palace gates. It skirted the main pavilions of the royal residence and tracked through the gardens to what the driver called ‘the Qasirim’s house.’

Bili whistled low. “Final proof money can’t buy everything.” She was profoundly unimpressed.

The place was more like a luxury hotel than a house, though whoever had briefed the architect clearly felt there couldn’t be too much gold. Marble pillars framed a grand entrance of two ludicrously tall golden double doors. Once inside, they found a courtyard with fountains shooting perfectly symmetrical arcs of water into the air, to land in ponds lined with gold. A red and gold mosaic underfoot displayed a complex repeated pattern that looked impressive until Lottie dragged the small amount of written Arabic she knew into line and realised it said ‘Malik the Great.’

Bili nudged her shoulder.

“Finch, shut your mouth. You’re drooling.”

Lottie pulled a face. “I’m not. I like shiny things as much as the next girl, but this is… this is…” She wasn’t dazzled so much as repulsed. “Is that a golden grand piano?”

“We are definitely not in Blackcroft anymore, babes.”

The driver left their bags in a neat pile in the courtyard and left them alone. Doorways, arches and terraced walkways led off in all directions giving the impression of a sprawling complex with a maze of wings and gardens. Through a perfect picture window draped in gold curtains, they could see a lagoon-style pool that meandered all the way down to a private beach. 

Expensive-looking women lazed on recliners all around the pool. 

A pool-side bar featured not one, but two glittering chandeliers. 

On a raised dais by the pool, a gold Bugatti supercar sparkled in the sunshine. 

“Do you think he might be compensating for something?” Lottie whispered.

They giggled.

Lottie cast an eye over the talent. “Ugh, so many gorgeous women lying about and just my luck they’re probably all straight.” She didn’t care. She was almost dying to meet the Qasira. Though of course, if her mission failed, it wouldn’t be too hard to find solace here. 

They turned at the sound of footsteps behind them. A woman approached them dressed in a pencil skirt and blouse that looked so Monday at the office it felt like a glitch in the simulation. She smiled.

“I’m Kayley Jones. Guest liaison and event manager. Den mother, sometimes. Referee, often. Definitely your supervisor, team leader, head of HR—whatever you want to call me. Kayley is fine. Pleased to meet you.”

She swapped her phone to her other hand and shook each of theirs. She chuckled at their expressions. 

“Not what you expected? I’m sorry I didn’t get to interview you personally, but you come highly recommended. Come through and we’ll do the paperwork.”

Lottie and Bili looked at each other. Kayley Jones was their age—late twenties—clearly a Londoner, and very down to earth. It was on the tip of Lottie’s tongue to ask how the Nightingale knew Qasirim Malik’s procurer, or how a girl from Ealing got a job as madam in the prince’s private brothel but the look in Bili’s eye shut that smartarsery down. They followed Kayley along an opulent hallway to an office where they spent a solid thirty minutes signing their lives away. Non-disclosure agreements were nailed down watertight but the stringent conditions were more than amply made up for with a mind-blowing ‘salary.’

“As was hopefully discussed with you at your interview, you will be paid the retainer originally offered, and any jewels or gifts the Qasirim presents you with are obviously yours to keep,” Kayley said. Her manner was disconcertingly businesslike considering what they were discussing. 

Lottie stifled a snort. The Nightingale hadn’t said anything about that six-figure retainer. Knowing Evelyn, it was probably being paid directly to the Circle. Jewels sounded nice though. Rather old fashioned. Did Kayley mean jewellery or literal rocks of diamonds and emeralds? Lottie wasn’t going to complain either way.

“You are to remain here in the house at all times unless directed otherwise, and you may expect to be called upon at any time.” Kayley paused. “It would not be considered wise to refuse a request from the Qasirim, though of course, if anything makes you uncomfortable, you are welcome to leave. Simply let me know and I’ll make arrangements for you to return home. You will not be permitted to return.” She let that sink in. “To Ain Zargiers. Ever.”

That hammered things home. 

“We’re flat out right now,” Kayley continued brightly, “otherwise I’d run you through the etiquette training immediately, but we’ll have to get to that later. The Qasira’s Green Futures summit means Malik has a lot of people he needs to entertain. We need all our hostesses on the ground right now. You’ll start work tonight. Let’s grab your bags and I’ll show you to your room.”

Kayley Jones strode out on her sensible heels.

“And that’s how you run a harem on solid British admin,” Lottie whispered.

Bili smacked her.

Kayley led them back through the atrium and through to the guest wing. A painting that graced the entrance to the wing made everything crystal clear.

It was a large thing in an ornate frame—gold, of course. Lottie wasn’t into art but the painting had an antique feel—oils and muted colours and the look of something that should be in a gallery. It was almost certainly valuable. Very definitely the original.

But it was the content that brought Lottie up short. 

The opulent scene was set in a renaissance European’s wet dream of a Barbary king’s harem, all vaulted ceilings and red carpets, and women in various states of undress reclining on pillows. In the center, a dark-skinned king lounged on a dais, entitled and dangerous, his robes askew. He idly watched the naked white woman who danced in front of him. 

It wasn’t in the slightest bit subtle.

Lottie nudged Bili. “It’s a harem,” she hissed. “Like, an actual harem.”

“And you’ve been joking about it for days. Finally sunk in, has it?”

Kayley overheard them. “We prefer to say that you’re guests. Or hostesses.” She shrugged and stopped in front of a door. “It’s a sweet gig,” she said, and her voice softened. “If you’re sensible, it can set you up for life. Want my advice? Stay away from the alcohol and the drugs, enjoy the high life while you can, and bank the reward. I put mine in real estate.” She gestured for them to enter. “This will be your room.”

It was another lavish space with a king-size bed, gilded furniture and a view of the ocean.

“We’re sharing?” Bili asked.

“Apologies,” Kayley said, not sounding at all sorry. “We’re quite full at the moment. I’m sure you’ll be spending most of your time enjoying the rest of the estate.”

Lottie had a question about that. How was she supposed to meet the princess if she was stuck in the prince’s harem all day?

“So, we’re never allowed out?”

Kayley looked at her phone. “Oh no, while the summit is on you’ll be attending events all around Azzouan, playing hostess to whichever visiting businessmen Malik wants to impress. But after that, yes, it’s parties around the pool day in, day out. It’s hard work, but someone has to do it.” She turned to leave.

“Will we meet the princess?” Lottie asked.

Kayley stopped dead on the spot. “The Qasira,” she corrected, and her eyes swept up and down Lottie’s body as if seeing her for the first time. Lottie regretted her slightly crumpled travel clothes, designer label though they were, but she threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin. Kayley looked her over. “You might,” she murmured. “The Qasira has certain tastes. If she calls for you, it will only be once. You’ll definitely enjoy it, though.” She gave a small wistful sigh, then her business attitude returned. “I’ve just sent the evening’s schedule to your phones. Please be ready for the car at five. Welcome to the party.”

She left.

They swept the room for bugs, found ten, and flicked on a scrambler. 

Lottie blew out a low whistle once it was on. “I’ve done some weird shit for crown and country, but this might just top it all.” She frowned at an exquisitely expensive gold chaise lounge and dumped her suitcase on it. The view through the window beyond showed yet more attractive women sunbathing by the pool.

“One day you will actually properly prepare for a mission.” Bili flopped down on the bed with a happy sigh. She stretched hugely and wriggled around on the gold satin quilt in an indulgent writhe. “This has it all over tailing dodgy drug dealers and corrupt bankers around London.”

“It’s problematic,” Lottie sulked.

“Just a lot!”

“I mean, I don’t see how I can get close to the princess—the Qasira—if I’m stuck in a bloody five-star hotel.” It was a rare moment in Lottie’s life when luxury was the setback.

Lottie flopped beside Bili on the bed and they blinked at the fresco on the ceiling. Golden cherubs. They looked at the schedule. This evening had them heading out to a cocktail party on one of the islands in the archipelago to kick off the Green Futures Alliance conference the princess was keen on. Surely Lottie could contrive to bump into her there.

“How do we play this?” Bili asked. She stared dubiously around at their golden cage. “How do we fuck up Malik from a place like this?”

Bili was always working.

“Shame?” asked Lottie. “Expose some of this disgusting decadence and excess?”

“Not enough. Ain Zargiers is as liberal a society as Britain. There’ll be voters who’ll see this as something to aspire to. Idiot incels who will want to be him.”

Lottie pulled a face. “Turn his business associates against him?”

“Not bad. We could play them all off against each other. There’s nothing a billionaire hates more than another billionaire threatening his billions.”

They stared at the ceiling again. On closer inspection the cherubs were definitely not as innocent as they appeared at first glance. 

“Eew,” Lottie mused. “Is that possible?”

“Focus,” sighed Bili.

“Malik is anti-renewables, right? That’s a good angle. We could always blow up some of his oil refineries. No one would want to invest with him then.”

Bili swatted her. “Did you learn nothing after Latvia?”

“The Nightingale said ‘chaos’.”

“That doesn’t always mean explosives.”

“But we brought rocket launchers,” grumbled Lottie. “You’re no fun.”

“And you’re unhinged.”

They decided they couldn’t look at the obscene cherubs any longer and got up to unpack. 

“Let’s just start with meeting them both first,” said Lottie. “You impress Malik and I’ll get close to Zynara.”

Bili looked at her closely. “Don’t think I can’t see that funny look you get in your eye whenever you talk about the princess.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Bil,” Lottie said, as airily as she could. “It’s a job. Just one more round of the game.”

But she knew she wasn’t fooling either of them. That picture of the Qasira watching her—watching her—like that had changed things.

For Lottie, life had always been a game—just not always the fun kind.

When she was five, she struck deals with her toy bear—and the stakes were high. She’d brave the kitchen and sneak the last biscuit from the packet if Aloysius could be perfectly silent. Being exactly the right kind of kid for her mother and the string of drug-fucked lovers her mother dragged into their lives was a matter of survival. Little Lottie and Aloysius the Bear could disappear into the background like magicians. For a while, she’d even believed she was invisible. 

Later, she played the game of standing out. The shabby playground in the crumbling Bethnal Green public housing estate became her stage and the dull-eyed brats from the other flats were easy to manipulate. She lifted sweets from the corner shop with an innocent smile and nimble fingers. She swiped purses right out of the handbags of little old ladies on red London buses and let them tell her how beautiful her curls were while she did it. She could slip watches off the wrists of businessmen who fell asleep on the Tube. She could thrust baggies of smack into stoners’ hands and pluck the cash from their fingers all as they brushed shoulders on the footpath. She learned the rules of the street, bartering, bluffing and blagging, stealing away with more than she’d bargained for, and it didn’t hurt that she was quick thinking, quick on her feet, and quicker with her tongue.

School wasn’t a place to learn, not really—it was a training ground of strategy. She clocked early which kids the teachers adored, who they loathed, and who could be bribed with a perfectly timed compliment. 

She went through four schools before her darling Memeti—the grandmother figure in the flat down the way who had babysat Lottie since she was a toddler—insisted she had the wits to apply for a scholarship to an exclusive secondary school, and Lottie saw the wisdom in giving it a shot.

She won a place, of course—she wasn’t stupid—and the posh girl’s school simply turned out to be a whole new game that leveled up her skillset. She aced it in no time. 

Life was all about which pieces to move, and when. By the time her moves had expanded from sourcing fake IDs for rich girls to sweet talking dealers in the Rust, from moving discreet packages through London’s most exclusive circles to negotiating arms deals with wannabe warlords, Lottie liked to think she’d refined those moves to a fine art. 

Was there any difference between the costumes and lines an actor learnt, or the role a spy or con artist slipped into? Did it matter if the reward was applause, kudos, ten grand in her hand or half a million wired to a Swiss account? The satisfaction of winning was just the same.

It was only once she’d met the Nightingale and found a place in the Circle that the stakes changed again. Now, the thrill was sharper, her opponents smarter. The adrenaline sweeter.

Plus there was that odd sense of doing something right. For Britain. For a good and noble reason.

Lottie hadn’t quite squared with that yet. 

She ran her hands down the silk of one of the designer party frocks the Circle had sprung for her. It was a fuck off gorgeous dress, but it was just another costume. It clung in all the right places. The vivid aquamarine matched her eyes and set off the curls that framed her face. She looked perfect. Even the heels, silver, strappy and stupidly high with gorgeous red soles, gave her exactly the right sway in her step to make her wholly dangerous.

She smirked at her reflection. 

Top of my game, she thought, twisting a stray curl into place. She was brilliant at what she did, spoke three languages, could blend in in any social situation—and she was hot as fuck. Sure, she liked to wing it—planning was for people who didn’t trust their instincts—but tonight, her instincts told her one thing: this game was all hers.

The vision of the Qasira watching her in her club back in Blackcroft flickered once before her eyes and Lottie’s confidence wavered just a little. 

She wouldn’t say no to a round with a woman of that calibre, but it was just a game, she told herself.

She grabbed her clutch and followed Bili to the door.

Chapter Five

Her country was a realm of contradiction.

It was a beacon of democracy with a king at its head. It was a bastion of freedom bordered by autocracies. It was proud of its colonial past, even as technology, development and wealth saw it sail past the old empire that had once ruled it. Ain Zargiers was a renewable powerhouse founded on crude. Tradition blended seamlessly with modernity. The shifting sands of the desert swept through its heart and perpetual drifts of snow graced its tallest mountains.

So much of her country was a reflection of the man who was its king.

The Q’sar had once been a mountain.

Steady and unshakeable, Q’sar Idris carried the weight of the Ain Zargiers on his shoulders without complaint. Zynara had spent her childhood in his shadow, watching the way his presence filled a room, loving how his deep measured voice could silence a crowd or ignite their fervour.

Now, as she walked through the palace from her father’s rooms to her own, she feared that mountain was crumbling into the sands. 

Her father had greeted her today with his usual warmth and a smile that was as genuine as ever, but his hands shook in hers. His MS flare ups were getting worse, and more frequent. He winced at the light, then again at the pain as he turned from the door, then nearly toppled on unsteady legs before his valet caught him and his nurses helped him back to a couch.

“I hate this, binti,” he whispered. “We established the Green Futures Alliance together—you, me and Rayan. I wanted—”

His mind was as bright as ever, but on days like this, the words came hard. He couldn’t appear on the world stage in this condition. Not even the citizens of Ain Zargiers knew he was suffering like this. He hated lying to his people even more than he hated what was happening to his body.

“It’s okay, Baba,” Zynara told him. “I’ve got it. I’ll have your aides set you up with livestreams. I’ll call you at the end of every session. We’ll discuss the day’s developments over dinner every evening. I will be your voice in every negotiation. You’re still Q’sar. You’re still—”

He patted her cheek. “And you know you don’t even need me. You know I trust you.”

She looked at his hands and wondered when he’d become so frail. 

They didn’t say anything about Malik, but her father’s disappointment and fear hung in the air between them like smoke and Zynara didn’t want to breathe it in.

She kissed him on the forehead so he couldn’t see her tears, and left.

The palace around her was quiet in the late afternoon. She skirted courtyards, nodding to staff and security, greeting most of them by name and with a half smile. She strode between pavilions, the heavy smell of jasmine turning her head once toward the gardens, a trick of her memory mistaking distant laughter for the echo of a happy childhood. The palace was her home—and she loved it—but today, even its comfort couldn’t soothe her.

There was a garden bordering the corridor that ran alongside her rooms, the deep, cool tick of plants and soft green things alive mingling with the gentle splash of water from a fountain. She paused for a moment, her hand on the archway, her eyes shaded by a patterned lattice. She wanted to sit beneath the fig tree and indulge in its fruit and forget the summit, politics, grief and loss, and the sad, sorry mess her family had become. 

There was no question of the Q’sar attending tonight’s cocktail party. No one had said it, but she doubted he’d recover from this current relapse in time for the summit at all. Malik would be fucking unbearable—too lazy to step up and be the Q’sar his country needed him to be, and yet, still belligerent his father had pushed back the date for his abdication. The work would fall to Zynara again and, though she loved it, it wasn’t quite what she’d dreamed. 

She’d been working her life away to build a better world, and she didn’t even have time to sit under a fig tree in her own fucking garden.

She blew the tempting scent of jasmine out of her nose in one long, hard sigh, and entered her study. There were more important things to be doing. Someone had to stop the mountain from crumbling into the sand.

Q’sar Idris had carried his country on his shoulders. 

Zynara squared her own and summoned the strength to do the same.

Moments later, she sat at her desk, reworking her father’s notes for the speech at the evening’s cocktail party and making the words her own.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Romaissa.

—Malik is in the palace. Russian delegation confirmed for an after-party at his house late tonight. Saudis and Chinese also likely—

Zynara’s jaw tightened. Malik wasn’t even being subtle anymore. He knew how important the Green Futures summit was to her renewable energy agenda—to Ain Zargiers—and there he was, flaunting his ties to fossil fuel interests like a stubborn, rebellious child.

Her door slammed open and Malik sauntered in, drink in hand, Zynara’s personal guard in his wake. The guard bowed.

“My apologies, Qasira.”

Zynara waved the woman away. It wasn’t her fault. Malik was the heir to the throne and he had no sense of decorum. He smirked as her bodyguard left. He was as infuriating as ever.

“Still buried in work, sister? Do I have to explain the concept of delegation to you again?”

She looked back at her screen. “It would be interesting to see you try. One has to actually assume responsibility in the first place to be able to delegate it. Not a step I’ve yet seen you take.”

He didn’t rise to her bait. He rarely did. It was part of what irritated her about him. Malik was so laid back and straight up lazy he never even bothered to bite back. It came of being the baby of the family, spoiled and accustomed to getting everything he wanted.

He leaned against her desk, casual in a Kiton suit with a timepiece on his wrist that could have bought entire villages on the other side of the Tell. He picked up one of her papers and let it drop carelessly.

“Baba’s under the weather again?” he asked. There was something triumphant in his expression—like he didn’t care a bit for their father’s suffering. “It’s almost as if he’s not fit to rule.”

“Again, a concept I’m astonished you can grasp,” Zynara said. 

Malik gave her a grimace like he’d stepped in shit. “You’re wasting your time with this summit nonsense—all your greenie little friends with their mirrors and windmills. It’s PR fluff for the left. Oil is what keeps this country alive. Always has. Always will.”

Zynara leaned back in her chair. “Say what you came to say, Malik. I’m busy.”

He grinned. For a split second she saw her baby brother as he used to be—pockets full of sweet dried figs racing her to the ladder of the treehouse in the east garden. They used to pick pomegranates and prise out the jewels from inside, feasting on them until their lips and fingers were stained red with the juice. Then they’d laugh and chase their elder brother like zombies until their father picked them all up in his strong arms and dunked them in a fountain.

That was long ago. Now, Malik’s smile curdled. Sly and mean.

“Fine. I came to invite you to the real event tonight.”

“Another party?”

He ignored that. “All the big players will be there. Consortiums with actual money, not your bleeding hearts with hopeless dreams for the future.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “You should come. If only to take notes on how real deals are made.”

“You mean trading decency and our country’s future for decadence and debauchery?”

Shit. She shouldn’t let him get to her.

Malik’s grin widened. “Careful, sister. That almost sounds defensive. You’re not exactly innocent in that field yourself. Feeling the pressure, are we?”

“Fuck you.”

“Tut, tut. Not very decent of you, old chap. But I understand. Pressures of standing in for the old man yet again.” He leaned over her. “Why don’t you get out of my way, Niz? Our business partners are screaming for a powerful, capable figure on the throne again, rather than this half-arsed parade of women and invalids we’ve had to endure lately.”

She took a steadying breath. “Baba pushed back his abdication because he doesn’t think you’re ready. You will never measure up to a man like our father. The people will never accept—”

He shrugged like he didn’t care. “Completely irrelevant. The country will be mine, and when it is, we will run it my way. The people won’t have a choice.”

“Ain Zargiers is a democracy, you moron. You can’t just—”

“Only if I let it be.”

And there was the horror of it. Malik didn’t want to rule because he had the country’s best interests at heart—he wanted to reshape it completely and use it as a cash machine for himself and his billionaire friends. Ain Zargiers deserved better. 

Her father was exhausted. Her mother was gone. Her wonderful, perfect elder brother was dead. Her baby brother was a fool too stupid to understand what he was destroying.

And that left her.

If she walked away, she’d lose her country, possibly her businesses, and everything she cared for. If she listened to her conscience, to Sami, to commonsense and the national good and took the throne she’d be even more tired. Malik was unlikely to stop. She’d spend the rest of her days mitigating her little brother’s damage, sacrificing every hope of something sweet and gentle for her heart and hardening her soul to yet more loneliness. 

It was a shit choice.

Malik saw his win in her eyes. He smiled in a way he probably thought was charming and strolled over to the window. “I’ve got a 180 billion pound deal with RusGas in the works. Antonin Petrov. You know him? I’ve heard rumours he’s also interested in your green hydrogen bullshit.”

He was. Zynara was hoping to secure the deal this week. Getting Russia onboard with clean, renewable gas would go a long way to decarbonising the country—and breaking the backs of a few other old fossils. Destabilising oligarchs was an added bonus.

“So, you’ll be there tonight at my party after your silly little summit welcome. I want to keep an eye on you. Be sure you’re not making any deals with my business partners behind my back.”

For crying out loud. He was laughable. Did he really think that was how business was done?

“I have actual work to do—”

“And aren’t you just so good at it? You’ll keep doing it, too. Keep the place ticking over for me until dearest Baba hands me the keys.” He looked mad for a moment. “Or until he pops his clogs. Whichever comes first.”

She hated him.

“And you’ll do as I tell you, because if you don’t, I’m sure the people will be delighted to know their morally superior Qasira isn’t above using the women at my party house whenever it suits her.” He brightened. “Some new talent arrived today. Blonde, British, amazing tits. Just your type. Want me to send you the pics? No?” His smirk was pure venom. “You always said I never shared, sister dear, but we both know that’s just not true.”

She glared, too tired to summon a comeback. 

Malik turned to leave. “See you tonight, Nizzy. Don’t be late.”

She let out a slow breath when he was gone. 

She hated him.

Her phone buzzed again. Romaissa had more info. 

—Definite Platinum Nexus ties in the Saudi corporations Malik is courting. Yet to confirm with the Russians, but highly likely. Sending docs to you now—

Her heart weighed heavier. The Platinum Nexus was a network of ultra-conservative billionaires and other corporations that was rarely spoken of in circles outside their own. If the mainstream had heard of it at all, it was dismissed as a conspiracy theory. Unfortunately, it was very real. She sighed. Yet more stupidly rich men who wanted to take the world backwards just to consolidate their wealth.

She despised the lot of them.

She stared out the window and watched the sun dip toward the horizon. On the sea, the islands of the Archipel des Azures were bathed in gold. Exhaustion didn’t cover it. This wasn’t the kind of tired that sleep cured. This was a relentless grind, years of holding the weight of her family, her country and her people on her back while the world spun on blissfully unaware.

Her father had been lucky. He’d had her mother, a rare partnership of love and power that gave him the strength to rule. She’d thought, once, that maybe she could have that too. If she stepped aside, let Malik take the throne, maybe she could escape this life. Maybe she could breathe. 

Totally unbidden, an image of the woman singing the blues in that London club flowed into her mind like a sweet song and the gentle touch she craved. She almost felt it on her cheek. What might be possible, she wondered, if there ever was a woman in the world who might see her for who she was? Someone who might want her, not the money, not the title, not the cold, aloof role she wore like a cloak, but her. Niz.   

She was a fool.

Love was a distraction, a weakness. But blowing off steam? That she could work with.

She smirked, bitter and sharp. Malik’s comment about something new in his harem hadn’t escaped her. She wasn’t above a little indulgence, not when the world kept trying to grind her into dust.

Her fingers drummed against the desk, her mind moving ahead to the Summit. Malik thought he was playing the long game, but he wasn’t Q’sar yet. She still had work to do. For the good of her country. For the good of her people.

Her father had ruled with love. 

For now, while her father’s power still rested in her hands, she would rule with iron. 

Malik had no idea what he was up against.

Chapter Six

“Oh god, it’s fucking huge!”

Contradictions and contrasts were everywhere in Ain Zargiers, Lottie realised. They added an exhilarating spice to the game.

Almost immediately she began to clock the differences between the gaudy extravagance of Qasirim Malik’s party house and the understated elegance of the rest of the palace estate. The group of women selected to attend the Green Futures Alliance cocktail party were ushered down to the royal jetty, and although they weren’t permitted in the actual palace itself, they got close enough to admire its beauty. Built over four hundred years ago by the nation’s most distinguished architects, there wasn’t a gold-plated cherub in sight.

The contrasts were painfully obvious when their gathering boarded Malik’s superyacht just to make the short trip out to the islands barely a mile off the coast. 

The boat was massive.

“Definitely compensating for something,” Bili whispered back.

They still hadn’t met the prince, but he would join them onboard. One of the other hostesses, a gorgeous Black woman Lottie was having trouble taking her eyes off, overheard them. She gave them a tiny grin.

“Sooo compensating,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. She turned her shoulder slightly to shield her hand from the rest of the room. She wiggled her pinkie finger in front of her chest in an unmistakable, universal sign. “What do you think we’re here for? You didn’t hear that from me, though!” She laughed. “Hi, I’m Beauty.” 

She certainly was. Her skin shone with a warmth that was reflected in her eyes. She wore a red cocktail dress—short and tight around her thighs, a scattering of crystals drawing attention to a plunging neckline. Lottie found herself momentarily distracted by a very impressive pair of assets. She cursed her rotten luck again. Surrounded by incredible women who were all straight and obsessed with a prince. Typical.

Unless…

“You guys are new, right?” Beauty said. She waved over a waiter and ordered them all a champagne. The women were milling in the main lounge of the superyacht waiting for the prince to arrive. “Don’t mind me saying, but you still have that wide-eyed-omg look everyone gets when they first see all this shit. Save that for the Qasirim.” She laughed.

“He likes it when we’re impressed by his money?” Bili asked.

Beauty’s laugh deepened. Lottie decided she liked her there and then. “Malik likes it when we’re impressed by his everything.” She wiggled her finger again and pulled a face. “Didn’t Kayley set you up on the Discord?”

They looked at her blankly.

She pulled out her phone. “Everything is on the Discord,” she said. “We all look after each other here. We track what the Qasirim likes, his moods, how to manage his handsy bloody mates, what gifts he’s given each of us and where best to cash them in. No secrets amongst us.”

Bili looked interested. “Cash in the gifts?”

Beauty leaned her hip against the back of an ornate carved lounge. No one wanted to sit down and crease the lines of their dresses. Not before Malik arrived. 

“Sure,” she said. “This is my third stint in the party house, so ask me anything. It will probably be my last, though. Malik is getting stingier and so are his billionaire buddies. The closer to absolute power they get, the tighter they cling to the shit they think makes them important. But people like you and me? Use them up, babes. Take what you can get while they’re throwing it around.”

Bili was scrolling through the Discord on her own phone. “This is incredible,” she murmured.

“I know, right? It was my idea, ages ago,” Beauty said. She pointed to a tall woman chatting casually with the bar staff. “That’s Indira. Her family are diamond merchants. You want to cash in jewellery, talk to Indira.” She indicated another woman holding up the gold grand piano in the middle of the cabin. “Genevieve has contacts in the Swiss watch industry. Malik gives you a watch, you give it to Genevieve, her contacts dump a brilliant price in your bank account. We have similar networks for gold and cars.” She shrugged. “Like I said, we look after each other. All that sensationalist crap about women being catty bitches always in competition with each other was totally made up by men. Fuck ‘em.”

The three of them looked at each other. As one, they wiggled their pinkies.

“Exactly,” said Beauty emphatically. They clinked glasses. “Welcome to the madhouse.”

It was subtle, but everyone felt it when the ship pulled away from the dock. Across the room, Indira, Genevieve and the others gave resigned sighs and drew together in a small group facing the door. 

“Here we go,” muttered Beauty.

Lottie wasn’t exactly nervous, but she needed to know. “What do we— um—”

Beauty looked irritated. “Didn’t Kayley run you through etiquette either? Fuck’s sake.” Lottie had the impression Kayley was going to hear about it tomorrow. “Call him Qasirim until he asks you to call him Malik, then pretend like you’ve been fuck buddies for ever. Laugh at his jokes, clutch at his arm, blow up his ego, all the usual shit, but— and this is important— don’t ever say anything about the Q’sar or the Qasira where he can hear you. He hates them both.” She tugged them over to the group in the middle of the cabin. “Right then, ladies. Tits out. Let’s do this.”

Qasirim Malik was every bit the twat Lottie had expected.

Arrogant, oblivious, and convinced he was the most magnetic man in the room, he strode into the group of women with an entitlement that was truly revolting. The intelligent and otherwise sophisticated Beauty, Genevieve, Indira immediately began giggling like teenagers. It took a quick pop of her eyes from Beauty for Lottie to remember to do the same.

“Very nice,” Malik crooned, and he slapped Lottie’s arse in a way that made her want to snap his hand off at the wrist, yank his arm behind his back and grind his face into the polished marble.

But she dialed up the wattage on her smile. The creep wasn’t worth breaking cover over—not yet. She spent the trip pretending to be awestruck and tossed enough compliments at Malik with just enough syrupy charm to make his ego swell. She hoped nothing else was swelling too. Gross. She and Bili won ‘call me Malik’ status early, and Beauty caught Lottie’s eye, an approving wink from behind her champagne flute. 

They were introduced to Malik’s companions. A Saudi oil tycoon here, a Russian oligarch there. Malik had a particular fossil fuels magnate picked out for Lottie.

“His name is Antonin Petrov and I have him by the balls for a fifteen-year gas deal to the tune of 180 billion,” Malik murmured in her ear. He said it like he thought Lottie should find it sexy. “Make sure he has a good time.”

She wriggled her shoulders, knowing full well the effect it would have on her boobs. “What makes you think he won’t?” she simpered.

Malik leered. His voice hardened. “I mean it. If he shows any sign of getting chummy with my sister, let me know.”

“Of course.”

So. Hostesses were obliged to report back to Malik. Lottie had to admit that was reasonably clever on the Qasirim’s part. His good time girls were all part of his strategy. She wondered if there was anything on the Discord about that.

The superyacht was a floating shrine to excess—twice as garish as the party house—with gold-plated rails, crystal chandeliers and floors so polished Lottie could see her own eye-roll reflected in them. She was starting to see the pattern. This might have been luxury, but it certainly wasn’t style. This was someone trying to buy it and failing spectacularly. 

She was on the forward deck admiring the sun setting over the expanse of the Mediterranean when an alluring vision of the future flew almost directly over her head.

It took her by surprise, creeping up on the superyacht completely silently—a sleek, white, four-person drone, though ‘drone’ was a clumsy, ugly name for such an astonishing vehicle. 

Graceful sweeping lines and elegant curves cradled a gleaming white passenger pod topped by double wings and a blur of rotor blades. It was a flying machine that embodied civilisation’s bravest dreams, an electric inspiration in the air. It put every sci-fi movie to shame—and yet, there it was, streaking past the superyacht and laughing up its sleeve at Malik’s pretension.

Lottie had seconds to glimpse the four passengers inside the glass dome, all reclining on cream leather upholstery. They were smiling and laughing, relaxed and refined. Their sophistication was as natural as the soft stir of the breeze their machine left behind, while the superyacht wallowed in the waves, the stench of diesel billowing in its wake.

It took a few moments longer for Lottie to recognise the woman who sat at the controls, her fingers lightly tapping a screen.

It was the Qasira.

The princess could fly a— a whatever that thing was?

She opened her mouth—and once again Beauty caught her eye. She shook her head minutely.

Lottie shrugged the moment off and giggled inanely at the Russian mogul she’d been assigned. She sipped the free champagne, but her mind chased the flying machine—and the woman inside it.

When the superyacht docked at Azure Mahaba—the most exclusive of the resort islands in the archipelago—Lottie stepped into another realm. Around her, the game shifted again.

Alright, Finch. Turn it on, she told herself.

She strutted into the cocktail party, head high, a cocky smile on her lips, fully prepared to own the room. And then she stopped short.

If this was Zynara’s world, it was breathtaking.

Soft light bathed the reception area with understated refinement. Lush greenery filled the space. A waterfall tumbled from way up in a four-floor atrium, and flowers—swathes of jasmine, cascades of desert roses—and rice-paper lanterns completed the picture. A string quartet played somewhere on a terrace. The cool Mediterranean breeze drifted through an open pavilion and waiters milled around a murmuring crowd.

This was a kind of wealth that didn’t need to prove anything. Lottie’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she caught herself. 

Confidence, Finch. Confidence.

A waiter passed with a tray of crystal champagne flutes and Lottie almost grabbed at one, just for something to hold.

Almost.

She didn’t need to give off new girl energy.

She adjusted the strap of her dress—the one that had had her looking like an icon when she’d checked herself out in the mirror back in her room. Now, surrounded by this crowd, in this place, it felt… trashy. Cheap, despite the amount of the Circle’s money she’d dropped on it. In fact, all of Malik’s party looked a little too bright. Hemlines too short, sparkles too crass, voices too loud. They were plastic baubles amid the silk—and it was clear everyone except Malik knew it. 

Still, Lottie Finch knew how to pivot. She could read a room, and this one didn’t scream so much as discreetly murmur ‘understated elegance’. 

No problem. Fuck, she could even do understated. 

Possibly. Maybe.

If she concentrated.

Her eyes flicked to Malik’s entourage ahead of her, a noisy contrast to the other guests. His laugh cut through the refined hum of conversation, and Lottie reined in a shudder. Of course he’d treat this like it was his own party. 

She followed him into the crowd and scanned the room for her real target. The Qasira. She had a princess to charm. One who was already gone for her, if the Nightingale’s photo reel was anything to go by.

Lottie’s usual cocky attitude returned as if it had never left. 

The princess wouldn’t know what hit her.

When she finally saw the Qasira, Lottie wished she’d had more of that champagne.

She posed herself prettily beside her Russian and faked polite interest all the while listening and cataloging the players, their governments, their corporate affiliations, their plans and ambitions. Malik guffawed loudly and the Saudis brayed in reply. Lottie saw Bili in the middle of the broligarchy, nicely positioned to collect intel. She was beginning to worry she’d never meet the Qasira when she turned and suddenly found herself facing her.

The world stopped.

Lottie knew instantly that everything she’d guessed about the Qasira was wrong. Not merely shy of the mark, but profoundly, deeply and hopelessly misinterpreted. Devastatingly intelligent eyes bore into Lottie’s own—the power of her gaze easily a hundred times more brilliant than every other mind in the room. One glance in her eyes and Lottie knew this woman was a million miles above all their petty machinations and infantile games. The Qasira soared where others stumbled, and Lottie found herself staring up with her mouth open.

And she was breathtaking.

Lottie had caught a glimpse of a hot woman in a dark club in Blackcroft. There’d been an expensive suit, a loosened tie, a luxury watch. But somehow, in her head, the word princess had messed with that confident vibe. Princess meant a tiara and something sparkly in Dior. But this was full-blooded Armani—ultimate power exquisitely tailored to compliment curves that only emphasised her authority. A midnight blue shot-silk suit, a shirt so crisp it snapped Lottie’s brain, and—god help her—unbuttoned to a point low between her breasts, the collar kissing a sharp jaw. It was a self-assured look that meant Her Royal Highness, Qasira Zynara of Ain Zargiers would forever reign supreme over every thought in Lottie’s head. Four inch heels, too. Fuck, that was ballsy. Lottie nearly fell to her knees.

The Qasira looked at her and remained utterly expressionless.

No—as soon as Lottie could breathe again, she realised that wasn’t true. Lottie saw a microscopic twitch at the corner of her eyes. And—far more telling—the tiniest, merest flare of her nostrils. If Lottie hadn’t been so skilled in recognising her opponents’ tells, she might not have noticed. The Russian next to her certainly didn’t. He shook the Qasira’s offered hand with enthusiasm, and the woman shifted her faultlessly polite attention to him without the slightest hiccup in her act. It was an extremely poised performance.  

She shifted her grip on her glass though. Lottie saw her knuckles whiten, a ring on her thumb with a monstrous blue stone shaking in a barely noticeable shiver.

“Antonin. A pleasure to see you here. How is your lovely wife? And the kids? Your youngest has started school, hasn’t she?” Her voice was low. Smooth like an expensive whisky. It slid down Lottie’s spine like butter. She was back on that stage next to Harry’s piano with the words of every song slowly leaking out of her head. The Qasira was fucking sensational and Lottie has miscalculated so badly that if she had any humility she should take herself back to London, throw herself on the Nightingale’s mercy and resign from the Circle in disgrace.

Luckily, humility had never been Lottie’s bag. She clung to her composure.

Next to her, Petrov was rambling about green hydrogen, whatever the fuck that was. Malik had boasted Petrov was all about screwing over western Europe and making them pay through the nose just to warm their houses in the winter. What the hell was he doing talking renewables with Zynara?

Had Zynara stolen one of Malik’s own investors right out from under him?

Lottie smiled. This wasn’t some spoiled princess play-acting on the world stage. This was some viciously cunning manoeuvring on a global chess board.

This was going to be fun.

She let out the breath she’d been holding.

Antonin Petrov made no effort to introduce her. Lottie had to jump.

“Charlotte Finch,” she said, thrusting out her hand.

She nearly swallowed her own tongue. That was her real name! She had a cover! She had a whole story memorised. What the fuck had happened to her brain?

The Qasira’s eyes flicked down to Lottie’s outstretched hand and immediately up to her eyes.

Up close, Zynara’s features were striking, almost severe—high cheekbones that could have been sculpted by the desert wind, a jawline that dared you to argue with her. Her eyes carried the colours of Ain Zargiers—the deep tones of the Atlas Mountains, flecked with the lightness of desert sands. Lottie fell into them, drowned, came up gasping for air and was instantly swamped again.

And then the woman took her hand.

Lottie checked out of reality entirely. 

Something fizzed in her palm. She could feel—at the molecular level—each of the Qasira’s fingertips on her skin. The heat of them raced through her body, hitting her brain and somewhere deep between her legs at precisely the same time. The Qasira was stunning in the way cathedrals broke your mind, in the way the Alps inspired awe, in the way stars spun into galaxies and time stretched toward infinity and everything else felt small. There was nothing in existence except the woman in front of her—and she was the Qasira—soon to be Q’sar, if Lottie could get her shit together—and damn it, nothing in Lottie’s life was ever going to be the same. 

Fuck.

That had never happened before.

There was an amiable-looking man beside the Qasira who took up the polite chatter with the Russian when everything else seemed to stop. The Qasira’s head tilted to an assistant standing just behind her shoulder, and the woman leaned in to whisper in her ear.

Lottie didn’t have to guess what the Qasira was hearing. She had to say something. She wished she’d read the briefing material. 

Be witty, she told herself. Make her laugh. Holyfuckingshit, you’re still holding her hand!

“A conference of contradictions,” she managed. “All this talk of renewable energy and yet everyone arrives by private jet, am I right?”

The Qasira’s expression flattened even further. She was chiselled ice. Her assistant gave a small cough.

Lottie blundered on, horrified at what was coming out of her mouth. “But you must be thrilled to be hosting the summit and having the chance to finally show the world what Ain Zargiers is capable of.”

Even the Russian choked at that. Lottie winced.

Her perfect opportunity crashed and burned in slow motion. The Qasira’s endlessly deep and intelligent eyes shifted their focus and saw right through her. Something knowing and scornful settled in them, and the polite distance between them gaped like a canyon. It was a look that tore through Lottie’s confidence and left it shredded at her feet. Every play she’d ever made since she was a girl, every act, every dream, every costume and pretence was stripped from her skin and burned away by those eyes. She was naked in a room full of strangers. Her skin was flushed, her chest heaved—and Lottie wanted nothing but those eyes on her forever.

Sweet fucking heaven, she suddenly cared about nothing else.

The Qasira took her hand back. Her brows flicked with a tiny, controlled and insanely refined irritation, but her eyes lingered on Lottie.

Lottie would take what she could get.

“Finally?” the Qasira repeated softly. “My country has been the global leader in renewable energy for over a decade. Perhaps you should familiarise yourself with the facts.”

“I recycle!”

The corner of the Qasira’s lips twitched. Her friend snorted into his glass.

“I’m glad to hear it. If you’ll excuse me.”

The Qasira let go of the stranglehold she had on Lottie’s pulse, nodded to the Russian and stalked away. Lottie watched those proud shoulders carry off the last of her self-esteem.

“Shit.”

Antonin Petrov glared at her, swore and left her too. It was just Lottie and the man who had been at the Qasira’s side.

“Breathe,” he said cheerfully. “She has that effect on lots of people. You’ll be fine.”

Lottie groaned. “I sounded like an idiot.”

“I wasn’t going to say it.” He snagged her a champagne from a passing waiter and watched kindly while Lottie slugged it back in one draw. She clamped her lips over a very inelegant belch and wheezed bubbles out her eyeballs.

“Shit,” she mumbled again.

“You still have all your limbs. She went easy on you.” He held out his hand. “Call me Sami. I’ve known Niz since she was three. I can honestly say she didn’t hate you.”

Niz? That was cute. A tidbit for later. Lottie filed it away.

“I recycle?” she echoed. “What was I thinking? How does she do that to people?”  

“You’re one of Malik’s latest? Arrived this morning?”

“Am I that obvious? I was” —Lottie felt the game reasserting itself— “I was so looking forward to meeting her. She’s been such an inspiration to me.”

Sami’s previously generous smile hardened a fraction but it stayed in place. Lottie wondered if she was losing her touch. Had the Qasira devoured it? Was there something in the air in Ain Zargiers? Had she left her talent back in London? Lottie dialed it up.

“I’m doing my business degree at Oxford. We did a case study on her solar interests. I had so many questions. I swear I’m not normally this stupid.” She considered fluttering her eyelashes at Sami but then took in the cut of his linen suit, the sleek Italian loafers and the way the man stood with his hand so casually in his pocket. She had a feeling she may have met an ally. “Plus she’s so unbelievably hot. Do you think I’ll get a second chance?”

“The Qasirim not your type?”

“MBAs don’t come cheap.”

Sami shrugged. Lottie didn’t imagine he knew anything about the struggle. He gave her a shrewd look. “The Qasira isn’t so cruel she doesn’t allow people second chances, but I wouldn’t mention your household recyclables any time soon.”

“I sort them,” she protested, and Sami chuckled. She swatted his arm, pleased to have found a friend so close to the princess so quick out of the blocks. It was about the only thing that made up for the humiliation of the last few moments.

Sami handed her a card. “If you crash and burn a second time, come drown your sorrows in the medina. I have a small club you might like. I even drag Niz away from her work to dine there sometimes. I absolutely never allow her to dismember anyone in my club, so consider it a safe place. You’ll be welcome.”

The card was an expensive embossed thing, with handmade paper that felt textured under her fingers. It had Sami’s Place written on one side and Here’s looking at you, kid on the other, with an address in Arabic. She knew what it referenced immediately—an old black and white movie she’d watched a hundred times as a kid when she’d sheltered with Memeti whenever her mother was on a bender. Memeti loved the movie for its 1940s feels and the Moroccan location—as close as the Ain Zargieri woman could get to home stuck in Bethnal Green—and Lottie loved it for the songs. 

Casablanca.

Once again, her mouth ran ahead of her brain and she crooned the opening lines of the movie’s most famous song.

“You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh—”

Sami’s grin was instant. “Oh honey, who are you? Now I’ll definitely see you at the club.” He walked away from her backwards, still smiling as he went. “Enjoy the party.”

It left Lottie standing alone in the middle of the room feeling so damn far off her game she was no longer sure how to play, and for the first time in a long time, seriously reevaluating her life choices.

Bili waved her over from their group. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed. “I haven’t seen you this shaken since Riga.”

Lottie craned her neck to see the Qasira over the crowd. “I need to talk to her again.”

“Obviously. Fuck it up, did you?”

“How—?”

“Look on your face, babes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just met your match.”

That was enough to jumpstart Lottie’s ego back into action. “Please. I’m just planning my next move. That woman is so uptight she needs someone like me in her life.”

“Like you?”

“Some delightful spontaneity. A touch of cheeky disrespect. Some irresistibly chaotic mess. I’m exactly what she needs.”

“How convenient,” Bili said dryly. She looked unconvinced. “So what is your next move?”

Lottie wasn’t sure. “I’ll stick to the classics. A Cocktail Collision followed by a Wet Way In.”

“You’re going to spill your drink on her?”

“Then take her somewhere quiet to help her clean up. Works like a charm.”

“The Nightingale will be proud.” 

Lottie ignored her sarcasm. In a venue like this she wasn’t sure she had too many other options. It was only her first night in the country. She’d had no time to plan. The Qasira had looked at her, through her, seen the sin on her soul and stalked magnificently away. If for no other reason than to have those eyes on her again, Lottie had to try again. There was a very strong chance she had met her match—and, fuck, what a match that could be.

Besides, the Nightingale could go to hell. Screw whatever the Circle’s mission had been in the first place. 

Lottie had just found her own motivation for the job.

The pavilion fell silent as the Qasira stepped up to a small platform to officially declare the summit open. She welcomed all parties to Ain Zargiers, even casting a scrupulously polite gaze over Malik’s group. Lottie watched with Antonin Petrov on the edge of it. Malik yawned loudly.

One of the Saudis took his cue. “Where is the Q’sar? I didn’t come here to do business with a woman.” The grumble was just loud enough to carry through those nearest in the crowd. Lottie noticed the man wasn’t quite brave enough to ensure his shit-stirring made it to the Qasira’s ears.

“Idiot,” Petrov murmured.

Lottie looked at him. 

“There is money here. I do business with whoever has the most.”

“And that’s not Malik?”

He gave a tiny snort. “Fossil fuels are in structural decline. Malik’s a fool if he can’t see it.” 

“I didn’t pick you for a hippy,” Lottie whispered and slipped her hand back over his arm.

He shrugged. “I have a twelve-year-old daughter. Wants to be an environmental lawyer. For some reason I can’t argue with her.”

Lottie decided she liked him.

They turned their attention back to the Qasira’s speech.

“When my father first envisioned Ain Zargiers’ transition to renewable energy, it wasn’t merely about survival.” The Qasira’s voice was rich and warm, effortlessly cutting through the murmurs. “It was about leadership. It was about proving to the world that innovation and responsibility are not mutually exclusive, but instead represent opportunities. For the market and for humanity.” 

Lottie blinked. The Qasira’s schtick was spot on. She had inspiration, challenge and potential mixed in exactly the right measures. She was good.

The Qasira paused for effect and met the eyes of key figures in the audience as though addressing them personally. Even Malik seemed to straighten under her gaze. “We are no longer defined by the oil beneath our feet, by the fuels we might dig from the ground to sell for others simply to burn. We are defined by what we can build.” 

The Saudi grumbled again. “Fantasy. No one abandons resources like that.”

“Except when this woman renders your resources obsolete.” Lottie couldn’t help herself. A few steps away, Beauty gave her a swift glare.

Zynara continued her speech and Lottie lost herself in the sound of her voice, her casual authority and that magnetic, unshakable poise. She owned every atom of air in the room. Lottie couldn’t take her eyes off her.

The Saudi’s glass paused halfway to his lips. Across the room, Lottie saw similar reactions from the rest of Malik’s crowd. They might be sneering, but they were listening.

And the Qasira knew it. A slight smile played around her lips.

Her eyes fell on Petrov and the man tensed.

“Some of you may think the summit is a threat—that collaboration across borders and across technologies challenges old business models and forces change.” The smile flattened into a smirk. “You’re right. It does.”

Seconds later, that heavy gaze fell on Lottie—and once again, Lottie wasn’t ready for it. From her place on the podium, the Qasira swept her eyes up and down her body. Her head tipped back in a definite challenge. Her smirk turned feral. 

Lottie felt her pulse take off again.

Without dropping Lottie’s eyes for a moment, the Qasira delivered her final line. 

“Game on, wouldn’t you say?” 

She smiled at the polite amusement that rippled from the crowd, turned, and left the podium.

Chapter Seven

It was her—the singer she’d seen in Evelyn Knight’s club.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was doing here.

Zynara’s recent trip to London had been a dull business matter—government ministers and CEOs, some lucrative deals discussed, and a short visit to see her cousin, Alexandra. The Queen of England.

And an old friend named Evelyn Knight. 

Evelyn had taken her to the kind of dive they’d used to hang out in back in the day—back when Zynara was studying at Cambridge. 

She’d met Evelyn completely by chance all those years ago on a weekend when she was evading her father’s bodyguards and sneaking onto the train to head down to London. Her father sent the private jet every Friday, but Zynara had just wanted some freedom. No palaces, no security, no paparazzi—just a dark club somewhere and some loud music. Maybe some pretty girl who didn’t know who she was to flirt with. Maybe even wake up in the girl’s bed and walk away in the thin London dawn, hands in her pockets, a world of possibilities in front of her.

Maybe find Evelyn and do something irresponsible. Something free.

It had taken her far too long to figure out that meeting Evelyn hadn’t been by chance at all—it had been a calculated and strategic move on Eveyn’s part to get close to her, to position herself within her affections and win her trust. Evelyn Knight wasn’t, and hadn’t ever been, a fellow student at Cambridge. 

Zynara blamed her father at first.

“I don’t need another bodyguard following me around. Even one cunningly disguised as a friend,” she’d whined.

The Q’sar had simply watched her with that calm, patient gravity she always wished she could emulate and never could, and waited for her to calm down. 

“This one isn’t ours, binti.”

Zynara exploded all over again. “You’re allowing the British to spy on me?”

“Your aunt just wants to see that you’re safe. She promised your mother.” He was so gentle. 

There was no comeback to that. Her aunt, at the time, had been Queen Margaret of England. Zynara’s mother had died when she was thirteen. 

So, she tolerated Evelyn Knight and did her best to ignore her father’s smugness when they actually became friends.

Evelyn showed Zynara another side of London, one directly opposite the side she knew with the palace and the halls of power. The Blackcroft side of the Thames was wilder, lawless. Evelyn taught Zynara how to disappear into it, and that gave her the freedom to be who she wanted to be away from royal expectations. 

They’d had a bit of fun together, but Evelyn and Zynara were very similar personalities. They soon realised they’d tear each other apart in bed—unless they had someone else to play with. 

It had been a fun few years.

These days, it was clear Evelyn had mellowed. A smooth jazz club instead of a grinding beat at 3am in a nightclub? The same woman on her arm more than two meetings running? Zynara would have had to be blind not to realise that was all down to the luscious Rose Martin at Evelyn’s side. Evelyn had found her kryptonite—and Zynara fought down jealousy. Oh, not for Rose herself, but for the contentment Evelyn obviously found.

A fucking spy had found love. Zynara had long ago accepted there would never be anything like that for her. She was royalty. The kind of girls who wanted Zynara only wanted her for her title.

And then she’d seen her.

The woman was singing some ancient Frank Sinatra hit—the type of music Zynara regularly teased Sami for—and she was captivating.

She was… ripe.

Zynara always had her pick of the prettiest women in her brother’s harem. They were hot, eager, artificial-looking things with incredible legs and perky boob jobs—not that Zynara had a problem with that—but this woman was lush. There was a fullness to her curves, a softness Zynara could see herself pressing her fingers into. Temptation in the swell of her hips. Tits she could fall into—fuck—welcoming eyes that threatened to drown her.

And her voice! She sang from somewhere deep inside her—trite words about love that mocked Zynara’s empty, lonely life, all mixed up with glorious tones that made her want to both back the woman against a wall and bite her lower lip, and hush her sorrows into the hollow under her chin. Press her lips to her throat and let that love hum against her own hopeless need—

Zynara blinked. Where had that come from?

She didn’t need this. The girl was young. Just like the others, she told herself. A singer in a club. Nobody.

But Evelyn was a tease. She made her look again. 

The singer was playful. Cheeky. Zynara was accustomed to that. All her brother’s bunnies gave playful a try—until Zynara whipped it out of them, irritated to be reduced to a cliche like that. Every woman she’d ever slept with was much the same—they played a part, becoming who they thought the princess might like.

It was always hard to tell who was using who.

There was a slim chance this one was different. She sang like an angel, after all. And the longer Zynara looked, the more she saw. There was something fierce about her. Fiery. Something that might protect Zynara’s heart rather than cash it in for jewels and expensive gifts.

She shook off Evelyn’s teasing. Zynara was too busy for shit like that. 

But the singer stuck in her mind.

And now here she was.

Here she was in the middle of Zynara’s city—in the middle of her Green Futures Alliance summit. In the middle, it seemed, of her brother’s harem.

Zynara stifled a sigh.

Of course.

Who was playing her this time? Malik? MI6? The bloody queen of England? 

Or her own wishful thinking?

“She’s just your type.”

“I’m not even looking at her.”

“Liar.”

Sami had a smug expression on his face, and Zynara carefully watched the room, as expressionless as she knew how to be. Diplomats and moguls murmured around her, trading pleasantries and promises of business. They had the power to shape the future or stall it, and the stakes were high. For Zynara especially so—she needed to charm these people, win them, and keep Ain Zargiers at the forefront of science, development and the energy revolution.

It was imperative work, but it was politics—and it didn’t stop her from being bored out of her mind.

She pointedly didn’t look in the direction of Malik’s crowd where the singer would be, but her brother’s laughter boomed and her head turned against her will. Malik had his own little audience of oil execs, fossil fuel lobbyists, a smattering of sycophants—and his women.

Sami was right. Charlotte Finch was exactly her type. So utterly perfect it was almost as if someone had known and stacked her brother’s harem against her. 

She was a walking cliche—legs for days, tottering on those ridiculous heels, a slip of a dress that was barely decent and brushing sensational thighs. The woman put her hand on her hip and Zynara couldn’t tear her eyes away from the curve of her waist, then lush breasts she wanted to bite. She had a smile that was almost genuine too—though Zynara didn’t kid herself. Everyone smiled at the Qasira. And those curls—an incredible halo that framed eyes loaded with an irresistible level of sass. 

Zynara’s weakness.

But then the woman had opened her mouth.

Zynara sighed. The prettiest ones were always stupid. 

“She checks out,” Sami said. “She’s peddling some backstory about studying for a business degree. We can run with that, if it amuses her, but she works for British intelligence. She’ll tell you she met Malik’s recruiter dancing in a nightclub.”

“MI6 is watching Malik?”

“Kind of.”

She gave Sami a look. He smiled serenely back.

“She’s safe to play with, Niz. Have some fun. I’ll send you her file.”

“No need.”

Sami Habash wasn’t just her best friend—he was her bishop, knight and rook in the game of survival that doubled as life in the palace. As Chief of Palace Intelligence, his role wasn’t sanctioned by the government or any official department. Rayan had set the role up before he died, and the night he did, Sami came to her and explained it all. He worked solely for the heir to the throne, and his job was simple in description and daunting in execution—protect the heir from threats, both external and internal. That meant knowing who whispered in the halls, who lingered too long in the Q’sar’s presence, and who the hell Malik dragged into his gaudy circus of a party house.

“I’m not the heir,” Zynara told him, days after her brother died and she’d relinquished her claim to the throne. “You should be serving Malik.”

“Never going to happen,” Sami said, and he’d never wavered on that.

His network was vast, quiet and efficient. Files on every guest in the palace passed through his hands—background checks, surveillance reports, psych profiles. His reach extended from the capital’s bustling markets to the shady corners of international intelligence. He knew everything, even when Zynara didn’t. 

She trusted him completely.

He chuckled, then grimaced when he clocked her negativity. “Wait. No need because you trust me, or no need because you’re not interested?”

“I’m not interested.”

“Liar,” he said again. He nudged her elbow. “You’re still watching her.”

Zynara huffed in exasperation, immediately annoyed at herself for the reaction. She wasn’t easily distracted, but this one—Charlotte Finch—this one had a presence.

The woman was draped prettily on Petrov’s arm, just like all the other women, but there was something different about her. Malik’s party girls tended to fall into two main categories—the hedonistic who were unashamedly there for a good time, and those who saw what Malik offered as a means to an end. Strangely, Charlotte Finch didn’t seem to fit into either category. Her body language said she was wholeheartedly into Antonin Petrov, but her eyes never stopped moving. Zynara had the impression of a hunter rather than a songbird.

Their eyes met across the room and Zynara caught the faintest flicker of surprise in the woman’s expression, like she’d been caught off guard. She was suddenly a finch again, and she actually bit her lip.

A small, satisfied smile tugged at Zynara’s lips. Cute. 

“Want me to set up a liaison for you?” Sami asked mildly. He looked too damn happy with himself.

“Wasn’t it only yesterday you were warning me away from Malik’s harem?”

“Since when have you ever taken my advice?” he grumbled. “If you did, you’d still be in line for the throne and we wouldn’t be scrambling over this mess with the Q’sar’s abdication.”

Zynara dropped Charlotte Finch’s gaze and frowned at Sami. He held up his hands and backed away good naturedly. A delegate from Brazil seized the moment, and Zynara was deep in diplomacy once again.

So, she wasn’t surprised an hour later when she turned from talking with the German environment minister and found herself suddenly doused in red wine—a splash of it all over her shirt—and a very clever pair of light blue eyes dancing back at her.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t even see you— I totally—”

Whatever Charlotte Finch was going to say was silenced by four members of Zynara’s personal guard who instantly stepped out of the crowd—women, dressed in gowns as if they were guests, but easily able to take down anyone who approached the Qasira with their bare hands. Two stepped between them, a protective wall between the Qasira and the threat. Charlotte Finch’s eyes widened, though not with panic. More as if she was impressed.

Definitely an intelligence agent, then.

Zynara spoke softly. “Thank you, ladies. We’re fine.”

On opposite sides of the room, both Sami and Romaissa watched them closely. Zynara gave the signal for everyone to stand down. The guards bowed and the four of them blended back into the crowd. 

Charlotte Finch was still staring at her, her hand up to her mouth in an exaggerated performance of dismay and innocence that was extremely convincing. She was quite the picture with her breasts rising and falling in the adrenaline of the moment. 

Zynara took a moment to admire the view then locked eyes and stared her down. 

There was a beat. 

She pinched wine-soaked fabric between the tips of her fingers and pulled it away from her body. The woman’s eyes fixed on the V of her shirt. Her lips fell open.

“Nicely done,” Zynara allowed dryly. “What was your next move?”

It was absolutely not a coincidence that the woman had a paper napkin in her hand. She advanced, hands outstretched.

“Really?” Zynara smirked.

There was another moment and Charlotte Finch dropped the dizzy act like a stone. It fell from her shoulders, from her whole body, and in its place came something far more casual. A true confidence. A genuine smile. One that turned saucy in seconds and not even the slightest bit apologetic.

Gorgeous.

She slung her weight onto one hip and Zynara’s poise nearly crumbled. She scrunched her nose and Zynara knew it was all over.

This one was perfect.

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you that badly. I’m well off my game. Turns out I’m completely intimidated by royalty.” She swept an unashamedly lecherous glance up and down Zynara’s body and rounded the whole show off with a wink.

Zynara barely stopped herself from laughing out loud. No one had looked at her like that in a very long time. 

But there were rules.

“Qasira,” she said.

“What?”

“My correct form of address.”

“Pfft. And there I was about to say you could call me Lottie.” Lottie pouted and tossed her head, ridiculously cocky, curls and breasts bouncing all over the place. Zynara wondered how cheeky she’d be naked on her hands and knees with Zynara’s strap buried deep inside her. That wicked twinkle in her eyes suggested probably more. 

Which might be fun. 

“Hello, Lottie,” Zynara said, low and slow.

The woman grinned like the sunshine and held out the napkin. “You just going to stand there dripping pinot noir?”

Zynara smiled despite herself. She dabbed at her shirt.

“I could do that for you.”

Zynara raised an eyebrow and waited. 

“I could do that for you, Qasira.” Lottie’s flush was a total giveaway. 

“Better.”

The girl’s nostrils flared, and after a long moment, dropped her eyes extremely prettily. She bit her lip. When she looked up, the spark in her eyes made it clear she hoped Zynara had noticed. 

Oh, so that was how Lottie Finch liked it. This could be lots of fun indeed.

Zynara decided to play. “What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked. “Your recycling?”

“Rude.”

“You threw your drink over me for a reason, I presume.”

Lottie’s chin went up again. Zynara was quite beginning to like her. 

“I wanted to say that I admired your speech in Geneva last week and that I agree entirely. The current economic trajectory is unsustainable without a fundamental, radical and courageous change in priorities of profit and greed over humanity and egalitarianism, and that while the engagement of communities and grassroots actions is commendable, real effective change is only possible at the corporate and governmental level. The magic will happen when corporate and government change empowers community movements, don’t you think?”

Zynara raised an eyebrow. “Nice recovery,” she said. “I’m almost impressed.”

“Almost?”

“Don’t push your luck.” Zynara looked down at her ruined shirt. The tedious evening suddenly had potential. “I’m obliged to attend my brother’s party after this. I’m sure I will see you there.”

She waited.

Lottie looked confused. “What?”

“This is when you bow and take your leave,” Zynara said.

She watched the woman’s brain short out at the idea of bowing to her.

“Wait! I threw my drink over you for a reason,” Lottie repeated. “Let me help clean you up. We can go somewhere private. You don’t really want to be here, do you?” The bimbo act was back—big eyes, big tits, bouncing curls, her teeth savaging her lower lip. “Please, Qasira?”

The nerve of this one! It was a teasing charade that made Zynara want to wrap her fingers around her throat, back her to the nearest wall and kiss her until she begged for more. Lottie looked like she’d kiss her back. Zynara looked forward to it.

She took a step forward. Lottie’s chest lifted as she sucked in a breath but she didn’t give any ground. The rest of the party fell away.

“You’re new,” Zynara murmured. “But you’re here attracting my attention on your very first day. You must know what you want.”

Lottie looked thrilled. “I know what you want,” she said.

“Presumptuous.”

The woman smirked, all trace of that pretty submission of moments ago replaced by a sass Zynara found just as attractive.

“Obvious,” Lottie drawled.

Once again, Zynara found herself wanting to laugh. She tipped her chin at her brother’s group.

“Very well. Tell your minders you’ll be leaving with me. I’ll see you out on the terrace in five minutes.”

Lottie grinned like she’d won a million dollars. “Yes, Qasira. Thank you, Qasira,” she simpered, stupidly prettily and still working that teasing smile. 

“Don’t overdo it.”

The woman sauntered right into Zynara’s space and whispered into her ear. “Don’t be grumpy.” And then she was gone, strutting away leaving Zynara watching her arse and wondering who, exactly, had won that round.

Chapter Eight

Zynara simply removed the shirt.

Romaissa offered her own, of course, but Zynara waved her away. She buttoned the suit jacket low and looked at herself in the restroom mirror. She looked good. Strong. Proud. The tussle with the curly-haired blonde had put her in a mood. The convenient thing about Malik’s girls was that they all talked to each other. It meant Zynara could trust that any woman from the party house who hit her up knew precisely what she might get in return.

That particular cheeky little wench could spill wine over her any time—so long as it gave Zynara the chance to make her clean it up with her tongue. 

Zynara found herself feeling urgent.

She strode out onto the terrace to find the woman waiting for her, shifting her weight impatiently on those amazing legs. The girl’s eyes widened and tracked down the front of her blazer, stalling when they clocked the absence of her shirt. Lottie, Zynara remembered. She ran her own eyes over the woman’s body. There was certainly a lot going on there. Zynara blinked away a sudden vision of all that beautiful skin straining at silken ropes.

Maybe later, if all went well.

She summoned the AlTair flier to their location with a touch to her phone and Lottie’s eyes bugged out even further. She held the pod door open for her. 

“Thank you, Qasira.”

So she was a fast learner. Good. 

Zynara copped a greedy look at two luscious thighs as the woman climbed in. Lottie sprung her looking—and she’d just opened her mouth for a sassy remark when Zynara deliberately closed the door on her. The outrage on her face was delectable. 

Oh, winding this one up was going to be fun. 

From the air, the sea was dark and wide. The last purples of the setting sun were sinking into a soul-deep blue, the Azure islands glittered like diamonds and the towers of Azzouan rose like crystal spires in the distance. There was an exceptionally eager woman at her side. Zynara should have been on top of the world. But the flier passed over her brother’s boat, moored like a deliberate insult right before her keenest hopes, and the music was audible even from the air.

She couldn’t stop a sigh.

Lottie Finch eyed her sideways. She seemed a little less confident now she was in the air in a flying machine even Zynara had to admit was the stuff of dreams. She looked between Zynara and Malik’s yacht and back again and Zynara was surprised to see understanding in her eyes.

“I hate that thing,” Zynara muttered, surprised again to be admitting it in front of— in front of a spy, in front of one of her brother’s whores.

“Well, it’s got nothing on this,” Lottie breathed. She seemed determined to rescue her in more ways than one, distracting her and flattering her ego in the same breath. Clever girl. “What even is this amazing contraption we’re in? Is it yours? Did you design it? And” —she looked around the bare console, an obvious fact only hitting her now— “no controls? Where are the controls?”

Zynara waved her phone.

“That’s it?” Her voice pitched up a little.

“It’s autonomous.” Zynara crossed her legs and shifted around in her seat to look at Lottie properly. Lottie’s eyebrows disappeared into her hair. “And yes, it is mine, and yes, I designed it. I can override its programming. Tour of the city? Never been in an air taxi before?”

“That’s what this is?”

Zynara deliberately misinterpreted her. “A tour of the city? You want it to be something more?”

“You fucking bet I do!”

There was a beat while indignation and a strange feeling of excitement wrestled in Zynara’s mind. No one talked to the Qasira like that. Not ever. Zynara realised she liked it. The laugh she’d been holding in all evening broke free. Lottie looked delighted.

She flicked the flier off auto and used her phone like a game controller. She tipped it toward the towers of Azzouan. 

“AlTair is a company of electric vertical take-off and landing passenger drones running an autonomous service between the airport and the city,” she said. “You can see them—there!—” She watched Lottie’s throat and breasts as they spilled against her dress as she leaned forward to see the pinpoints of light flitting behind the city. “This one is mine though.”

“It’s nice.”

“Nice?!” Why did Zynara even find that kind of cheek attractive? “It’s cutting edge, thank you very much. This is the long distance model. I designed it with a double set of ultra light carbon fibre fixed wings and propulsion motors combined with the VTOL capacity of the six electric rotors. It’s fast, fleet and” —she spun them suddenly in a viciously tight midair circle, far more compact than any other aircraft could achieve. Lottie squealed— “and can turn on a pin,” she finished.

Lottie gave her a look that made Zynara feel like doing it again.

“Well, it’s all clear now,” the girl drawled. “You’re a nerd,” and she deliberately licked her upper lip.

Zynara laughed again. What the actual hell? “Oh, you’re going to regret that.” 

She pushed the flier to its maximum speed and dropped them until they were skimming mere metres above the waves. The beach was coming up fast and Zynara banked sharply in the air so they were hurtling along its length, the shining city on one side, the darkness of the Mediterranean on the other. At the end, she gained just enough height to dance over the tops of the medina, then she plunged them into the needle-sharp towers of Azzouan, zipping between them and finally circling the tower that was hers.

Beside her, Lottie whooped—and the sound sparkled in Zynara’s chest.

Lottie even leaned in and peered at the controls.

“Cool. Looks easy. Can I have a go?”

Who was this woman?

“Not a chance,” Zynara said, smugly.

“Like to be in control, do you?” 

“You fucking bet I do,” she said, her voice as low and dangerous as she could make it. 

Lottie’s smile was unbelievably wicked. 

There was a landing platform on the fiftieth floor of the Burj Al Saqr. An express elevator took them the next hundred floors to her city apartment. The doors opened at the touch of Zynara’s fingerprint.

“And she only has the most expensive penthouse in what is literally the tallest building on the planet,” Lottie mocked. “Do you think you could throw just a little more style around?”

Zynara ignored her. It was bluster—she was beginning to see how Charlotte Finch was wired. The woman had done her best to act unimpressed when the flier landed and footmen had stepped forward to open its doors. She’d sailed past the concierge with her chin in the air, but she hadn’t been able to stifle the quick intake of breath between parted lips when the man bowed.

It was a very real little sound that Zynara wanted to hear again.

Lottie smirked when the elevator shot vertical so quickly it left their souls behind on the fiftieth floor. And that had almost been convincing, except her eyes were a tiny bit too wide and her breath came between open lips. When she’d stepped into Zynara’s suite, her fingers trailed over the silk of the chaise lounge like she’d never touched anything so soft, and she steadfastly refused to say anything about the sensational view.

It was cute, but Zynara hadn’t yet decided how much of it was an act. 

She might have just been taking one of her brother’s women home for a shag, but something far more complicated was happening.

Lottie Finch was a spy—and not one of Malik’s—though she appeared ready to play his games. She’d made a deliberate play to get close to Zynara, and then revealed a little too much of her true self as her act fell apart. She was brash, brazen, cocky and rude, and yet she bit her lip and flushed like she knew exactly the games the Qasira liked to play and wanted to play those too. There was a look in her eye that promised something fun and carefree, and yet Zynara could see a need as yearning as her own.

On top of all that, Zynara remembered her from London—the warmth of her voice still in her ears, smooth and welcoming as she sang age-old songs about love. She’d sung like a siren, and Zynara had almost been pulled under. She wasn’t accustomed to women having such power over her.

Zynara was always the one in control when it came to liaisons like this. The Qasira needed to be cool and aloof. She was the voice of the crown. She was the only person holding the kingdom together. She needed to be better than her brother, stronger than her father—strong enough to carry the many lives that depended on her. The very future of her country was balanced on her shoulders.

So she didn’t need one of her brother’s playthings slipping under her skin.

One night then, Zynara decided. As usual. Just another of her brother’s women for a bit of relaxation, before she fell back into the rest of the work.

Nothing special.

Lottie walked straight onto the enclosed balcony and looked out at the world spread at their feet, Azzouan gleaming like a jewel on the velvet pillow of the Mediterranean. 

Zynara poured them both more champagne.

“Not the penthouse, though,” Lottie teased. “Budget didn’t stretch?”

“I own the tower.” Zynara clinked their glasses and leaned against the railing, her back to the view. She’d seen it before. She crossed her legs at the ankles and put her free hand in her pocket.

There was that little gasp again.

“You own—?”

“One of my companies owns it, though I am the major stakeholder.” Zynara delighted in the way Lottie’s mouth fell open. The girl wasn’t anywhere near as cool as she thought she was. “I may have plunged some of the sovereign wealth fund into its construction, but the investment has more than paid for itself.”

“Ah. You nicked daddy’s credit to build a tower.”

“I tripled the country’s investment, thank you. Used the increased capital to fund ten solar farms on the outskirts of the city. They provide free electricity to the citizens in those regions. What do you take me for?”

Lottie hummed. It sounded like a concession. She gazed at the midnight city laid out below them and Zynara watched her sideways. When she sipped her champagne, she chased the bubbles off her lip with her tongue. Zynara wanted to do the same.

“It’s called the Burj Al Saqr, isn’t it?” Lottie asked.

“Nice pronunciation.”

“Tower of Eagles?” she translated.

“You speak Arabic?”

“Or is it falcons?” She frowned, puzzling it out. And then she spoke in Arabic. “I actually feel like a falcon all the way up here.”

She looked at her like they might fly off the edge of the world together. 

None of the other woman Zynara had ever fucked from Malik’s party house had bothered to learn Arabic. It was… stupidly alluring.

Zynara swirled the champagne in her glass. “Tell me something, Charlotte Finch.”

Lottie’s smile was slow and wide. “Whatever you want to hear.”

“You’d never normally do this, but you need to pay for your masters degree?”

The smile hitched. Lottie blinked.

“No?” Zynara went on. “Your grandmother’s retirement care?”

Lottie shook her head. 

“Your little sister has a terminal illness?”

“Poor Qasira. Is that what the other girls told you? I hate to break it to you, princess, but they’ve all been lying to you.” Her voice was gentle. 

“Don’t call me princess.”

“This might be hard to believe for someone who lives in a literal palace and keeps a place like this as a love nest, Qasira, but the kind of money your brother offers is the only way to get into the real estate market these days. I just want to buy a flat in Clapham.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

Lottie put her glass down. “No,” she admitted, softly, “but I absolutely promise I won’t spin you some stupid lie about it.” 

She stepped away from the railing and stood facing Zynara. Slowly, looking deep into Zynara’s eyes as she did, she reached around her back and pulled down the zip of her dress. 

Slipped the straps one by one from her shoulders. 

She caught the tiny scrap of fabric as it threatened to slip to the floor, her arms folded under those lush, lush breasts—and waited.

Zynara felt her own lips fall open.

“I’m here because I saw an incredibly attractive woman in a club in London,” Lottie whispered.

“So did I,” Zynara murmured. “Doesn’t really answer my question, though.”

“Best I can offer right now, Qasira. But I can make it up to you in other ways. Are we doing this?”

“I always get what I want,” Zynara warned.

“I fucking bet you do.” Lottie grinned and let go of the dress.

The dress stayed where it was. Zynara raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, shit,” Lottie squeaked. “Boob tape.”

She peeled it off, dropped the dress to the floor, and joined in with Zynara’s helpless laughter.

Chapter Nine

Lottie simply stood there as their laughter faded, half a mile above the surface of the earth, nothing but the sea breeze and Zynara’s gaze on her skin. Her dress lay in a puddle of audacity at her feet and her fingers paused at the lace of her thong. She’d been ready to step out of that too, but the woman in front of her just looked at her, her eyes like weights. Lottie allowed herself to be watched.

She was being examined, she realised. Deciphered. Catalogued. Zynara was deciding.

The Qasira leaned back against the railing, one hand in her pocket, the other holding her champagne glass to her lips. No approval. No command. Just that calculating, unreadable stare.

Lottie was beginning to think she’d misread the entire situation when the Qasira finally twitched one brow—the tiniest movement—but it hit Lottie like a bolt of fire between her legs.

“Haven’t done your research, have you?” 

“What?” It was the last thing Lottie expected her to say, but her voice was low and amused. It crinkled all the skin on Lottie’s body.

“I happen to know there’s a whole channel on the Discord devoted to me. I’d assumed you’d studied it. But you haven’t.”

Zynara’s lips curved—not quite a smile, but something hungrier. She sipped her champagne, her eyes dragging down Lottie’s body, getting lost around her hips, lingering on her breasts and then meeting her eyes again. 

“I’m a fast learner,” Lottie breathed.

“You’d better be.” Zynara pushed off the balcony railing and stepped right into Lottie’s space. Her heels clicked like punctuation. “You’re as beautiful as I imagined you’d be.”

Lottie swallowed. Her heart banged in her chest. Her brain—gone. The Qasira had been picturing her naked? Fuck, that was powerful. Lottie would have crowed, but it hit her differently to how she expected it. It struck deep. Whatever Zynara had planned, Lottie knew then and there she’d take it. She was ready to do whatever Zynara asked.

But she could still be cheeky. “Been dreaming about me?”

One perfect finger landed on her lips and Lottie sucked back her sass like her life depended on it. Zynara’s eyes danced at her. She was tall, beautiful, commanding and… definitely trying not to laugh. 

“‘Been dreaming about me, Qasira.’ You will use my title” —her voice dropped an octave— “if you want to be… good.”

“Oh, I do. I want to be good. I want to be very good. Actually, I am very good, but I also really want to be very—” she stopped babbling when Zynara stalked slowly around her, paused at her back and swept her hair to one side. She hushed a sigh into the nape of Lottie’s neck, and Lottie’s knees nearly gave way. “Oh, fuck,” she breathed.

“Hmm?”

It was irresistible. “Oh, fuck, Qasira.”

The huff turned into a snort of exasperation and then a very sharp nip. Lottie squeaked, and it won her a slap on her backside, deliciously hard. Zynara’s hand settled on the spot again and squeezed.

“If you’d done your research, you’d have learned that I am always in control. When you come to my bed, you bend your luscious, perfect body to my will. Not the other way around. You undress when I order you to. You obey my commands. Am I understood?”

It was clear as crystal. It made perfect sense. The agent part of Lottie’s mind filed away Zynara’s need for control—the other part revelled in her luck. A brilliantly domineering, stunningly attractive woman who thought that Lottie’s body was luscious and perfect. Lottie was going to worship her for the rest of her days.

“Yes, Qasira,” she whispered, meaning it with every fibre of her body.

Zynara stepped around her shoulder to peer at her. A finger lifted her chin. 

“Are you making fun?”

“Never!”

Zynara shot an eyebrow.

“Okay, ninety percent of the time, yes, but not right now. Qasira. You’re in control.”

There was a slow, heavy smile.

“Good girl. Never forget who I am. We might be at the top of the world’s tallest building, but there are always people watching. This” —she waved her fingers at Lottie’s body and the dress on the floor— “as delectable as it is, doesn’t happen unless I say so.”

Lottie dropped her eyes. She hadn’t thought. Seducing a princess wasn’t free from consequences. Lottie needed to think. 

“Sorry, Qasira.”

“I like it though.”

Lottie’s eyes snapped up again. There was some wickedly fun mischief in the twist of Zynara’s smile that promised all kinds of pleasure. Lottie’s vision whited out.

They were so close. Lottie was eye level with Zynara’s lips. The fabric of her suit jacket brushed Lottie’s breasts. She could feel the heat of Zynara’s thighs against her own.

“Mata Hari,” Zynara whispered. 

“What?”

“Safeword.”

Fuck. A World War One spy and exotic dancer. What did Zynara know? Lottie didn’t even care.

“Whatever you say, Qasira.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Zynara fucked her up against the glass of the balcony enclosure.

She simply wrapped her fingers around the base of Lottie’s throat, slipped a thigh between Lottie’s legs, and walked her back to the glass. They could have tumbled nearly a kilometre to the ground. They soared across the sky instead.

Lottie knew it was all over for her the moment Zynara’s lips landed on her neck. It was hot and wet—a very greedy open-mouthed kiss that made its way up the side of her throat and focused on a point just below her ear that made Lottie rise up onto her toes. 

Strong hands held her still and Lottie couldn’t help grinding down on the thigh between her legs. Zynara was still fully clothed—well, minus the shirt Lottie had spilled wine over—and Lottie was in a lace thong and silver heels. It was too much. Lottie wanted it all off.

She slipped her hands between them and tried to find the button of Zynara’s jacket. 

The lips at her throat froze.

“What did I say?”

“But I want to touch you,” Lottie whined. “I want to see you. I need to—”

“You need to do as you’re told.”

“But—”

The hand at her hip slapped her thigh and Lottie couldn’t stop a moan. God, this was just how she liked her women to treat her. She slumped against the glass and Zynara’s leg between hers held her up. She took the opportunity to tilt her hips and grind down even harder.

Zynara chuckled in her ear. “Oh, poor little songbird. You’re all worked up, aren’t you? How about I sort that out for you, and then you can earn your money?”

“Fuck,” Lottie mumbled. She wasn’t sure if it was the pet name or the promise of being used that drove her insane, but she was whimpering and writhing against the glass and she couldn’t stop.

“Hmm?”

“Please.”

“Please, what?” Zynara breathed it hotly into Lottie’s throat.

“Please can I kiss you, Qasira? Please?”

A hand slid to the back of Lottie’s neck and gripped it possessively. Lottie melted. Zynara blinked at her once, then crashed their mouths together.

It was teeth and tongues and a stupid battle for dominance for one crazy moment—and then Lottie tasted it. 

Need.

It was the flavour of something desperate in Zynara’s kiss. Something wilder than greed, deeper than simply playing. There was yearning in the Qasira’s lips, and it tasted a million times better than the champagne that lingered on her tongue. It reached into a hidden place in the back of Lottie’s mind—or maybe her heart, she wasn’t sure—and it connected. A perfect fit. And that was all Lottie needed. She surrendered the fight and felt the spin of the world on its axis. The Qasira hummed, tightened her grip on the back of Lottie’s neck, and deepened the kiss.

Time shattered, confused itself with touch, and Lottie spiralled. 

Zynara was— everything.

She moaned into the Qasira’s mouth.

Zynara broke the kiss and pulled back to look at her, her lips bruised, her eyes hooded.

Lottie’s entire life fell apart when she saw distrust in the Qasira’s eyes. That kiss had been amazing, but Zynara looked at her with suspicion. She was wary.

That made sense too, Lottie thought, with the last shreds of her rational brain. How could someone who was actual royalty, a leading businesswoman, a global leader, a multi-billionaire ever trust someone like Lottie Finch from Bethnal Green? Lottie wanted to swallow Zynara’s suspicion, drink it all down and pull her close and wrap her in trust—but what nonsense was that? Lottie barely trusted herself.

So instead she panted through her swollen lips and loaded her gaze with sass. 

“That the best you got, Qasira?” 

Hurt flashed across the woman’s face so quickly Lottie wasn’t sure she saw it, then Zynara snarled, licked her lips and kissed her again.

It was twice as real as before. Deep and possessive, with a confidence that bordered on swagger. Zynara already knew how Lottie liked it. She made damn sure Lottie got it, too.  

Lottie was lost. She placed her hands on Zynara’s shoulders, gripped her suit, hooked one leg over her hip and hung on for dear life.

Zynara’s other hand slipped between her legs and found exactly the point Lottie needed her to in a second. Two firm fingers found the wetness Lottie knew was there. There was another hum against her lips. The Qasira pulled back and gave her a hungry smile. Her eyes swept down Lottie’s body in a ridiculously covetous manner and looked at the hand buried in Lottie’s cunt.

“Are you ready for me?”

Lottie huffed out a desperate snort. “Think you know I am.”

“Going to moan for me, little songbird? Going to sing? I want to hear it all.”

Fuck, this woman! She was steel and ice and perfectly calm, and Lottie was coming apart at the edges. She’d do whatever Zynara wanted. 

But her fingers weren’t moving. 

“Qasira, please fuck me. Please do whatever you want with me.” Lottie didn’t even recognise her own voice. “Just please, please do it now,” she whined.

Zynara laughed, circled her clit once, and then plunged inside her. Lottie nearly sobbed in relief.

Sharp eyes were on hers in an instant. “Hmm?”

Was that as kind as the Qasira could allow herself to be? 

“More,” Lottie said, her voice ragged. “Harder. Deeper.”

“I give the orders.”

“Oh my god, Qasira, please!”  

And so she began in earnest. 

She watched Lottie like she was some kind of science experiment. She thrust inside her, her fingers curling, adjusting, hitting deep here, pressing hard there. Her eyes bore into Lottie’s and she catalogued her every moan, every guttural gasp that fell from her lips. She found a rhythm fast, her other arm falling to her elbow on the glass beside Lottie’s head, her own ragged breathing hot against Lottie’s neck. 

Lottie felt it all—Zynara’s weight on her body, the rich silk of her suit brushing her bare nipples, the chill of the expensive watch at her wrist hitting Lottie’s inner thigh. She felt her own muscles clench, felt the drag on Zynara’s fingers. She saw the moment Zynara knew she was close.

There was a feral smile— and the Qaisra stopped.

“Ugh!” Lottie sagged against the glass, and quivered and panted. “How did I know you were going to do that?”

“You like it. I like seeing how much you can take. We’ve got all night.” The Qasira cooed it into her neck. “I’m in control, remember?”

“If by control you mean driving me completely crazy.”

The hot breath at her neck suddenly felt like a laugh, and Lottie realised she liked this woman lighthearted and carefree just as much as she liked the aloof princess. The laugh turned into another sharp bite and Lottie’s body rippled against the glass in a full blooded spasm, her head back, breasts heaving, the thigh wrapped around Zynara’s hips pulling her in tight. She was flying again, barely hanging on. Her entire existence was balanced on Zynara’s desire, on the steel and the rule of her fingers.

When her vision finally cleared it was to see the Qasira watching her with her lips open in a greedy snarl and her eyes completely black. She was still inside her, but she brought her free hand to Lottie’s breasts, cupped one and pinched her nipple. Lottie’s hips tilted and they both breathed—urgently—in sync. 

The fingers inside her curled. It seemed like the Qasira couldn’t wait either.

“Please?” Lottie murmured.

“Are you going to be good?” There was a teasing squeeze of her breast.

“Oh, I am already so fucking good—”

Fingers pulsed inside her, pressing in exactly the right place. Lottie whimpered and climbed the wall.

“Are you going to wait until you’re told?”

“Oh come on, princess! Don’t pretend you want to hold back.” Lottie could see Zynara’s hunger too. Zynara watched her own hand on Lottie’s breast like she was drunk, her fingers full of Lottie’s flesh, palming it and pushing it high. When her tongue crept out and licked her lips, Lottie knew neither of them had the patience for this game. She rocked her hips, grinding down on the fingers still inside her and loved the greed and the power that flashed in the Qasira’s eyes.

“Who said I’m going to hold back?” Zynara snarled—and they were on again, Lottie hanging on for dear life, the Qasira already flying with Lottie’s body like she’d designed it. She put her whole body behind the hand she thrust inside Lottie, like she wanted to plunge into her entirely. 

She was three fingers deep, her thumb on Lottie’s clit, her teeth at her neck—and Lottie felt it hit her, that unstoppable disconnection that separated her from her body and fixed her to Zynara’s lips, her fingers, her need and her desire.   

She begged—because it was the perfect thing to do, because both of them wanted her to, and because the Qasira was magnificent—but she needed it to be now. 

“Please? Qasira! Please? Now? Oh god Qasira, pleasesayIcancomenow— pleaseFUCKplease—”

And the whisper in her ear was everything. 

“Oh, you good, good girl. Now.”

Lottie’s eyes closed and she came in spasms, her nerves igniting like fireworks, something far more intense than she’d ever known blossoming white hot and fierce, and burning every atom in her body. 

It was bright—brilliant behind her eyes—like the sun.

“Fuck,” whispered Zynara, her body suddenly rigid against Lottie’s. “No!”

And then they both felt the boom.

Lottie wasn’t seeing stars—it was an actual explosion. The shockwave swayed the tower.

“What—?!”

Way down the coast, a fireball was still rising into the air. As they watched, a second pure white flash lit the night, as sudden and fleet as lightning, then gone. A red ball of fire replaced it, simply burning itself into existence in the very air, pulsing in horrifying slow motion before the second shockwave reached them and rattled the glass.

“What—?” Lottie said again. Zynara had melted her mind.

“That was one of my hydrogen facilities,” Zynara said. “On the coast at Sahilina. That was fifteen kilometres away. He’s blown the main gas storage tanks.” There was an awful look of resignation on her face. Not even anger or surprise. “Fucking Malik.”

She still had her fingers inside Lottie.

“Don’t go!” Lottie held her in place with her leg around her waist.

They both felt Zynara’s phone buzz in her pocket.

Zynara wiped her fingers on Lottie’s thigh and answered the call. Lottie just caught the agitated Arabic coming through the speaker. Zynara barely spoke. She simply watched the horizon with that dreadful disappointment in her eyes. As the explosion faded, the colour left her cheeks.

Lottie stepped closer. Her body was still pink and flushed and warm, and she wanted to lay it against Zynara. She settled for straightening the Qasira’s lapels.

Zynara’s eyes found hers, though her pupils were still blown wide. She ended the call.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Lottie murmured.

“Of course it wasn’t. It takes quite a bit of effort to blow up a hydrogen tank in that way,” Zynara snapped. “This is a pretty fucking determined effort from my little brother to make my initiatives look stupid on the world stage, on the very eve of the summit. I have to go.”

“Clean burn, though,” Lottie pointed out. “Repairs will be fast and clean.”

Zynara gave her a long look. 

Lottie realised her cover had slipped. “I mean compared to, say, an oil refinery. Just trying to see the bright side.”

The look drew on longer.

“Want me to come with you?” she offered.

“I do not.” Zynara ran her hand over her mouth and then seemed to realise it was the same hand she’d used to fuck Lottie against the window. “You could wait here for me, all luscious and ready like that—” She looked surprised at herself and blinked the notion away. She straightened her shoulders. “No. I’ll have Romaissa send a driver for you. You may take your time leaving. Order a meal. Order a massage. I apologise—”

“That’s it?”

Zynara raked her gaze over Lottie’s body and looked very regretful indeed. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“I think I should be thanking you—” Lottie said weakly, but the Qasira nodded once, turned on her heel, and left.

Chapter Ten

Bili was waiting for her in their room in the party house.

“Don’t you look all freshly ruined! Your strategies were successful then?”

Lottie kicked off her heels and flopped backwards onto their ridiculously large bed. She stretched like a cat and hummed contentedly. Well, mostly contentedly. It was three in the morning, her nerves were still singing from the pleasure Zynara had pushed through her, and the thrill of the explosion. She’d taken advantage of the luxury of Zynara’s apartment after the Qasira had left—she wasn’t so stupid she’d waste an opportunity like that—but there was still a considerable amount of tension she would have liked to have worked off. Preferably on Zynara. But yes, Lottie was feeling just fine. She twisted the hum until it was lecherous and spent.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Lottie rolled onto her side and propped her head up on her elbow. Bili was already in bed, a laptop on her thighs, her phone in her hand. Bili was working. Lottie had just had what was possibly the best fuck of her life and she was having a little trouble concentrating.

“So hot,” she breathed.

Bili gave her a look. “What, the weather?”

Lottie snorted.

“Oh, her Highness?”

“Hoo yeah. Her whole brooding, untouchable thing is pretty magnificent just as it is, but when she lets you in? Fuck. Babes, I have had a very intense night.” 

“Intense?”

Her whole life had changed, but Bili didn’t need to know that. Lottie grinned. “She took me back to some insanely gorgeous tower in the middle of the city, to her stupidly swanky apartment on the 150th floor and shagged me up against the window. I’m surprised you missed it. All of Ain Zargiers could see us.”

Bili blew a raspberry. She typed, reading out loud as she went: “Primary target appears receptive to Agent Finch’s diplomatic overtures.” 

Lottie giggled. “Is that your field report? Okay, okay, write this: Agent Finch conducted an extremely thorough assessment of the Qasira’s assets.”

“I am not writing that.”

“Further intel gathering will be expected through repeat close-quarters reconnaissance.”

Bili snort-laughed and slapped her. “Eww!”

Lottie groaned and rolled onto her back again. “God, she was so deep inside me—”

“—don’t need to know!—”

“—I was just about to eat her out until she begged me for mercy—”

“—for fuck’s sake—”

“—and then I was totally cockblocked by a massive fireball of an explosion that literally tore the night apart. Tell me that was Malik.”

That sobered things up. 

“Of course it was. He was gleeful about it.”

“Figured. You get anything solid?”

Bili nodded. She scrolled through her phone and pulled up a video. “I was on the yacht with him when it happened. He had it all timed. Even called all the guests up to the top deck to watch like it was some sick fireworks display.”

They both watched the explosion again blossoming impossibly bright in the dark night.

Lottie remembered the shock—and then the awful resignation—on Zynara’s face and felt her stomach twist. “Arsehole.”

“He was laughing,” Bili said. “Laughing. Called for vodka shots like a cartoon villain. He kept crowing about ‘the problem with renewables infrastructure’ and asking people if they’d ever heard of the Hindenburg. Like that was completely hilarious. I’ve got a good five minutes of that on vid, as well as his Saudi mates shitting on about ‘good old crude oil.’”

Lottie sat up, a beautiful response already forming in her mind.

“I’m going to blow up his boat.”

Bili blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“His superyacht. His stupid floating palace. You saw him earlier, flaunting that thing out front of the summit, carefully positioned to blow diesel fumes all over the cocktails. It was all designed to humiliate Zynara. He loves that boat. It’s an extension of his dick. Tits for tat. I’m going to blow it up.”

There was a silence. Bili frowned at her. Lottie knew exactly what she was thinking. Bili knew her way too well. Sure, detonating the heir to the throne’s luxury private yacht probably wasn’t what the Nightingale had in mind when she sent them there, but as far as Lottie was concerned, all was fair in love and espionage. And she wasn’t even the slightest bit surprised to find the word love floating around her mind whenever she thought of the Qasira. She recognised a tired, lonely soul in Zynara who needed a little something to brighten her life. This would be a romantic gesture.

She crossed her legs and dumped a pillow in her lap. 

“Zynara now, is it?” Bili sounded cautious.

“The Qasira,” Lottie corrected. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Bili pretended to type again. “Based on preliminary field observations, it is this analyst’s opinion that the Qasira poses a significant distraction to Agent Finch’s professional objectivity.”

Lottie poked out her tongue. “Don’t be like that, Bil.”

“I’m just not sure I see the strategic advantage to blowing up the Qasirim’s superyacht.”

Lottie lifted her chin. “Any means necessary, the Nightingale said.”

Bili looked doubtful.

“It’s symbolic. Psychological,” Lottie insisted. “Malik thinks he’s untouchable and this will remind him he’s not. Desperate men do desperate things, and that will give us something to work with. And bonus points? Zynara will love it. She hates that boat.”

Bili typed again. “Agent Finch is demonstrating an unprecedented level of dedication to mission parameters.’”

Lottie ignored that. “Come on,” she wheedled. “Strategically, it’s very satisfying and a brilliant excuse to play with explosives.” 

“You are thoroughly bonkers. It’s honestly a miracle the Nightingale lets you out unsupervised.”

“Pleeeease?”

Bili exhaled. “Alright, you lunatic. We’ll talk with Ace in the morning.”

Lottie hugged the pillow. “Awesome. What have you got on Malik?”

A truly vicious smirk stretched Bili’s lips. She patted the sheets next to her and indicated Lottie should shuffle up. Her screen was alive with a scrolling Discord server and Bili was mining it for intel. She was just as ruthless as Lottie in her way. They were a good team.

“What haven’t I got? The Discord is on fire. I’ve pulled a tonne of filth on that Saudi mogul who won’t stop leering at anything with a pulse. Billionaire slimeball and world class predator. The girls have listed all his predilections. He and Malik are busy screwing over a bunch of Zargieri businesses too.”

“Tell me more.”

There was a litany of bank transfers, offshore accounts and records of under-the-table deals with Malik, not to mention a good dozen photos of the Saudi prince in any number of compromising positions.

Lottie felt the game level up and her grin sharpened. “Oh, that’s beautiful. Are we leaking it?”

“Already queued it up for a journalist with Al Jazeera. Should be headline news by morning.”

“I love you.”

Bili nudged her in the ribs. “Do you, though?”

Lottie sighed, her mind instantly back on the Qasira and her incredible fingers. She snuggled down next to Bili but got shoved in the ribs again.

“Nope. Go take a shower. I’m not sharing a bed with you while you smell like sex.”

“Great sex!” Lottie protested, on top of the world again in a microsecond. That was the thing. She’d thought seducing a princess would be easy. She hadn’t counted on being seduced herself.

She rolled off the bed in one exuberant tumble and struck a pose in the middle of the room. “Who shagged the princess?” she asked, triumphantly.

“Get out of here!”

“On day one? Who pulled the hottest royal currently walking the face of the earth? Who landed in the royal bed—?”

“Thought you said it was the window—”

“Lottie Finch, baby! Lottie freaking Finch from Bethnal Green.” She floofed out her hair, plumped up her boobs, and swung her hips. “I have the Qasira totally eating out of my hand.”

Bili was not fooled. She bashed theatrically at her keyboard again. “Mission status: ‘Someone’s catching feelings.’”

“Am not.” Lottie stuck her middle finger up to cover the truth, grinned like an idiot, and took a shower.

Chapter Eleven

Mornings in the harem were not what Lottie expected.

She woke far earlier than she was anticipating to an empty bed. Bili had gone for a run—she was crazy like that—but when Lottie dragged herself bleary eyed into the breakfast room she was astonished to find Beauty and Indira had been running too. There was a gym she’d completely missed on the tour yesterday and a squad of personal fitness trainers had arrived. A crossfit class was running and a small group were doing yoga on a gorgeous shala that overlooked the gardens and the Mediterranean. 

“Does no one sleep in around here?” Lottie grumbled. She rubbed her eyes and re-tied the sash on the satin dressing robe she’d found hanging in their ensuite. It had Malik’s name embroidered on the front in decorative Arabic.

Genevieve was wearing the exact same robe.

Eew.

“I try,” Genevieve said. “The noise from the fitness freaks doesn’t make it easy.” Her hair was in an unbrushed tangle, piled on her head with a claw clip. In addition to Malik’s sleazy robe, she wore battered fluffy slippers she must have brought from home, sleeping shorts and a singlet top. Without the makeup and the million-dollar dress from last night she looked just like Lottie looked after a night on the town—in serious need of some very good coffee and, preferably, a fry up. She showed Lottie to the breakfast table.

“Ignore them,” she said, waving a thoroughly disinterested hand at the health nuts living their best lives around the rest of the resort. “I will introduce you to the chef and our barista. Then I’ll take you to meet Sofia in the spa—she does the best full body massages— and Lilya and Maryam who you’ll want to get to know for facials and waxing and stuff.” 

That sounded more like it.

“Coffee, though?” Lottie asked. Urgently.

Genevieve grinned at her. “My kind of woman. Come and meet Bruno.”

Kayley Jones found her just as she was hoeing into a bacon sandwich. Kayley was giving her phone a suspicious frown.

“You and Bili,” she said. “Car. Now.”

“What?” Lottie mumbled it around a mouthful of what was quite possibly the best bacon sarnie south of the Thames. The Mediterranean even. For a country wedged firmly in Muslim-majority north Africa, it was sinfully divine bacon. Adam the chef was a freaking god. She dribbled grease down her chin.

“You’ve been summoned to the palace. Get dressed. Immediately. The car is waiting for you.”

Lottie looked at her sandwich. She looked at Genevieve. Genevieve raised her eyebrows and shrugged. 

“Now, Lottie. Find Bili,” Kayley said. She sounded irritated. “You never keep the Qasira waiting.”

A thrill shot through Lottie so hard she nearly passed out—a fucking threesome with Zynara?—but then commonsense took over. The Qasira didn’t know Lottie and Bili were friends. She was also heading the first day of the Green Futures summit. There was an entire day of conferencing over on the Azure islands that had probably already started. She couldn’t picture the Qasira ordering in two of the harem’s sexiest women just to calm her nerves before a day of politicking.

Well, actually, she could—and some truly intoxicating images almost had her choking on her bacon—but this couldn’t possibly be a request from Zynara. This was something else. 

Very regretfully she put her sandwich back on her plate and went to find Bili. Hair and makeup was completed in a record five minutes flat and they were bundled out to a very sleek black car with dark tinted windows. Kayley frowned from the door and stabbed at her phone.

Ace lounged in the backseat.

“Had to get you out of there somehow,” she said. “Did you two get all frocked up for little old me?”

Lottie thumped her.

The car skirted the palace and headed downhill to the medina.

The medina was the old part of Azzouan, a maze of cobalt-blue alleyways, sun-drenched stone walls and intricate tilework that gleamed in a thousand tiny mosaics in the morning light. The car barely managed to nose a block in before the labyrinth of narrow winding streets forced them out and onto the cobblestones.

The air was heavy with spice—hungry and warm with cardamom, nutmeg and fenugreek. Market stalls spilled over with silk slippers, handwoven rugs and delicate silver jewellery. The scent of lavender blended with the ever-present hint of jasmine and the faint salt of the sea drifting in from the coast. Arched doorways were graced with pots of red geraniums. Vivid canvases in yellows and blue were stretched above carved cedar balconies to provide protection from the sun. Narrow laneways burst into sudden courtyards where palm trees stretched above it all.

Ace led them deeper into the maze. 

This wasn’t a tourist trap. Untouched by time or modern development, the medina was alive with genuine Ain Zargieri life. Close to the palace, it housed the old money families that had held court for centuries. Suited palace officials took tea at their favourite tea houses alongside gnarled older men who played chess on upturned milk crates, or who wove wicker into brooms, a kitten jumping at the bright orange cotton they used for the weave.

Ace stopped at a cafe tucked into a quiet alcove beneath the shade of an ancient orange tree. The courtyard was cooled by a stone fountain. The windows were filigree screens, the seating arranged for maximum visibility with minimum exposure. 

Lottie knew a safe house when she saw one.

She glanced at the unassuming staff, all neutral in their attentions but sharp around the eyes. Too discreet. Just a tiny bit too casual. This wasn’t any cafe. This was Circle territory, and she’d bet anything Ace had a bed upstairs.

“Clever,” Lottie murmured, settling into a cushioned bench against the wall where she could watch the entrance and the exits.

“I do my best,” Ace said. A tray of sweet mint tea hit their table without Ace even having to ask. They got to business immediately. “You two haven’t wasted any time. Nice media leak last night. Watch your back, though. Malik might be feeling cocky after detonating his sister’s interests, but he isn’t going to like media backlash so soon. It won’t be too hard for him to guess it came from his own harem.”

“Oh, he’s going to have way more on his mind soon enough,” Lottie said.

Ace sipped her tea. “About that. I got your message. Not that I don’t love a bit of wanton destruction of billionaire property, but why are we blowing up his boat again?”

“It’s symbolic,” Bili explained. She waggled her eyebrows at Lottie. “Apparently.”

“Of?”

“His ridiculous excess and disregard for his country’s ideals and best interests.” Lottie used her best serious agent voice.

Bili and Ace both pulled faces.

“Because it will really piss him off. Embarrass him in front of his bros.”

“And because Lottie thinks the Qasira will appreciate it,” Bili explained.

Ace looked interested. “Explosives as a love language. I can rate that.”

Lottie couldn’t decide if they were making fun of her or not.

“Do we have the gear?” she asked.

“Eighty percent prepped,” Ace said, thoroughly casually. She smeared brown butter and honey over a thousand hole pancake and transferred the whole delicious mess to her mouth. “Give me a day and a team will move in under the guise of catering while the ship is at the Azures for the summit. It will be ready to detonate any time after luncheon tomorrow—which, according to the Summit schedule, finishes at two. It will be up to you to ensure the boat is clear of people. The Nightingale isn’t going to be thrilled if there’s collateral.”

Bili lifted her chin. “I’ve got some ideas for that.”

Ace nodded.

Lottie couldn’t contain herself. “C4?” she asked, trying her best to sound nonchalant. She took a sip of tea.

“Please. I’m not an amateur,” Ace protested.

“Semtex then?”

Ace swirled the tea in her own glass. She looked deeply unimpressed. “So ten years ago.”

Lottie grinned despite herself. “Okay then, oh wise master of destruction, what’s gonna make the boat go boom?” 

Ace leaned in, suddenly recognising a kindred spirit. “HMX-based polymer bonded explosive, custom blend. My own recipe, so absolutely don’t ask me about it, but I’ve added a dash of octanitrocubane. Shaped charges, obviously. Magnetic placement, hull-level, ideally under the engine room and fuel tanks.”

“Sexy.” Lottie fanned her face.

Ace smirked. “You’d know.”

Bili deliberately dropped her spoon to the table with a clatter. “Oh great. There’s another one of you. Why do I feel like I’m surrounded by teenage boys? Shall we compare gaming rigs next?”

Ace ignored her. “I have very high standards when it comes to controlled demolitions.”

“Controlled is a very strong word,” Lottie mused. “Is that what we want? Ideally, I’d like to send that floating monstrosity up in a glorious fireball. I want something to rival the mess Malik made of the Qasira’s hydrogen plant last night. Something to delight the masses and live in memes on Twitter forever. Are you sure we can’t use rocket launchers?”

“Hmm.” Ace was thoughtful. “I’m beginning to see your point. More octanitrocubane?”

Lottie whispered it like it was holy. “All the octanitrocubane.”

Ace grinned and held up her hand for a high five. Lottie smacked it reverently.

Bili thunked her head against the table. “You two are insane.”

They talked logistics for a few more minutes until Ace asked what progress Lottie was making with the Qasira.

Lottie felt her face turn red.

Bili snorted her coffee. 

“I’ve made contact,” Lottie said, with dignity.

“Oh, she’s definitely done that,” Bili confirmed.

Ace looked from one to the other and shook her head. 

“Hey! I’ve also made contact with one of the Qasira’s best friends,” Lottie protested. “He gave me his card. He has a club in the medina—” She pulled out the card Sami had given her and frowned at it. If she had the address right, the club was— just down the laneway from the safehouse they were currently in.

Lottie narrowed her eyes at Ace. 

That was convenient. Was the Circle keeping tabs on Zynara’s friend, or was it the other way around? 

Ace smiled serenely back.

Lottie checked it out just before they left the medina.

“Two minutes,” she called to Ace.

Sami’s club blended naturally into the rest of the medina, its white facade marked by a simple arch and dark wooden screens—colonial architectural and traditional Ain Zargieri elements in equal measures. A bouncer at the door was the only indication the place was anything more than just another cafe. 

Lottie gave the man a look that said she came here every day. He gave a tiny nod in reply.

Inside, the 1930s ambiance was off the scale. A spacious central room with a high ceiling lost beyond second level balconies and crowded with tall palms. Soft lighting glowed from lamps and wall niches. A striking black and white art deco pattern was tiled on the floor. Tables with white linen. Smoking corners. A grand piano pride of place. A bar of dark polished wood, discreet smoky mirrors and all the fine whisky you could wish for.

Lottie was instantly in love with it. She thought of Harry back in her dingy little club in Blackcroft and knew the woman would go nuts for Sami’s place. Lottie could totally picture herself there, singing on that little stage, vibing that Hollywood glamour like she was born for it. Maybe a hot princess in the audience watching her with heavy eyes, knowing full well they’d fly back to her tower at the end of the night, drunk on each other’s bodies, intoxicated by the other’s touch.

She could leave gloomy old Blackcroft and heartlessly grey London behind forever and stop risking her life for her country. She could stop spying. She could stop lying. She could—

Lottie shook her head. Where the hell had that bullshit come from? 

She had to admit something inside her had changed since last night. She’d always treated this job as a game—and the people who played around her merely as pawns. But she knew who had made her change.

The way the Qasira had looked at her had struck Lottie hard. That gaze had been tolerant at first, a polite charade from behind a regal mask, but that mask had slipped rapidly. Zynara had looked at her with need, as if there was something deep within Zynara that knew she—slippery, sly and morally depraved Lottie Finch—was precisely what she had been looking for.

It was a powerful thing to be needed. 

Lottie was crossing to the bar when a vision drew her up short.

At the end of the bar, a woman sat with her back to the door and her head in her hands.

It was the Qasira, in the same suit she’d worn last night.

She cradled a glass, but as Lottie watched Sami appeared with a plate of food. He placed it in front of her, took the whisky from her hand and poured her a glass of tea.

He caught Lottie’s eyes over Zynara’s shoulder.

She was just about to stumble forward when Sami shook his head. Just a fraction—just enough so that Lottie could see the warning but Zynara was not disturbed.

She nodded, then she realised Zynara had seen her in the smoky reflection of the mirrors.

When Zynara turned to look at her, Lottie was shocked at her expression. For one long, awful moment, the Qasira looked lost, tired and ready to fall—and for one crazy second Lottie wanted to be the one to catch her. 

And then she blinked, and Zynara was aloof and steely all over again.

There was a beat, then Zynara turned back to her breakfast and Lottie, recognising a dashed and shattered pride when she saw one, left her to it.

Chapter Twelve

Malik loaded up the superyacht again—overpriced champagne, designer drugs, his ever-rotating cast of party girls—and dropped anchor brazenly offshore from the Azure islands. He cranked the music and sailed the petromasculinity show right to the doorstep of the Green Futures Summit.

But if he was expecting his sister to be cowed by the destruction of one of her renewable energy plants last night, he must have been sorely disappointed.

The Qasira arrived in infinitely more style, descending in her sleek electric autonomous drone like an angel of the future. The aircraft barely made a sound—and when she stepped out, it was as if nothing had happened.

Stylish. Immaculate. Utterly unshaken.

The dejected woman Lottie had encountered that morning in Sami’s club was nowhere to be seen. That broken look she’d given her? The Qasira ground it beneath her ridiculously polished oxfords and strode forth to conquer the world again. 

She was magnificent.

Lottie watched from the front deck of the superyacht and felt her blood pressure spike. Not just at the sight of her—commandingly and infuriatingly put together in another striking power suit—but at the still burning memory of what they’d been doing last night just before the explosion tore them apart.

She shoved that thought down fast. Malik was watching her. His eyes flicked back and forth between Lottie and his sister on the shore, and the cogs turned behind his eyes so obviously Lottie nearly snorted.

“Like my sister, do you?” 

“I heard she likes a good time.” Lottie gave a suggestive smile. 

Malik watched her for a moment longer then made a rude noise. “You know what Zynara’s problem is?” 

Lottie didn’t doubt he was going to tell her. How was he already high this early in the day? He was in thousand pound sweats that someone must have told him were stylish. Lurid yellow runners and too much bling. Lottie tried not to recoil. 

“My sister is a zealot. A woke little princess playing scientist, pushing her green fantasies on my country like a wannabe saviour.”

That was uncharitable, but Lottie was curious to see how far he’d take it if she pushed.

“And that’s not a good time?”

Malik shot her a look of daggers. “Zynara courts the global elite because her degenerate sexuality finds its counterpart in theirs.”

Ah.

“The West wants us weak.” The mansplaining droned on unstoppable. “They want us shackled to their solar panels and wind farms, dependent on do-gooder subsidies for minorities that scam corporations out of profits, and beholden to their bullshit promises about a ‘sustainable future’ and ‘equality for all.’”

“They’re not your policies though, are they?” Lottie watched her dumb blonde act swell the man’s ego so fast he didn’t even know he was being played.

“The people—my people—don’t want her elitist climate agenda,” he sulked, hitting his stride. “They don’t want to be told they can’t drive their cars, can’t cook their food, can’t cool their homes because some academic snob thinks oil is dirty. They want cheap energy. They want jobs.” 

Like he’d know what one of those was. His chest puffed out anyway. He was ridiculous. 

“They want a leader who understands that Ain Zargiers’ strength comes from real resources,” he went on, “oil and gas—not some fairytale bullshit about harnessing the sun.”

“And you’re going to bring her down?”

“I’m going to dismantle each of her sickening little enterprises piece by piece, along with the globalists who support her and the bureaucrats who think they know better than the businessmen who built this country.”

Lottie nudged him with her shoulder, throwing up in her mouth a little as she did. “Last night’s explosion was a great start.” She smiled winningly and fluttered her eyelids.

“Don’t be coy,” he said, suddenly sober. “You went back to her apartment with her. Earn your money and tell me how she took it.”

Shit. The Qasirim wasn’t as stupid as he looked. Was everyone spying on everyone else in this city?

“She was pissed,” Lottie blagged. “Totally furious. Stormed out cursing your name and spitting something about ‘telling Baba.’ That’s Arabic for father, isn’t it?” 

Of course, she hadn’t done anything like that. Lottie was still haunted by the bone-tired look of inevitability in her eyes. She still wanted to hug the woman. But Malik swallowed the lie hook, line and sinker. 

“Perfect. I’m pleased to hear it.” He dragged his gaze over her, slow and appraising, like she was just another accessory to his empire. It had been hot when the Qasira had done the same. This made Lottie feel dirty. Interchangeable and disposable.

“Of course, there’s one useful thing about Zynara’s crusade.” He leaned in, his voice becoming oily and conspiratorial. “She has weaknesses. She likes to think she’s above all this—above me. But she’s a woman of considerable appetite—or so I hear.”

Lottie clenched her jaw but kept the sultry smile on her lips. One guess what was coming next...

“So, darlin’, why don’t you do what you do best? Get close. Let me know what she’s up to. Report back to daddy, and I’ll make it worth your while.” Malik looked triumphant now.

Ugh.

Lottie did her best simpering. “Whatever you say, Qasirim.”

“Oh, no need to pretend, sweetheart. It’s written all over your face.” He made as if to move back to the party, but slapped her backside and whispered in her ear before he went. “Best enjoy yourself while you can, though. When my father finally fucking abdicates and I am Q’sar, let’s just say Ain Zargiers will no longer be so… indulgent of my sister’s little perversions.”

“So, like, next year then?”

He gave her a look like she was shit on his perfectly shining boat and swaggered away.

Brilliant. The Q’sar-in-waiting was a homophobic shit on top of being a class A prick. Lottie was beginning to deeply regret the Nightingale’s prohibition on killing him. It would be so easy! So tempting. She could simply lure him into one of the many bedrooms on the yacht, handcuff him to the bed, and Ace could blow the boat sky high. Or there was the rocket launcher. She was sure they’d packed the rocket launcher. Everyone’s problems would be solved at once and the world would be a better place for his absence. 

She sighed and focused instead on the ludicrous position she now found herself in—directed to spy on the Qasira by two self-serving parties who only wanted to use her—the Nightingale and the Qasirim. And Lottie was seriously falling for her target all the while.

A right proper pickle you’ve got yourself in this time, Finch.

Lottie looked at the shore again. The Qasira had been met by her army of assistants and stepped into the resort. No doubt she was saving the planet already, while Lottie was simply standing around in a micro dress and stupidly expensive shoes. Lottie had no idea where this sense of morality had come from that was building inside her, but there was something deeply, profoundly attractive about a woman who was determined to win the biggest, most important game of them all. Zynara was going to save the world. She was inspiring.

And she was so fucking hot.

Antonin Petrov appeared at her side—her Russian gas mogul in need of some Malik-approved arm candy.

“Will you accompany me to the conferences today?” he asked.

“Only because you asked so politely.” Lottie’s charm was still a bit surly.

He gave her an odd look, but held out his arm like a gentleman.

Lottie took it and they walked down the gangway to the resort with the group, a collection of Zargieri, Russian, Saudi and Chinese oil barons who could buy and sell small nations with their spare change, and the girls who hung off their arms. Bili popped her eyes at her.

It was, by far and away, the most crucial, the most critical mission of Lottie’s life—and Malik’s threat had just made it personal—and there was so much for Lottie to focus on. 

If only she could keep her mind out of the gutter every time she looked at the Qasira.

Lottie didn’t give a toss about hydrogen—she really didn’t. But watching Zynara stand at the centre of the panel like she owned the world outlining a practical, profitable, and devastatingly efficient roadmap to a clean, green future?

Yeah, that was hot as hell.

Lottie and Petrov sat in the audience and she bugged him with questions. She tried to keep her attention on his whispered answers, but her gaze kept dragging back to the stage, to Zynara, her crisp suit, the way she adjusted the cuff of her sleeve before making some witheringly intelligent point. The way she sat back in an armchair and crossed one long leg over the other, the indolent fall of her hands as she directed the other panellists, and the elegant tilt of her chin as she encouraged their points.

“She makes them all look like children,” Lottie murmured.

Petrov gave her a shrewd look. “She is impressive. She invites them to follow and like toddlers they squabble over who gets more of her innovations. It’s a cunning tactic. It’s been an uphill battle for so long, but she’s finally dragged humanity over the mountain.”

Lottie’s ears pricked. Another hint that Petrov and his 180 billion were pro-renewables. “You going to put your money where your mouth is?” she asked. She batted her lashes for good measure.

Petrov chuckled. “Don’t let Malik hear you saying that.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his photo reel. “And you can put the act away. I tolerate the playboy Qasirim and his girls because it’s the cost of doing business. Doesn’t mean I like it.” 

He turned the screen toward her. A picture of a pretty woman and three grinning kids looked back at her.

“Your wife?”

“Who I love,” Petrov said.

“Fair,” Lottie admitted. “So are you here to buy oil from that wannabe tyrant or do you have the balls to stand on the right side of history with the Qasira?”

He nudged her and laughed. It came out a little loud and up on the stage, Zynara’s head snapped towards them. Lottie felt sharp eyes rake over her and it fluttered her pulse, but she and Petrov put their heads together and giggled like kids caught talking in class. The Qasira looked away.

“You’re not so bad, Lottie Finch,” Petrov said. “My daughter asked me exactly the same thing.”

“Picture?”

Petrov pulled up a snapshot of a gangly teen, all serious and determined, though still sporting a Hello Kitty sweatshirt and a pink fluffy headband.

“Cute.”

“Zynara’s technology is good for Russia.” He grimaced. “Well, not the Russia President Putin runs, but the Russia of my heart. It’s what’s best for the Russian people, you know?”

Petrov scrolled to another picture. Two enormous white Borzois lounged on an expensive-looking leather sofa.

“Oh stop! They are gorgeous!”

He grinned. “Dostoevsky and Bulgakov.”

“No!”

“The girls call them Dusty and Bugs. They’re real rulers of my house.”

“Your daughters or the dogs?”

He swatted her arm and they cooed their way through the rest of his photo reel, green hydrogen potential forgotten. They were still pouring over his pics when they realised the panel was over. 

The Qasira stood in front of them tapping her foot.

Lottie’s breath snagged in her chest.

“Glad to see the energy future of the planet still commands your attention,” Zynara murmured. There was the tiniest flicker of a smile in the corner of her lips.

Petrov stood immediately, all business in a flash. “Your Highness.” He shook her hand with the respect of a man who understood exactly who held the real power in the room.

Zynara barely looked at Lottie before introducing Petrov to Ain Zargiers’ energy minister and the CEO of her hydrogen company. Her assistant led them away toward the business lounges and Lottie wondered if she should follow. She’d probably earned her commission on this one—but she was stopped by a single, perfectly manicured finger pressing lightly on her wrist.

“Not you.”

The Qasira didn’t say it so much as breathe it, her voice low, just for Lottie’s ears. The words hummed down Lottie’s spine as surely as if Zynara had drawn a bow across her strings and Lottie was merely an instrument for her to play.

She swallowed.

“Come with me.”

The resort was quiet. People milled around waiting for the next seminar to begin. 

Zynara led them down a wide corridor, walls of jasmine on one side, vast, ancient potted orange trees on the other, the air thick with fragrance. Lottie followed one step behind at her shoulder and felt her power as people bowed. Suits murmured politely. If they glanced at the Qasira, whatever they saw in her eyes made them look sharply away.

As they turned a corner into a beautiful but deserted courtyard, Zynara seemed to lose her patience.

She pinned Lottie against the wall.

“Gee, I missed you too, princess—” she tried

“Be quiet.” Zynara pressed her palm against the wall next to Lottie’s head and locked her elbow. An avalanche of expressions crossed her face, and Lottie wasn’t sure if she was about to be fucked into the stucco or banished from the realm. Irritation won the battle for the Qasira’s emotions. “Is there any chance you might show some respect?”

The old part of Lottie—the part that had been keen for this to be a game—nearly hooted with triumph. So, the Qasira was falling for her impudence and sass. But another part of her—a part Lottie wasn’t fully sure she understood—felt compassion. Empathy. 

What the actual hell?

The Qasira didn’t seem to have the patience for anything as soft as empathy. She trailed a finger down Lottie’s cheek, slowly and deliberately, her eyes lingering on Lottie’s lip, her gaze lazy and entitled. 

“Qasira, I—”

Her eyes snapped back up again. “That’s better. Much better. In fact, a very pleasing sound. Say it again.”

Lottie’s insides somersaulted, all her breath got stuck in her throat, all the blood in her body suddenly pooled between her legs. Lottie had played with some dominant women in her time, but this kind of attitude—backed up by a royal title no less—was her most sordid, secret dreams made real. 

“Qasira.”

The woman’s smug hum vibrated against Lottie’s body and set her core burning with that wet, hot heat. The Qasira leaned in and put her lips to her ear. Her hand slowly traced down Lottie’s body until it reached the hem of her dress—a short, tight royal blue thing Lottie had chosen especially after seeing Zynara’s preference for the colour. It clung to her body like a second skin, but right now, Lottie just wanted it off.

“Did you wear this for me?”

“This old thing? Actually found it left behind in my suitcase from the last time I was in Monaco—”

The Qasira very deliberately pressed two taut fingers under the fabric and ran them up Lottie’s thigh. Lottie shut her mouth before she moaned.

“Liar. It looks sensational on you. I’m flattered that you dressed up especially for your Qasira.” There was something deep in her tone that liquidised Lottie’s spine and she suddenly realised the Qasira was holding her up, the pressure of her body keeping her flat against the wall. Lottie could feel her with every millimetre of her body.

“I wanted to see you again,” she managed. She shook her head to clear it. She didn’t have any chance of completing her mission if all she did was let the Qasira fuck her. She needed to work. “I was concerned for you. After last night.” She placed her palm on Zynara’s cheek and cupped it gently. “How are you?”

“How dare you!” Zynara pulled back in shock, her eyes utterly black and interrogating Lottie’s. 

“You don’t need to pretend with me,” Lottie whispered. She left her hand in the air, millimetres from Zynara’s skin, willing the woman to want her touch. After a long moment, Zynara’s eyes fell softly closed and she pressed her cheek against Lottie’s palm.

She leaned into it, warm and soft beneath her glittering ice, and Lottie’s chest nearly exploded. Got her.

The Qasira’s eyes screwed up tight and her lips pressed into a thin line.

God, this woman was strung so tight, Lottie thought, she was barely hanging on.

And she was so beautiful.

She brushed her thumb against Zynara’s cheek, and it broke the spell.

Zynara opened her eyes. She took a step away and straightened her shoulders. The cold diplomat was back. “My apologies,” she said, formally. “I never prevail upon my brother’s guests more than once. This was presumptuous of me. You may go.”

“Don’t do that, Qasira.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t go all regal on me. I saw you this morning. You’re hurting.”

“You were spying on me?”

Fuck. That was a little close to the bone.

“You were in a bar, princess. Anyone could have seen you like that.”

“Qasira.”

“You were in a bar, Qasira, and you were lucky your friend Sami was there to protect you. He cares about you.”

“And you?”

Zynara looked at her as if she wanted Lottie to be full of care for her too. And, damn it, but Lottie was. She wondered how a woman who very literally had everything could want for kindness, but then she considered the Qasira’s history. She’d lost her mother and her older brother. Her younger brother was a piece of shit and her father was dying. 

Lottie raised her hand again.

Zynara lifted her chin. “I don’t need your sympathy.”

“It’s okay to want it, though.”

That hung in the air for a long moment and the Qasira’s expression crumpled. She seized Lottie’s wrist and pulled her across the courtyard. On the other side was a private room. Zynara kicked the door open, tugged Lottie through, and slammed it behind them. 

It was a spacious suite of rooms, a magnificent view of the Mediterranean through open french doors that led to a private garden. Most importantly, there was a bed.

Zynara dropped Lottie’s wrist and regarded her belligerently. “I don’t do this,” she said, crisply.

“Do what?”

“Fuck anyone twice.”

Lottie grinned and stuck a hand on her hip. She knew she’d won now. She stuck her boobs out. “Well, you’re missing all the fun.”

There was a beat, and then Zynara huffed out a laugh. “You, Lottie Finch, are not like any of the others.”

“And you, Qasira, are about to find out just how true that is.” She ignored Zynara’s guffaw. She wanted the woman close again. Her mission could go to hell. “Come here.”

“You do not order me around!”

Lottie just crooked two fingers. She smirked.

The Qasira tipped her head back and blew a long breath at the ceiling for patience. Then she strode slowly forward and right into Lottie’s personal space.

Two hands that could barely hide their impatience landed on Lottie’s hips. They tugged until Lottie fell against her. She could feel Zynara’s thighs against her own, their breasts soft against each other.

She knew what Zynara needed now, and she was very happy to give it to her. She’d always admired a powerful woman. If this powerful woman needed to use her to rebuild her pride, then Lottie was very pleased to help with her effort. She was taller, and Lottie liked it like that too. There was definitely a proprietary look in Zynara’s eyes as she looked down at her and focused on her lips. Their sudden proximity tightened the tension between them and Lottie felt heat blossom like a bomb between her legs.

“Hmm,” Zynara murmured.

“Hmm?”

“You smell—” She bent her head to the crook of Lottie’s neck and breathed her in.

“Pftt. You’re a charmer. This is why you don’t sleep with anyone twice—”

One hand left her waist and slapped her arse. “—delicious. You smell divine. You have no fucking manners and are quite possibly the least respectful courtesan I’ve ever met, but for some reason I can’t get you out of my head. Last night I surveyed the ruins of my business, I directed funds to the families of two men who were hurt, I set restoration plans in motion, I crunched all the numbers, I made everything as right as it could possibly be, and all the while the scent of you was still on my skin. This wicked little smile danced before my eyes. All I could think about was you.”

Zynara directed the last of that as a hot breath against the skin of Lottie’s neck. It sent goosebumps over her entire body. 

“And just now, you sat before me in that conference, all clingy with Antonin Petrov for fuck’s sake, while I tried to host a panel of experts— Are you trying to torture me?”

“If that’s what you like—”

There was a huff of laughter against her throat. 

“Unbelievably impudent.” Zynara bit her neck, just under her ear, and all Lottie’s cheek dissolved in a second. She gave a desperate little hum. She would have crumpled to the floor if Zynara hadn’t held her up.

There was a very pleased hum. “I thought so. It’s exactly what you like, isn’t it?”

“Torturing you? Might be,” Lottie sassed.

“Brat. You know exactly what I mean.” Zynara bit again and tilted her hips.

Lottie moaned. Zynara chuckled and pulled back. The moan turned into a groan. Zynara smiled, wolfishly.

“No manners at all. But you’re definitely making me feel better. Would you like to help me relax completely?”

Lottie nodded furiously. This was what she’d missed out on last night. The chance to fuck a woman like the Qasira? Lottie would sell her soul—if she hadn’t bargained the thing away long ago.

Zynara shucked off her blazer and tossed it over a chair. She held out her arms. “Get to work then.”

Chapter Thirteen

Lottie’s hands fell eagerly to the Qasira’s shirt. She wanted to do this so carefully, but Zynara’s obvious need for her was winding her up too. She slowly undid buttons and felt Zynara’s gaze bearing down on her. It fluttered her eyelids and made her shiver.

There was no bra beneath the shirt. Lottie’s eyes flicked up to Zynara’s and got an imperious lift of the Qasira’s eyebrow for her troubles. 

“Get on with it.” It was a murmur that was trying very hard to be patient.

Lottie slipped fabric over toned shoulders and stepped behind the Qasira to draw the shirt down her arms. She placed a kiss between her shoulder blades and was thrilled when rich warm skin rippled with muscle beneath her lips. The Qasira drew an audible breath.

Returning to stand before her, Lottie dropped to her knees and felt something deep within her mind click into place as she did. There was another ragged sigh above her.

Lottie wrapped her fingers around Zynara’s ankles and slipped off her shoes, but that was as far as she got before the woman’s patience snapped entirely. She flung off the rest of her clothes, striping like a porn star for Lottie who sat gaping on her knees. Washboard fucking abs. Incredible thighs. A tangle of black hair between her legs beneath boy-shorts that were thrown across the room. Lottie was in heaven.

Her eyes—her soul—was level with paradise.

If Lottie hadn’t been wet before, she very definitely was the instant the Qasira’s fingers twisted themselves in her hair and tugged sharply. She rested her forehead against the taut skin of Zynara’s belly and breathed her in deep. The scent of her was better than any drug, more intense than any thrill. It absolutely wasn’t a game anymore.

The grip on her hair tightened.

“May I?” Lottie whispered.

“If you don’t—” Zynara choked. Her chin went up again at her own weakness, but she covered it beautifully by stepping back to the bed, mercilessly tugging Lottie with her. She wasn’t gentle—she was hungry, wanting, greedy—and that was far more exciting. Lottie scrabbled to keep up with her. Zynara lifted one leg and put her foot on the bed, opening herself to Lottie. There was nothing for Lottie to do but fall into her.

God, the Qasira tasted good.

She was spice and power, and Lottie was drunk in moments and not merely on the flavour. The Qasira’s legs spasmed, her head fell back and she moaned. Lottie felt it with her tongue. She chased it, lapping at wetness, then pressing forward into the hard bundle of nerves, then again and again. She sucked, she devoured and she soared. The fingers in her hair twisted tighter. The thigh beside her head quivered. Lottie wrapped her arm around it and doubled her efforts.

Zynara cursed in Arabic in a rough voice that drove Lottie on—and then the woman stiffened against her and stole what was left of Lottie’s control. There were two hands in her hair now—Zynara was holding her face and rocking her hips against Lottie’s mouth. She was using her, grinding against her and pulling her in. Lottie opened and let the Qasira do whatever she wanted with her. She was burning up, and she was loving it.

When at last she knew the moment was right, she wrapped her lips around Zynara’s clit and sucked—and Zynara came with a guttural moan that dragged from deep inside her, and it rang like music through Lottie’s entire being. 

Her Qasira was everything.

Lottie didn’t even give her time to breathe.

She kissed her way up Zynara’s quivering body and placed her hands on her skin like she’d been dying to do. She laid the Qasira down on the bed, delighted when a long, lithe leg wrapped around her waist, and crawled over her to kiss her lips.

“That was—” Zynara started.

“Oh, I know.”

There was a beat, a look of outraged incredulity, and then Zynara giggled. She laughed as if she didn’t have a care in the world, because Lottie had swept every one of them away, and Lottie knew in that instant that she was done for. Hopelessly and irreparably caught by this extraordinary woman and helpless to worship her for the rest of her days.

If only life was so simple.

She bent her head to Zynara’s breasts and did her utmost to set the Qasira free again.

The afternoon sun streamed through the windows. Somewhere—a thousand miles away—in her blazer over a chair, the Qasira’s phone buzzed.

Neither of them moved.

Lottie lay next to the woman who now ruled her entire world and was transfixed by the softness in her eyes. 

“I should get back,” Zynara murmured. They lay on their sides and watched each other, Zynara with a curious openness in her face, wonderment as she traced the curves of Lottie’s hip with one finger. Lottie was still dressed, though her skirt was up around her waist. Zynara’s fingers had been amazing. “I need to work. I need to convince the world to change, right as the media is revelling in the destruction of my own efforts.”

She sounded tired.

“Arseholes,” Lottie whispered. “Do you have PR people working on that? I still think you could spin it beautifully to make your brother look bad and the explosion look good.”

Zynara’s eyes slid back into focus. Suddenly, their soft post-sex glow sharpened into lethal intelligence.

“So you said last night. And you were right—the damage was mostly symbolic. A hydrogen explosion makes an impressive flash, but the destruction was contained. The clean up will be simple and we will be back online in no time.” Her eyes narrowed. “You want to tell me why those thoughts were at the top of your mind last night when I literally still had my fingers inside you? What kind of girl—”

“Maybe the kind of girl you need,” Lottie suggested.

Zynara raised one perfect eyebrow.

Lottie gave a cheeky smile. “Okay then, the kind of girl you want. It’s okay to want me. I’m pretty irresistible.”

Zynara’s other eyebrow joined the first.

“Beautiful, clever—”

“Humble,” Zynara muttered.

“Fucking brilliant in bed.”

“I’m obliged to admit that is correct.”

Lottie punched the air. “Ha! So pleased to be your first second time. You’ll be back for more.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

There was a beat and then they both grinned at each other, sideways in the afternoon sun, a cool breeze curling over their skin laden with all the fragrances of the Mediterranean. Lottie was very close to feeling content.

The Qasira’s phone buzzed again.

Zynara lifted herself up on one elbow. “So, what kind of girl?” she asked again.

Lottie looked up at her and shrugged. “Just a girl,” she said, and let her expression turn sly again. “Same kind of girl who has totally nearly almost convinced Antonin Petrov to sign with you instead of your brother. That’s 180 billion you’re going to owe me.”

Zynara rolled her eyes and climbed off the bed. She snapped her fingers and Lottie sprang up to follow her, holding out her clothes as the Qasira dressed, straightening her collar, letting her fingers linger on the buttons of her shirt between her breasts.

“You think that’s all you?” Zynara asked.

Lottie knew it was. “Admit it. You need me. We would be a brilliant pair.”

There was another of those assessing little hums from above her and Lottie absolutely died for the way Zynara’s gaze weighed down on her.

A sudden pulse of doof-doof music swelled through the windows. Malik’s superyacht. They both watched through the sheer curtains as it cruised aggressively just offshore. A sudden stench of diesel overpowered the scent of jasmine and Zynara wrinkled her nose.

“I hate that bloody boat,” she murmured.

“I know,” Lottie whispered. She hoped Ace had been able to work her magic. She wanted to be able to offer Zynara something more than just her body.

But the sound seemed to crystallise the old familiar ice inside Zynara and when Lottie looked back her regal Qasira mask was totally back in place.

The woman stepped back. “I have duties,” she said. Her eyes swept over Lottie and her expression softened for one tiny moment before she flattened it down into a studied politeness. “Thank you for—” She stopped. “Just— thank you.”

And then she was gone.

It turned out to be trickier than expected to clear Malik’s boat. Bili had a plan, but they both wanted to wait for the opportune moment. Lottie realised they had time. Ace promised the explosives wouldn’t be discovered. There were ten more days of the Green Futures Alliance summit, and Petrov was incredibly close to signing his country’s energy future over to Zynara.

The moment had to be absolutely perfect.

Lottie spent that night pretending to enjoy the decadent party Malik threw poolside back at his villa near the palace. She threw back shots with lecherous rich men and wondered what Zynara was doing. Was she watching the lights of Malik’s gaudy little show from the soft glow of the palace, or way, way up in her eyrie in the Burj Al Saqr?

She spent the following day angling for a moment to spend with the Qasira, but Zynara seemed to be avoiding her. 

That made sense. The woman had a lot on her plate. 

Malik continued to be a thorn in the side of progress, though his antics became increasingly childish. He parked his superyacht obnoxiously offshore from the summit and he and his mates whizzed around on jet skis, insisting his party girls join them. The music got louder, helicopters came and went—he even flew five of the country’s fighter planes overhead, all of them trailing golden smoke and coming round again for showy manoeuvres and ear-splitting barrel rolls.

It was a power play, obviously. An attempt to undermine his sister’s authority and remind the world that he was still next in line to the Ain Zargieri throne, even if his sister was the one who spoke with the Q’sar’s voice.

It was also ridiculously petty, and as the media heaped scorn on his antics, as Bili’s leaks to Al Jazeera and Twitter got more and more pointed, and as it became increasingly clear the ‘accident’ he’d engineered at Zynara’s hydrogen facility hadn’t had the effect he wanted, Malik struggled to keep up his nonchalant vibe. Lottie actually found herself worried about what he might do next.

But by the end of the third day, it was Zynara who had had enough.

As the superyacht docked at the marina just off Malik’s party house, she stormed aboard like a controlled, very dangerous tornado.

And the moment was suddenly very opportune indeed. 

Lottie gave Bili the nod.

Chapter Fourteen

Zynara couldn’t remember the first moment she started hating her little brother.

She sometimes wondered if being able to pinpoint an argument or a squabble as kids would make it easier to explain, but they’d had a happy childhood. 

Well, as happy as could be, after their mother died.

Zynara had been thirteen when it happened—and if there was a worst time for a girl to lose a mother who loved her dearly, perhaps thirteen was it. Zynara was suddenly adrift in the world, a connection of shared blood and soul ripped away from her just as she was becoming old enough to properly cherish it. They hadn’t even started fighting properly yet, as teenaged girls and mothers do. A part of her was gone. 

But her mother had already taught her love—and that turned out to be enough.

Zynara had clung tighter to her older brother, Rayan, and to her father, who was as strong as the mountains, and even though it had hurt like hell, she figured out how to keep on going.

Maybe that was Malik’s disadvantage. He’d only been nine when their mother died. The spoiled baby was suddenly expected to pull his weight, the hugs and worship harder to come by. He’d missed those patient lessons on tolerance and understanding. He seemed to prove that kindness wasn’t innate—it was taught. And he didn’t get the study.

By the time he was ready for high school, he brushed aside all suggestions of Ain Zargiers’ top schools and put a prospectus for a posh English boy’s boarding school in front of the Q’sar.

He came back a right proper snot and Zynara realised she didn’t know him anymore. She was on an accelerated maths and physics track then, and, beyond observing her little brother was still as sluggish a thinker as ever, she decided she didn’t care. Neither of them were going to be Q’sar. They had to make their own way in the world. Zynara already had plans. 

Malik had laughed at them even then. 

“Electric vehicles?” he giggled. “For fuck’s sake, be realistic, Niz. Why don’t you hug a tree and pin some flowers in your hair too?” He fixed her with a vicious smirk and a look that was decidedly cruel. “Maybe don’t, though. The hippy look wouldn’t suit you.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Zynara had asked. They were all home for spring break. Zynara had been reluctant to leave Cambridge and was taking the time to study advanced theoretical physics and chemical engineering from the professors at Ain Zargiers’ finest universities. 

“Ignore him,” Rayan said, flicking his little brother’s ear. “Posh English school obviously didn’t teach him any manners.”

“Fuck off,” Malik muttered.

“See?” Rayan said, cheerfully. Rayan had always been cheerful.

Zynara regarded her little brother through narrowed eyes. Malik grinned meanly back.

“You’re not the flowers type of lesbian, are you?” he jeered. “What do they even call the other kind?”

Rayan flicked him again and Zynara kicked him under the table. Rayan’s friend Sami—always wherever Rayan was—balled up a napkin and tossed it at his head. 

“Fuck off,” Malik whined, and like the junior bully he was obviously pleased to be, he sulked away from the table to tell their dad.

Rayan and Zynara looked at each other. 

“Was he always like that?” mused Rayan.

“An arsehole?” Sami asked.

“A homophobe,” Zynara finished.

It only got worse over the years. Malik bought his first muscle car not long after catching Rayan and Sami kissing in the west rose garden, and he crashed it into the palace gates only days later. 

Was that when Zynara first began to give up on him? She’d concentrated on her work.

Now, all these years later, she was still trying to do exactly that on the global stage, and Malik was still behaving like a spoiled child.

She strode onto his awful superyacht as soon as it docked. The guards at the gangway shrank back from her fury.

The stench of cigar smoke and stale champagne in the main lounge was overwhelming. Zynara stalked past tabletops littered with glasses, the smudges of white powder on most smooth surfaces unmistakable.

Malik lounged in a low-backed chair on the deck, a glass of whisky in his hand, his expression infuriatingly smug. His entourage—the diplomats, oil barons, and the endless parade of girls in skimpy swimwear despite the sunset—looked on with mild curiosity. 

Zynara barely resisted the urge to rip the glass from his hand and hurl it overboard.

“Malik. A word?” She didn’t know why she made it a question. He didn’t deserve her respect.

He feigned laziness. “So formal,” he drawled. “We’re all friends here. Whatever you have to say, I’m sure we’d all love to hear it.”

Zynara’s jaw tightened. “It’s not a request.” 

“And yet, you’re on my yacht.”

The air thickened. Most of the onlookers now clocked an uncomfortable sibling standoff. One or two of the women tittered, but the men sat back in their recliners and crossed their arms. This was the stupidest thing Zynara had done for a long time.

She changed tactics.

“Ladies,” she murmured, refusing to meet Lottie Finch’s eyes and instead directing her words to the pretty Genevieve she’d played with last week. She drew herself tall and injected as much ice into her tone as she could. “I’m sure you’d prefer to spend the evening elsewhere. And gentlemen, if you have any remaining dignity, you’ll see yourselves out.”

Genevieve’s eyes darted sideways to Malik’s, but she stood. Antonin Petrov huffed out a heavy sigh and rose to his feet. Once he was clear of Malik’s gaze, he met Zynara’s eyes and gave a tiny nod. He actually looked relieved, poor man, and like a gentleman, he held a hand down to Lottie. Zynara lifted her chin even higher.

But Malik, still lounging like a sultan, spread his hands wide. “Sit.”

Petrov and Lottie froze.

“You forget, sister dearest,” Malik said, “I am heir to the throne. You answer to me, not the other way around.”

Smug fucking bastard. Zynara remembered when he’d caught a frog in a jar once when they were kids. He’d looked her dead in the eye and then shaken it until it was pulp. She’d pummelled him into the ground, only leaving off when her father pulled them apart and held her fists until she stopped sobbing. Malik was doing exactly the same thing to her now—and he was enjoying it just as much.

There was another factor. Lottie Finch stood a few feet away, watching, and there was a concern in her gaze that was shaking Zynara up just as bad. She did not need that cheeky, sumptuous, luscious, confusing woman seeing her lose control.

She took a breath and smoothed the edges of her anger.

“This is your game, then?” she asked her brother. “Hiding behind business dealings and” —she flicked her gaze to the women, all of them visibly uncomfortable— “the people you pay to keep you entertained?”

Malik’s shit-eating grin flickered.

“We either talk now, in private, or we take it up to the palace—”

She didn’t have a chance to finish that sentence. The atmosphere was split by a horrifying scream.

The party stood stock still—

—and then—

“He’s dead! He’s dead. Oh my god, he’s—”

The voice came from one of the rear bedroom suites. The woman Zynara knew as Beauty came running from the suite, not a shred of clothing on her body, her face panicked. 

“He just— I don’t know— He just—stopped—” She wailed as another woman chased her down from the same room and tried to wrap a robe around her. 

“Murder!” a man’s voice called in Arabic. “Those bitches—” One of the Saudi contingent hopped and stumbled as he attempted to get his legs in his pants and point an accusing finger at the same time. “My cousin is dead!”

The scene erupted into chaos. 

The women huddled around Beauty. The men surged for the exits. Zynara was on her phone in a second.

“Sami! Get down here now!” Then she hollered over the side at the guards on the gangway. “No one leaves!” She ignored the shouting Saudi and strode toward the bedroom suite. Out the corner of her eye she noticed Lottie Finch looked the least surprised of everyone.

In the bedroom suite, the dead man was sprawled on the bed. He was naked, and it wasn’t too hard to guess what he’d been doing when he died. He was on his back, but someone had rolled him over. His skin was bloodless and his eyes were bulging. There was a look of terror on his face, and his fists were curled tight, clawing at the sheets as if he’d fought for breath until the very end. 

There was a distinct smell of sex and a wreckage of alcohol and other recreationals on the cocaine-streaked glass table. 

Zynara’s brain filed the whole scene away in a second, categorised it, and declared it useless.

Because the only thing that mattered was that the man was dead. And he’d died on royal property in the middle of an international summit hosted by the royal family.

Malik was a fucking idiot.

She closed the door.

Back in the main lounge, she was impressed to see Lottie had taken control. 

“Everyone else outside,” Lottie said, but she’d already sat Malik down and had poured him another drink. She’d placed Beauty and the woman Zynara didn’t know on one lounge, and the panicking Saudi on another. The women appeared to be taking it better than the men. Zynara shot Lottie a nod of approval, and despite everything, the woman flushed.

“No police,” snapped Malik.

“Obviously,” Zynara murmured, with a small bow to the Saudi. The man was some kind of junior prince. He was probably shitting himself. The Saudi royal family had a staunch set of etiquette guidelines even stricter than Ain Zargiers’. “Sami will be here soon. He will handle it.”

“Who is Sami?” the man blurted.

Zynara noticed Lottie appeared just as interested in the question.

“Head of my own personal intelligence team. I assure you this will be dealt with with the utmost discretion.” 

The man looked relieved. He shot a glare at Malik and a look of gratitude at Zynara. Lottie looked smug.

Zynara had a question of her own. “None of you considered CPR?”

The Saudi hung his head. He was probably too high for the thought to have crossed his mind. 

Beauty sniffed. “He just— He just died.” She still sounded shell shocked. Zynara was interested to note the other woman didn’t appear half as traumatised. She had her arm protectively over Beauty’s shoulders.

She snapped her fingers to get the woman’s attention. “And you are?” 

“Bili.”  

Zynara shot an eyebrow. Bili’s eyes flicked to Lottie.

“I arrived last week with Lottie.”

Zynara pressed her lips into a thin line. That was convenient. 

Malik seemed to think so too. “Did you kill him? Are you some kind of leftist greenie terrorist here to derail my energy deals? I’ve never even seen you before last week.”

“For fuck’s sake, Malik,” Zynara muttered. She couldn’t resist the jab, though. “Maybe this is what you get when you invite strangers into our house.”

“I didn’t do it!” Bili protested.

Sami strolled into the room, hands in the pockets of a casual linen suit and a disarming smile on his face. Two of his suited security officers were behind him. 

“Of course she didn’t,” he announced. “Don’t be so theatrical, Malik. Men like him drop dead all the time. Too much coke, too much sex, wrong mix of pills and a weak heart. It’s tragic, really. And it’s not the first time I’ve had to clean up one of your little messes.”

The Saudi gave a strangled moan and put his head in his hands. He was shaking.

Malik seemed to want to make something of it. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. He swirled his whisky and waved a lazy hand at the women on the sofa. “You can both pack your bags.” 

“We didn’t do anything—” Bili cried.

“He just died—” Beauty whimpered again. Her eyes were too wide.

Zynara was extremely interested to see Lottie step forward.

“Neither of them did anything wrong, Qasirim,” she said. “In fact, they were doing what you asked them to do. And it’s not like they can tell anyone. You’re paying them for their discretion—”

Malik exploded. “I’m not paying them anything. They can fuck off back to London. Immediately. You too.”

A slow, sly smile crossed Lottie’s face. The woman flashed her eyes once at Sami—which was interesting—and then she brazenly winked at Zynara. Lottie Finch owned the moment and looked very much like she enjoyed it.

“This is already perfectly contained, Qasirim,” she said smoothly. “You can’t release the fact that Prince Tareq bin Nassar Al-Farouqi overdosed in a drunken, drug-fucked, sex-crazed stupor on your floating brothel—you know the Saudis tend to be a little uptight about those kinds of things—because if you did, it would cancel any deal you might be planning with them. So, more than anything you need our silence.”

Malik froze. He glared. There was a long moment. “And what will that cost?” he snarled.

“Excellent question, Qasirim.” Lottie bowed with a smile like the sunshine and Zynara nearly laughed. “Beauty, Bili and I would be delighted to discuss that with you at a more appropriate time.”

Sami muffled a snort.

The other Saudi leapt gallantly—desperately—to his feet. “I would be more than happy to assist in that discussion. You may name your price.”

Lottie fluttered her eyes at him. “Thank you so much, your Highness.”

Zynara had to put her hand over her mouth to cover a smirk.

Malik grumbled but the whole moment was defused. Sami’s people began herding the entire group of guests and crew off the boat and back to Malik’s party house. It would be a long evening of lawyers and yet more non-disclosure agreements, though she was pretty sure her little brother would still be able to turn that into a party. 

The last she heard from Malik was him toadying up to the Saudi as they strolled down the gangway in the twilight. “This won’t have any effect on our current negotiations, I hope…”

Her little brother was still a greedy, insensitive arsehole, then.

Outside on the dock, Lottie Finch sashayed to her side. The swing in her hips indicated she was very pleased with herself, and Zynara took a moment to admire her. Another tiny dress that looked so fucking good on her Zynara found herself licking her lips, and dangerous heels that did incredible things to her legs. Her smile was cocky and her hair—that gorgeous halo of curls that actually looked heavenly in the sunset—bounced with her success. 

She swaggered up to Zynara with the kind of presumption that treated Zynara as an equal and didn’t care about her title. Zynara could get used to that kind of impertinence. Especially now she knew Lottie liked being spanked for it.

But the woman had just seen a dead man and she wasn’t the slightest bit bothered. On the contrary, Lottie Finch looked cunning. And Zynara was in danger of finding that very attractive too—which was stupidly reckless.

She stared Lottie down, and in the silence, the girl’s grin faded. 

She dropped her eyes—so prettily, so submissively—and Zynara knew she was worth the risk.

“That was an impressive performance.” She gestured toward the garden and they strolled—away from Malik’s house and toward the palace. “Hammers home how little I know you.”

“I told you. I’m Lottie Finch.”

“And why are you here?”

Lottie swallowed. She was beautiful in the half light. Part the angel one half of Zynara was longing for, and the other part an intriguing puzzle Zynara wanted to solve with her mind, her fingers and her tongue. She was exactly the kind of foolish temptation Zynara needed to banish from her life.

So what was she doing inviting her home?

“I told you that too,” Lottie said softly. She tossed her head and Zynara realised she was beginning to decipher the woman’s tells. The next bit was going to be a lie. “I’m doing my MBA at Oxford and I sing the old jazz standards in a piano bar in Blackcroft. I met your brother’s recruiter in a club in Park End. It seemed like a bit of fun. A chance to pay off my MBA faster than I’d planned and put a deposit on a place in west London. Never thought I’d be using my business skills to negotiate a deal like that.”

“Hmm.” Zynara waited. They walked past a drift of jasmine in full blossom and the fragrance lifted Lottie’s chin again. She breathed it in deep. Her shoulders shrugged to her ears and she blew out a sigh.

“Yeah, okay,” Lottie admitted. “How do you do that to me? Why do I always find myself wanting to tell you the truth? That was a shit cover anyway. The MBA is a lie and I’ve never been to Oxford in my life, but the piano bar in Blackcroft is true. That was quite a night when you walked in. I wasn’t sure you recognised me.”

“Oh, you’re very memorable,” Zynara said. The cocky, preening egotist was back in a second. Lottie’s grin was unbearable. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Lottie laughed.

A sudden blast of music from the party house pounded through the twilight. It was ear-splittingly loud, the pulse of the bass probably audible across the whole city. A raft of garish lights flicked on too—search lights strobing up into the sky, laser beams picking out patterns on the evening air.

They turned to look. The party was in full gear already. They both winced.

“Is it wrong to hate my own brother?” Zynara wondered.

Lottie said nothing.

Zynara was astonished at her impudence when she took Zynara’s hand. They turned so that the view of Malik’s house was behind them. From this angle, from between the arches and columns and shadows of the trees, all of Azzouan was laid out beneath them—from the tumble of the medina to the spires of the city, from the curve of the beach to the silhouette of the mountains in the distance. Zynara’s city. Her country. Her home. For some reason, the warmth of a woman’s fingers between her own felt especially right tonight. 

Lottie’s fingers seemed to fit so perfectly.

“Explain yourself,” Zynara demanded.

“I grew up poor, princess. Like, really poor. Council housing on Hackney Road in North Bethnal Green. A wasteland of unemployment benefits, small-time drug dealers and forgotten ambition. This is me trying to dig myself out.” There was something in her tone now that suggested this was the truth—or part of it, at least. 

Zynara tugged gently on her fingers and they kept walking.

“My mother was a hooker,” Lottie went on. “There were always men in our flat, so I spent a lot of time with the woman who lived next door. She was like a grandmother, I guess, not that I had one I knew. I called her Memeti anyway—”

“She was Amazigh?” Zynara was surprised. That particular word for grandmother was peculiar to her region of north Africa.

“She was born in Ain Zargiers. Came to London in the sixties with a husband who died not long after. She spent her life raising sons who all took off in pursuit of something better and left her alone in her final years. I think I was the granddaughter she never knew.” Lottie paused. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” Her voice was soft. No play-acting or pretence. 

Zynara squeezed her fingers. 

“Memeti was the only reason I didn’t end up a junkie like my mother. She had a thing for jazz and black and white movies, and I think I loved them because she did. She used to make the most amazing orange cake and we’d watch the midday movie, Memeti making eyes over Gary Cooper and me transfixed by Marlene Dietrich in a tuxedo.”

Zynara chuckled.

Lottie bristled. “You better not be laughing at me. You know I’m weak for a hot woman in an amazing suit.” She swept her eyes up and down Zynara’s body and her flush was visible even in the half light. It was gorgeous—almost as delectable as her sass. Zynara wanted to lick it from her skin, but she let Lottie finish her story.

“Memeti was the one who made me believe I was clever enough to do whatever I wanted to do, and that I shouldn’t settle. That something wonderful was waiting for me out there if I just left Bethnal Green and went looking for it.” There was a tiny pause. “So when I met your brother’s recruiter, maybe I felt Ain Zargiers was where I might find it.”

“You like meskouta?” Zynara asked.

“Best orange cake in the world. Memeti’s was delicious.”

There was a silence that could almost have been gentle and companionable.

“That’s a very nice story,” Zynara said eventually. “How much of it is true?”

Lottie met her eyes and didn’t flinch. “Enough,” she admitted, simply. “What was a princess like you doing in a shitty piano bar in Blackcroft?”

“None of your business.” 

“Guess we’re square then,” Lottie said. There was a beat, and then she added, “Qasira.” And she ducked her head with that pretty lowered gaze and her teeth on her lower lip that Zynara was beginning to find hopelessly addictive.

It was, as Lottie said, enough. Zynara knew the woman was an intelligence agent of some sort, even if she wasn’t MI6. She’d have words with her father, with Sami, damn it, with Queen Alexandra of England if she had to, for placing another sexy agent in her way again, but for now, Lottie was exactly the crazy, chaotic burst of life she needed, and there were stirrings in Zynara’s heart she couldn’t deny. She doubted she’d ever truly know Lottie Finch, but the blend of bravado and cheek, genuine care and compassion was intoxicating enough that that didn’t matter. Not right now, anyway.

Fireworks erupted from Malik’s garden, the noise of them only adding to the cacophony.

“You’re not like any of the others,” Zynara said, stepping into Lottie’s space and feeling something fall into place when the woman leaned against her. 

“In your brother’s harem?” Lottie was trying to be cocky, but her eyes were stuck on Zynara’s lips and her heart didn’t seem to be in it. “Worked your way through it, have you?”

“Careful,” Zynara murmured.

“I can one-hundred-percent guarantee there is no one else in your brother’s harem quite like me.”

Zynara sighed. “You are insufferable.”

“Insatiable?”

“Will you stop boasting for five seconds and let me kiss you?”

True to form, Lottie gave her sass. She was perfect. 

“Princess, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Chapter Fifteen

Lottie had played a lot of games in her time, but never one quite like this. The stakes were global, the upheaval was international and the deals ran into the billions. The target was the most intelligent, untouchable woman on the planet.

And yet, somehow, it was all slotting into place.

Bili had handled the Saudi and cleared Malik’s superyacht for Lottie’s pièce de résistance, and now here she was, being led through the actual Palace of Azzouan by the very woman she’d been sent to manipulate.

Gold fucking star to Lottie Finch. The Nightingale was going to be in her debt.

Except Lottie was no longer sure that was what she wanted.

Zynara moved ahead of her, the remnants of her regal act still clinging to her shoulders even as she tugged at Lottie’s hand with urgency in her fingers. 

She’d barely looked at Lottie since they’d entered the palace. She’d nodded to security, but then led her through the maze of corridors and courtyards. The palace was beautiful, but Lottie didn’t see it at all. She was watching Zynara—her face chiselled in the shadows with the flicker of fire in calculating eyes.

They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, probably a few hundred years old, but Zynara simply put her hands to it and pushed. She didn’t meet Lottie’s eyes. She was being crisp and icy again—but Lottie could feel the heat that was burning between them.

Lottie knew what was going on.

The Qasira wanted her, and she didn’t want to show it.

And that was so incredibly erotic it made Lottie want to fall to her feet and give her everything, except she knew it would be loads more fun if she let Zynara take it.

Lottie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and tilted her head. “You know,” she murmured, “if you want me to believe this is just sex, you’ve got to stop doing this. Three times. The others will get jealous.”

“You’re lucky I don’t whip you pink for your insolence.”

“Third time lucky.” Lottie smirked and stepped closer. “You keep taking me home.”

“This is the guest wing.”

“In the palace. Like it isn’t yours. Like you didn’t build that tower in the city. Like you don’t own the country. Everywhere you take me, Zynara, is home. I like going home with you.”

Zynara swallowed. Something ticked in her jaw.

Lottie laid a palm on Zynara’s cheek. “I’ll say it again, though. It’s okay to want this.”

There was one long moment while Zynara’s expression stalled and she looked so beautiful and so desperate—as if she’d spent far too much of her life living up to duties and responsibilities and had forgotten how to live. Lottie couldn’t decide whether to wrap her up in her arms and cradle the poor woman’s granite heart, or seize her hand and fly across the world with her and chase the sun til neither of them could breathe for laughing.

Zynara realised she was being watched. Her exasperated eye roll blasted through Lottie’s veins like rocket fuel and she utterly failed to smother a giggle when the woman finally broke.

“Lottie Finch, you drive me insane. I want you naked—now—and on that bed in there waiting for me on your knees like a good girl. I think it’s time to teach you how to properly respect your Qasira—”

Lottie squealed in triumph and tore into the room.

Zynara knew she was being played.

There were precious few who had the courage to meet the Qasira as an equal—inside or outside of the bedroom. There was also a difference between being cute and brattish in the way most of her brother’s harem women seemed to be, and truly possessing the natural submission that was shining out of Lottie right now. The fact that Lottie Finch bundled it all up with brazen impertinence and something that felt awfully like friendship made it all the more delicious. 

She knew she should be careful, but Zynara was becoming rapidly aware that there was something about this woman that shook her caution to the ground.

Especially when she knelt like that on the end of the bed, naked to the world, and watched Zynara with eyes like pools—eyes that would be so easy to drown in.

Especially when she smiled that damn cheeky smile. 

Especially—fuck—with those curls that had Zynara’s fingers itching, those breasts that rose and fell on her breath, those thighs she wanted to thrust open and kiss, bite, devour her way to their nexus just to feel them tremble and shudder beneath her. She wanted to hear Lottie moan so hard it turned all the sass into those soft, gentle sighs that Zynara liked just as much.  

If Lottie Finch was playing a game with her, Zynara was very close to not caring if she won or lost. 

But one look at the woman all eager and luscious on her knees and Zynara knew her role remained. If it was a game, it was one they both liked playing.

“What should I do with you?” she mused, dragging her eyes over her as slowly as she liked. She watched her lofty attitude crinkle the woman’s skin in a flood of goosebumps. Watched her clench her thighs and wriggle as she knelt there. Watched her dig her teeth into her lower lip.

Gorgeous.

And then, right on cue, it came. The cheeky grin, the flash in her eyes, the deliberate desire to get in as much trouble as she could, just so Zynara could spank it away.

“I can think of a few things.”

She was perfect.

Zynara smiled viciously. She let the tension build, let it crackle like dry air before a desert storm.

“Oh, you can, can you?” she murmured.

Lottie’s grin widened. Zynara wanted to smudge that lipstick with a filthy hard kiss, tangle her fingers in that glorious hair. 

“I’ve got a very creative mind.” Lottie tipped her head coyly. “Just think what you could do with it. Endless imagination.”

Zynara stepped forward, deliberately slow. Her heels clicked against the floor like a countdown. Lottie’s eyes darkened, her pupils blowing wide. Her breath stuttered and hitched.

“No,” Zynara said. She stopped right in front of her. “I think I’ll use mine.”

Lottie tossed her head, still trying to own the moment, but Zynara reached out. She caught her chin and held her still. 

“You’re so clever,” she whispered, her mouth close to her ear. “Always three steps ahead. Always playing the game. But not here. Not now. Don’t you dare try to play with me.” 

She dragged Lottie’s lower lip down with her thumb. Lottie panted, flushed, lust burning in her eyes like flames. She was just about to take Zynara’s thumb in her mouth when Zynara gently slapped her cheek.

There was a moan. Lottie looked surprised to realise it was her.

“Now,” Zynara said, slowly unfastening the first button of her shirt, “now you will do as you’re told.”

She smirked and watched Lottie’s soul leave her body.

This was going to be fun.

She held Lottie’s wrists above her head and pressed them into the pillows. 

“They stay there,” she ordered. “Move your hands without my permission and you will regret it very much indeed.”

The woman actually writhed between Zynara’s thighs. She was stretched out in the centre of the bed and Zynara crawled over her, both of them revelling in the touch of their skin. Feeling the helpless cant of Lottie’s hips beneath her own was winding Zynara up dangerously fast. Looking down at her with her arms above her head, her breasts heaving— Fuck. 

Zynara let go of her wrists.

Naturally, Lottie immediately tested her authority. 

She reached for Zynara’s hip—and Zynara felt herself grin. She stifled it and twisted Lottie’s nipple instead. 

“Uggghhh.”

Her back arched.

“What did I say?”

Lottie’s hand snapped back into position over her head. 

“Good girl.” Zynara bared her teeth. “Now I want to hear you, my little songbird. Don’t hold back.” She dropped her mouth to one lush breast, squeezed the other at the same time, and almost laughed at the moan that spilled out. Lottie arched between her thighs and Zynara was drunk on it.

There was so much softness under her lips. Zynara kissed, bit and dragged her tongue over mind-bending curves. Lottie pushed up into her mouth and Zynara delighted in holding her down. She sucked at a nipple, devouring and taking, tasting need and urgency, and knowing she was being given something beautiful. She pressed hard with her tongue, nipped with her teeth—then simply dug her fingers into that gorgeous gentleness, marvelling at how artifice and guile surrendered to her touch, how all this was hers to play with, to command and control. She grinded down on the legs between her thighs and Lottie moaned again. 

She was quite a vocal little thing once Zynara got her going.

She kissed the amazing spot between her breasts, then sat up and watched her squirm.  

“Don’t stop,” Lottie begged.

Zynara raised an eyebrow.

“Qasira! Don’t stop, Qasira.”

“I don’t intend to.” She crawled off Lottie’s hips and slapped her thigh—and adored how Lottie’s eyes rolled back as she did. “Open.”

Lottie spread her legs and then locked them around Zynara’s back when she slotted in between them. They fit perfectly. They felt so right. 

But there was so much to do before Zynara contemplated that. 

She placed her palms on the undersides of Lottie’s thighs and pushed them high. Her core opened to her—a tangle of curls as riotous as her hair, and a glistening heat within. She intended to leave a series of bruises on the insides of those thighs and torture the girl until she was begging, but it turned out the only thing that matched Lottie’s cheek was Zynara’s impatience. 

She ran two fingers slowly through Lottie’s cunt.

Fuck. She was soaked. 

She was hot—burning silk and a smooth, wet fire, and so much more— so much more than Zynara had ever imagined might be hers. 

And the gasp she made? The way her back arched and her thighs fell open even wider. She was an invitation. She was sublime. She was—

She was looking at Zynara over the magnificent rise of her breasts and she was desperate.

Just the way Zynara liked her.

“Please,” she whimpered.

“Oh, I love it when you beg. I love it that you need me so badly. Tell me what you want, Lottie Finch.”

“I want you inside me. Please. I want your mouth on me—” Her whole body rippled again just at the thought, her hips tilting under Zynara’s fingers, her heels drilling into the mattress, her fists clenched—still so obediently above her head. “Please, Zynara.”

Zynara. That sounded so much better than Qasira.

Zynara almost gave in then and there. 

But that wasn’t the game. 

She would torture Lottie a little bit more after all. She bared her teeth—then dove in.

She sucked a trail of filthy hot, soaking wet kisses the length of Lottie’s thighs—both of them. She used her teeth, then sucked deep bruises over the same places. She lost herself for a moment and pressed her face into that wonderful softness, seized Lottie’s legs and pulled them close, knowing that a moan wrenched out of her and happy to let her pride go and admit it completely.

There were hands in her hair then—disobedient ones—hands that pulled her up for a quick kiss on the mouth. Dark, ruined eyes bored into her own, then Lottie pushed her back down, bunched her fists and raised her arms back above her head as if she’d been good all along. 

She poked out the very tip of her tongue.

That nearly killed Zynara too.

This woman!

So she gave her what she needed, lowering her mouth to Lottie’s core and instantly wondering why she’d denied herself for so long—

Lottie Finch was divine.

Oh, the heat of her! The beautiful way her entire body quivered and shook on the end of Zynara’s tongue. Zynara was suddenly ravenous. She dragged her tongue the length of Lottie’s pussy and devoted an age to the wonderful concentration of pleasure in her clit. Time stretched out. There was a world to be explored here, a system she yearned to study until she’d unravelled every secret, until she’d split Lottie open before her and Lottie had surrendered all she could give. Cause and effect—a flick of her tongue here, a shudder there. One slow, deep thrust of her tongue and Lottie’s glorious guttural moan. 

Zynara raised her head and looked at her. There was absolutely nothing left of her own attitude. The pride she’d needed to carry to get through the world was gone—the mask she’d worn for so long completely forgotten. Here she was between Lottie’s legs, and yet it was Lottie who had unveiled her.

“You are—” she murmured.

She’d had the taste of Lottie on her fingers that first night. She’d never thought—

“I am?”

“Delicious,” Zynara said.

Lottie gave a dazed huff. It was impudent—and Zynara knew the best way to punish her.

She gave a crooked smile. As dangerous as she knew how to be.

“Oh, shit,” Lottie breathed. Her fingers gripped the sheets.

Zynara chuckled into Lottie’s pussy and set about licking her to the extreme edge of a tearing orgasm.

She had to hold her down, one arm thrown over her hips, those incredible thighs hooked over her shoulders. Lottie’s cries were like every lovesong Zynara had never thought would apply to her. She fluttered her tongue and Lottie sobbed in ecstasy. She sucked her clit and revelled in Lottie’s wrenching pleas. Her senses were full—and they rose together off the bed, soaring higher, Zynara with Lottie all around her—her face, her fingers, her need and her heart—and she felt Lottie pulsing, felt her thickening and getting closer and closer— 

—to something more wonderful and precious than anything Zynara had ever known—

But she remembered the game.

And so she stopped.

“Fuck!”

Zynara laughed.

“Oh, fuck no! I fucking hate you! Ugghhh—”

Zynara sat back on her knees and slapped the underside of Lottie’s thigh. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it. Get up. There’s a chest under the bed. Choose a toy.”

“You are fucking evil.” Lottie was a beautiful shade of pink, her hair was wild and her eyes were glass. She was breathing like she’d run a mile, which was amusing because they had so far yet to go. Zynara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and didn’t miss how Lottie’s eyes followed her movements.

“Now, please,” she ordered crisply.

There was some adorably petulant pouting but Lottie did as she was told. In fact, she leapt off the bed and dragged the toy chest out with undeniable keenness. The weak laugh she gave when she saw what was inside was another giveaway that Lottie was enjoying herself very much indeed.

Somehow Zynara wasn’t at all surprised when Lottie chose the strap and a thick cock to go with it. She even knelt at Zynara’s feet and helped Zynara put it on.

“Any limits?” Zynara asked.

The girl had her eyes on the cock that bobbed in front of her face. She took Zynara’s hand and brought it to the back of her head. She shrugged.

“Don’t make me gag,” she said simply, “and then fuck me hard.”

Oh, that Zynara could definitely do. 

Lottie opened her mouth and knelt there, looking up at Zynara with a devastating blend of sass and cunning, and Zynara twisted her fingers in her hair and nudged her toward the cock. She locked her lips around the tip and gave Zynara a show like a porn star. She fucking had technique too, Zynara thought, as Lottie carefully adjusted the toy against Zynara’s clit with one hand and applied a rhythmic pressure with her mouth. The sight of her gazing up at her nearly destroyed Zynara’s resolve. Her fingers tightened in Lottie’s hair. Her hips twitched and thrust forward in a rhythm she couldn’t control. A dizzying frequency began to focus behind her eyes, clenching in her core. Something titanic, furious, and ungovernable began to rush toward her—

She tugged Lottie away by her hair.

There was a moment and then Zynara pulled her upright too and kissed her hard on the mouth.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Fucking amazing,” Lottie confirmed. “Though you’d better get that thing inside me right now, or fuck whatever this game is but I swear I will pin you down and bounce your brains out. Qasira.”

Zynara snorted, smacked her arse and shoved her toward the bed. “Hands and knees then, darling. If you think you can handle me.”

Lottie stuck that glorious backside in the air and gave Zynara all her usual cheek over her shoulder. “Don’t hold anything back,” she said. “I need you to exhaust me.”

Who was in control here? 

Zynara didn’t know and didn’t care. 

She knelt behind Lottie and ran her fingers through her again, laughing at Lottie’s groan. Lottie fell from her hands to her elbows, arching her back and blowing Zynara’s mind. Zynara put her hand between Lottie’s shoulder blades, loving the power of it, teasing her with just the tip of the cock against her core.

“Look at you, being so good for me.”

There was an exasperated snort from the pillows. “How about you be good for me, princess, and fuck me like you promised?”

Zynara threw back her head and laughed. She gripped Lottie’s hips and pushed into her, slowly and firmly. The attitude died the moment she bottomed out. 

“Fuck,” Lottie mumbled.

Zynara lifted one knee and placed her foot on the bed so she could thrust deep and hard. Fucking Lottie Finch into the mattress was going to be sensational. 

And so she did.

Lottie took everything she needed to give her. The woman was magnificent, grinding back against her, pointing her toes and drumming her feet against the sheets. Zynara pounded into her, hard and fast, and she was stunned to find herself grinning at Lottie’s exuberant growls and grunts, at her playfulness, at her incoherent begging. Lottie looked back at her and urged her on, wild and carefree. She tore at the sheets. She swore like a soldier. And Zynara snapped her hips and drove her hard, both of them panting, devastated groans tearing from their throats. Every thrust wound Zynara up too, the toy pressing back against her, hitting just the right spot, setting a powerful heat coiling between her legs.

She felt the moment Lottie’s shudders became erratic. The same dangerous abandon screamed toward Zynara too. She reached around and felt for Lottie’s clit, loving the feel of the cock stretching her wide. She thrust into her with everything she had, circled her clit with firm fingers, and Lottie’s cries turned into one long helpless song. 

Lottie’s whole body stiffened and arched, and the sight of it tipped Zynara over the edge, both of them skyrocketing together, rocking and jerking. Zynara collapsed against Lottie’s body and sobbed into her back, kissing every inch of her she could, until they both sank, ruined, to the sheets.

There was no way they were stopping at just that.

They learned everything there was to know about each other’s bodies. Something changed—Zynara could feel it—something measurable and certain, something dependent wholly on the specific conditions that existed between them. Lottie Finch was right for her—no matter what Lottie Finch was, no matter who she worked for, no matter what other lies she might be telling.

Lottie Finch was… wonderful. 

She pulled a paddle from the toy chest and presented it to Zynara with a thoroughly ridiculous giggle. She bounced to the head of the bed, waved her bum in the air and announced that she’d been terribly naughty. It was cheesy, sassy, stupidly adorable—and it sizzled through Zynara like electricity. She smacked Lottie pink with the thing—little red hearts all over her backside from the cutout, and a gorgeous heat in her skin that Zynara just had to put her lips to, and Lottie wriggled and gasped and giggled and said the corniest things—and begged for more the whole way through.

And Zynara realised it was a long time since she’d laughed with someone in bed. Or at any time for that matter. Never while they were playing.

It was dizzying.

So she flipped Lottie over, tied her wrists to the headboard, pushed her thighs open and thrust two fingers deep inside her. 

Lottie waggled her eyebrows and smirked. 

Zynara swatted her inner thigh with the paddle—and they both laughed when Lottie shrieked, then writhed, and clenched so hard around Zynara’s fingers they both felt it and panted at each other.

“More,” she begged. “Please, Zynara.”

“There’s a flogger in the toy box.”

“Oh, fuck. That too. Next. Please.” She moaned. Zynara curled her fingers. “I will do anything you want me to if you will just make me come again. My Qasira.”

That didn’t hit quite right, but Lottie was breathless and squirming, so Zynara added a finger and watched the woman’s eyes roll back into her head and her body strain as she sought to take everything Zynara was giving her. She was shining with sweat—beautiful with it—and Zynara licked it from her skin. 

Damn it if it didn’t taste like forever. 

Lottie crashed through another climax and Zynara untied her hands and kissed her wrists. She was going soft. She always looked after the women she played with—she always treated them well—but this care came from somewhere deeper. She kissed Lottie’s bruises and let her lips trail over the skin like it gave her sustenance. She soothed the throbbing heat she found in Lottie with her tongue. She had never troubled so much of her soul for any other woman she’d ever brought to her bed.

But then, there was a strong probability Lottie was far, far more than just another woman. 

If this curious feeling in Zynara’s chest was to be taken seriously, Lottie Finch might just be her woman.

She even let Lottie haul her over her face, her mouth hot on Zynara’s cunt and her tongue absolutely heavenly. Her eyes were even more penetrating. They watched her. Blue-grey like the sky just before the sunrise and full of care. For her. 

Zynara wasn’t used to it. She gripped the headboard and tried to be fierce but Lottie would have nothing of that. She caressed Zynara’s thighs with her fingers, then slipped one clever hand around her leg and deep inside her—and Zynara fell apart, just like that.

And Lottie Finch, beautifully perplexing and irritatingly enchanting Lottie Finch, kissed her clean, held her tight and promised her everything was going to be alright.

That might even have been the truth.

It was much, much later before Lottie felt she could move again.

She lay sprawled in the tangled sheets still trying to catch her breath, her skin, her body, her mind—and damn it, yes, her heart—alive in a way she hadn’t felt in… ever.

That had been different. It had started hot—desperate and greedy—but somewhere along the way it had changed. Zynara had changed. The woman had let her in. Not just to the mind-blowing glory that was her body, but into something deeper, something real. 

For once, Lottie didn’t want to laugh it off or turn it into a game. She didn’t care who had won. She just wanted to stay there, wrapped in the warmth of this incredible woman. Zynara lay on her side, facing her, one arm draped over Lottie’s hip, and Lottie loved the feel of it there. She wanted to breathe her in. She wanted to map every inch of her with her eyes. She wanted to be mapped—known—in return.

The weight of what they’d just done—not just the sex, but the way they’d connected—sat heavy and wonderful in her chest.

A spent little sigh from the Qasira was the sugar on top. Lottie acknowledged it with a grin.

“Don’t be cocky,” Zynara whispered. “You were good. You know you were. Don’t make me say it every time, you ridiculous egotist.”

“Every time? You mean there’ll be more?”

Zynara barely had the energy to roll her eyes. “Of course there will be. I think I’m addicted to you. You are—” She paused.

Lottie lifted one leg like a supermodel and hooked it over Zynara’s. She tugged them closer. “I am—?”

Zynara gave a long-suffering sigh, then seriously considered the question. “You are just what I need.”

It wasn’t quite what Lottie’s heart wanted to hear, but her ego would take it.

The Qasira took a deep breath, need winning the war with doubt in her eyes. “I’d like to suggest an arrangement,” she began—

But then, like a storm rolling in from the sea, a new noise from Malik’s superyacht thudded through the open windows. The revving roar of muscle cars.

Lottie watched it crush whatever had been on Zynara’s lips. The tension returned to her body, her expression flattened, her eyes iced over and her fingers flexed against the sheets before she untangled herself from Lottie’s body and rolled away. She sat up and reached for her clothes.

The tide of disappointment that swept through Lottie was almost frightening in its intensity.

“What were you going to say?” Lottie asked, sitting up on her knees. “Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him win!” Zynara kept her back to her. “You don’t have to go!”

Zynara pulled on her shirt and left the buttons undone. She turned to look down at Lottie. “It’s my palace, zin dyali. I’m not going anywhere.”

They both froze. Lottie blinked. Zynara held her breath. Zin dyali. A peculiarly Ain Zargieri phrase. It meant my beauty.

Zynara turned swiftly away and walked to the window. The term of endearment was thrilling, but the part of Lottie that was still working exalted in the other half of the answer too. This was Zynara’s palace, and she needed the princess to believe it.

Lottie grabbed her phone. She texted the secure group chat. The time was right.

—Is the yacht clear?— 

Bili’s reply came fast. —All clear—

Ace was right behind her. —Light it up, babes—

Lottie’s pulse spiked with anticipation. She stood beside Zynara and wrapped her arm around her waist. They looked down at Malik’s party and the blazing lights and music.

“I know you thought last time was a disappointment,” Lottie murmured.

“What?”

“Explosive sex but no big bang.”

Zynara frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I can fix that.” She held up her phone. There was a caricaturish big red button on it. Ace was as childish as she was. “Please let me fix that.” She tipped her head toward Malik’s boat.

The frown deepened—and then Zynara’s nostrils flared as she realised Lottie was crazy enough to do it. 

“I cannot possibly condone… whatever it is you’re suggesting.”

Lottie’s thumb hovered over the button. Zynara didn’t move to stop her.

Drunken male voices roared in a thuggish cheer. Revving engines of five muscle cars tore the air apart, their headlights flashing over the gardens, the high-pitched whine of wide tyres with neon rims, completely different beats pumping from each vehicle. When one spun donuts on the lawn in front of the palace gates, Zynara swore softly under her breath.

She sounded so tired.

Lottie hit the button.

Malik’s superyacht blew itself apart.

The fireball was truly glorious. The explosion ripped through the night, reflecting off the water in raging reds and orange. The tremendous boom of the shockwave punched past them, lifting the silk curtains and blowing a faint electric tang like ozone through Lottie’s curls. Ace had outdone herself. Possibly a teensy bit heavy with the octanitrocubane, but Lottie wasn’t complaining.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

—Fucking A—

But Lottie was looking at the Qasira.

Zynara’s whole body jolted against Lottie’s, and then she stumbled forward, through the french doors and out onto the terrace, her eyes on the scene below. She watched the men fall out of their cars, watched Malik run down to the water’s edge, his fists in the air, screaming like a spoiled boy. She watched the remains of the boat burn on the water. 

And she said nothing.

Lottie could see her running calculations in her head, analysing potential outcomes, and chasing possibilities forward and backwards. Lottie recognised the moment, because she’d played out all the scenarios in exactly the same way herself. She just had to hope Zynara came to the same conclusion as she had.

Zynara turned slowly and looked at Lottie. 

Lottie held her breath.

Zynara was gorgeous in the half light, her shirt still open, the moonlight playing on the pale expanse of skin between her breasts, her entire body silhouetted by the glow of the flames behind her.

“Why?” she asked. “How? Who are you?”

“You hated that boat.”

“Were there people onboard? If anyone’s been hurt—”

“Please,” protested Lottie.

Zynara was silent for a long moment. Lottie watched her wrestle with duty, desire and distrust—and a deep, deep longing to fall back against Lottie and finally trust someone. Lottie felt sorry for her—her poor conflicted Qasira who had tried so hard for so long, but who now simply needed someone. Lottie had never wanted anything in the world so much as she wanted to be the person Zynara trusted.

Down by the water, Malik began kicking one of his cars.

A tiny snort fell out of Zynara. After a moment, it blossomed into a very low, very satisfied chuckle.

She crooked two fingers at Lottie.

Lottie didn’t have a stitch of clothing on, but she obeyed and padded out onto the terrace. If anyone in the city below had looked up to the palace they would have seen the Qasira demand a naked woman stand by her side as her brother’s boat burned in the harbour. 

Lottie laid her body against Zynara’s. There was a faint tremble in the Qasira’s hands, but she pulled Lottie close, carded her fingers into her hair and tugged her head back. There was a long, searching look into Lottie’s eyes and then a surrender. Zynara dropped her face to Lottie’s neck and nuzzled in.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Lottie let her fingers gently caress the nape of Zynara’s neck. “Do you trust me?” 

There was a very stubborn huff at her throat. “Not in the slightest.” There may have been a sniff.

“Do you want to?” Lottie asked.

Zynara nodded into Lottie’s hair. Then she crumpled and Lottie was the one holding her up. It cracked her heart.

“Come on, princess,” she whispered. “Let me take you back to bed.

Part Two

Chapter Sixteen

Lottie surfaced slowly, lazy and languid in the morning sunshine.

A night of fabulous sex always made her dozy. She stretched her limbs against the coolness of some very expensive cotton sheets and let a very satisfied smile curl her lips.

That was a fucking incredible night. 

And here she was still in the Qasira’s bed. 

She blinked at an ornate ceiling and felt the gentle breeze from the sea drift in through exquisitely carved lattice windows. There was a chemical scent on the air—burnt plastics and scorched entitlement—and Lottie suddenly remembered the superyacht. She chuckled. Another explosive night, and this time her princess hadn’t run—or sent her back to the harem. 

Lottie Finch was definitely making progress.

She was alone in the beautiful room, but that wasn’t a surprise. A woman like Zynara had things to do—a nation to govern in her father’s stead, an international energy summit to head, an heir-to-the-throne to placate. Lottie snorted. She wished she’d been able to see Malik’s face when the boat had gone up, but being able to comfort the Qasira had been a million times better. 

It had been beyond her every wildest, most desperate dream, to tell the truth. Zynara touched her so deep, she’d almost reached Lottie’s heart.

She writhed in the sheets again—a full on wriggly-giggly explosion of happiness that kicked the sheets down to her ankles and exposed her skin to the morning and laid all her secret hopes at fate’s feet.

She was very close to admitting she had a heart. She had the craziest fizzing notion that she wanted to give it to Zynara. 

She rolled over—only to find a thick document tied with red legal tape on the pillow beside her.

Her brows lifted. She was accustomed to scrawled notes letting her know she could use the shower and see herself out, but paperwork? That was a first.

She skimmed the front page. 

Transfer of Service Agreement.

This looked a hell of a lot more official than the sleazy contract she’d signed with Malik. The language was cold and legal, repeated in English and in Arabic, and it appeared to terminate all existing obligations with the Qasirim and transfer Lottie’s duties in Ain Zargiers to the direct authority of Her Royal Highness, Zynara bint Idris Al-Hakim Al-Azraqi Ain Zargier, Qasira Al-Noor.

Lottie’s grin blew wide. Sold to the Qasira’s service. That was some kinky shit. It had her squeezing her thighs together, pointing her toes and thinking any number of utterly obscene thoughts. It made her feel amazing. 

Her phone buzzed.

She spied it on the floor near her dress. Once again, she flushed at the memory. Her Qasira had been magnificent when she was domineering and powerful. She’d been an actual gift from heaven when she’d rested her body against Lottie’s and fallen into the best comfort Lottie could offer her. Lottie loved her both ways.

Bili wanted to know where she was.

—Working, babes. Secret agent life, you know how it is— she typed.

She got the eye roll emoji in return.

—How’s the prince this morning?— 

—We’ve all got the day off— Bili replied. —He was raving about eco-terrorists last night. Think he might be pissed—

A knock at the door interrupted their chat and Lottie tossed her phone aside in a second, her heart suddenly racing. 

“Zynara?”

A man’s voice answered. “I have your breakfast, ma’am.”

Lottie pulled the sheet over her boobs and sat up straight in the middle of the bed. She floofed out her hair. No one had ever brought her breakfast in bed before.

“Come in,” she called. She felt foolishly regal—and loved it.

A man in a palace uniform carried in a tray laden with fresh fruit, flatbreads, something sizzling under a silver dome, and a pot of rich Zargieri coffee that smelled like heaven brewed on earth.

“The Qasira is working,” he said with a polite bow. 

Oh, Lottie could get used to people bowing to her.

“She wishes to know—are you inclined to sign the agreement?”

Lottie thought it over for exactly two seconds. “Absolutely.” She looked at it. “Should I prick my finger and sign in blood, or will pen be fine?”

The servant, bless him, didn’t react. “I will inform her.”

Lottie sprawled back in the ridiculously comfortable bed and polished off the breakfast at a leisurely pace. This was absolutely the life. 

Another knock came just as she finished her coffee. She was just gathering her most entitled ‘come in’ when the Qasira strode into the room like she owned the place.

Give it five more minutes and she was going to own Lottie too. 

Zynara was in an outfit that made Lottie’s jaw drop to the floor. Gone were the Western-style suits that had had Lottie drooling over the past few days. This was more traditional, yet infinitely more powerful. Loose-fitting tailored pants in a deep midnight blue were topped by a high collared shirt of gold. The V of her shirt plunged unbuttoned to a point low between her breasts where it tucked into a wide embroidered belt. Over the whole ensemble, a flowing coat swept the ground where she padded on bare feet. 

If this was how royalty schlepped around the palace in the mornings, Lottie was in an enormous amount of trouble. The woman looked kingly, cool and composed, and it made Lottie pull the sheet tighter around her own breasts and wished she’d dressed in something—anything—to meet her elegance.

Zynara’s gaze swept over her and the very corner of her lips twitched in a tiny smile. She flicked her fingers and a man entered carrying a briefcase. A lawyer. The contract signing was swift and Zynara didn’t offer any unnecessary words. She was purely businesslike. Lottie, being the consummate professional she definitely wasn’t, resisted the urge to wink at her as she scrawled her name.

The lawyer collected his papers and disappeared. Zynara didn’t.

Instead, she inclined her head ever so slightly, and another figure entered, this person carrying something far more interesting. Lottie sat up straighter in her sheet.

Clothing. And not just any clothing—a beautifully embroidered Amazigh robe in a blue to match the Qasira’s, shot through with gold thread. There was a selection of shawls and scarves, all edged with beads and coins and the most exquisite craftsmanship. A matching belt and—incongruously—sturdy desert boots. Practical, elegant, and absolutely nothing like the skimpy clubwear Malik stuffed his harem into.

Zynara’s expression was marble. “It will be a long day,” she murmured. “Taja here will help you dress accordingly.” She flicked two long fingers at Lottie’s hair. “You will need to cover that.”

“Traditional Ain Zargieri sensibilities?” Lottie asked.

“Sand.”

Zynara gave nothing else away.

Lottie traced a finger along the exquisite embroidery and felt something twist low in her stomach. They were really doing this. Zynara being possessive and controlling like that was making her simmer. She tried to be patient and wait for the boil. 

“As you wish, Qasira,” she grinned.

There was a split second as Zynara flashed her an eye roll, then the aloof princess act snapped back into place and the Qasira swept from the room. 

The robe was oddly comfortable. It was lighter than Lottie expected, with loose-fitting pants beneath, airy yet protective, and the fabric moved easily as she twisted experimentally. The belt cinched at her waist, and the boots were the softest leather. 

The Qasira met her at her door as she emerged.

“How do I look?” Lottie asked, spinning with a flourish and her best bedroom eyes. 

Zynara gave her a once-over—so subtle most people wouldn’t notice, but Lottie wasn’t most people. She saw the Qasira’s nostrils flare. She saw the tiniest flicker of amusement and exasperation. 

“Adequate.” There was a slow nod.

“High praise, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“My apologies, Qasira.”

Zynara’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You may think of this as your room. I’ll have the rest of your things brought up from my brother’s house today while we’re out—”

“We’re attending the summit dressed like this—?”

“We are not attending the summit. If you could learn some patience along with some manners—”

“Never going to happen.”

The Qasira cursed under her breath in Arabic.

Lottie was delighted. “Was that a ‘God help me’? Because you know what they say about asking for divine intervention…”

Zynara narrowed her eyes. “I forgot you spoke Arabic.”

Lottie simply waited.

Zynara surrendered. “What do they say?” 

“Oh, just that it usually means you’re dying to do something sinful.”

The jaw clench and the steel in the Qasira’s gaze was a complete giveaway. “If you’ll follow me,” Zynara murmured.

“Thought so,” Lottie crowed.

She followed Zynara through the palace pavilions, fully aware they were skirting the edge of the vast complex. Nevertheless, it was the kind of luxury Lottie had only ever seen in magazines—the kind that felt impossibly far away from the dodgy flats and shady backrooms where she’d spent most of her life.

Now she was strolling through royal corridors, signed into official service to a woman who might actually become queen—if Lottie could get her head out of the clouds and complete her mission.

It was absurd.

It was also the best thing that had ever happened to her.

She looked at the taut shoulders of the Qasira walking ahead of her. She had an effortless authority Lottie both admired and really wanted to mess with. What would happen if she slipped her hand into Zynara’s?

She skipped a few steps to catch up and bumped their shoulders together. “Are we going somewhere in particular?”

Zynara looked proud, resigned and a little bit jazzed all at the same time. “You make me want to run away from it all,” she admitted.

“I do?”

“Run away with me, Lottie Finch?”

“Hell, yes!” Lottie grinned and she caught Zynara’s hand. 

She was thrilled when the Qasira slotted their fingers together.

Lottie wasn’t sure what kind of vehicle she’d been expecting, but the sleek, silver Aston Martin DB5 was not it.

“Oooh yeah,” she breathed. “James Bond, eat your heart out. I have always wanted to drive one of these.”

Zynara arched a brow. “Get in. You are not driving.”

“No futuristic flying machine today? What year is this beautiful thing? 1965?”

The Qasira looked impressed. “Precisely.”

“I know my cars.” Lottie climbed into the passenger side, secretly delighted. “Just so you know, I’m an excellent driver. Cut my teeth on grand theft auto. All my jobs made it to their destinations in one piece—” She gave a yelp when Zynara pressed a button to turn the car on—and revealed the whole machine had been re-manufactured to modern standards complete with modular electric powertrain. “What have you done to it? This is blasphemy!”

There was a chuckle. “It’s my father’s—”

“We’re blowing off the summit and jacking your old man’s car?!”

Zynara pulled the vehicle out of the garage with the distinct look of someone who was having second thoughts. There was another dark stream of muttered Arabic.

“Did you just call me a pain in the arse?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” 

“You love my arse. That could be the sexiest thing you’ve said to me.”

“Sometimes it is just nice to drive, to just—”

Lottie had mercy. She glanced sideways at her poor Qasira and wondered how much time the woman actually got to herself. As an international figure her every move was scrutinised, everything from her science, her policies, her money, her family and her fashion was free game for the rest of the world to cast judgement on. When did she get to relax? Did she have to tie a woman down with contracts and lawyers just to have a bit of fun? 

Lottie switched on the radio—a vintage thing with proper buttons which was the only aspect of the car aside from the exterior that hadn’t been updated. A traditional Ain Zargieri folk song filled the cabin. Incredibly, Lottie recognised it. Memeti had hummed it when she was a kid.

She leaned back against the plush leather. Zynara’s thigh was right there. She rested her palm on it and failed completely to hide a smile when Zynara’s hand landed on top of hers.

Squeezed.

“Where are we going?” Lottie whispered, in her softest tone, no tease at all.

Zynara finally smiled. “Shh,” she whispered back. “Just— shhh.”

The roads through the city were smooth as silk, lined with towering palms and cedars, and bursts of jasmine spilling over low stone walls. The fragrance drifted through the open window and Lottie relaxed back into her seat and breathed it in.

Zynara drove with confidence, one hand on the wheel, her long fingers resting on it idly, her other hand still on Lottie’s. They shot past affluent suburbs, then the suburbs stretched out. Lottie wasn’t so relaxed that she forgot her craft.

“Did you know we’re being followed?” she said idly.

Zynara’s eyes flicked to the rearview. “Black Range Rover? That’s my security detail.”

“And do they know about the white Toyota Land Cruiser five cars back on the left?”

The Qasira frowned. “I’m sure they do.” 

Lottie would have felt better if she’d had some of her gear with her.

The suburbs thinned out to rolling fields of olive groves and vineyards. Picturesque villages clustered in the green foothills of the Tell, white houses with terracotta roofs and courtyards brimming with the deep green of fig trees.

They climbed higher into the Atlas Mountains, the highway flying over breathtaking valleys, the snow-capped peaks soaring above them. They dove into tunnels carved through sheer rock, which swallowed them whole before spitting them back out, alone and unfollowed, onto roads that curled like ribbons along the cliffsides.

And then the mountains fell away and before them stretched a world transformed—the rocky, barren dust of the desert, rippling with distant dunes, endless under the sun.

Chapter Seventeen

Zynara pulled off the highway and up to a rocky bluff with a spectacular view—not of sand, as Lottie expected, but a sea of glass.

Ain Zargiers’ famous solar fields. 

They stretched as far as Lottie could see—miles and miles—though as she looked, she realised it wasn’t one monotonous expanse of solar panels. There was diversity and experimentation here too.

Zynara was watching her sideways with a curious look on her face, like she was anxious for Lottie’s reaction.

“I didn’t think it would be beautiful,” Lottie breathed. “It shines!”

The Qasira huffed. “You don’t have to pretend just to impress me,” she said. She sounded dry, as if being patronised for her vision was her lot in life. “Some people think they’re ugly. You’re allowed to say so.”

Lottie squeezed her hand. “Is this all you?” She gestured at the vast fields that burned with the sky, that captured the very sun and crystallised it into power. “Did you build all this?”

“My father started the work. I expanded it. This is less than a tenth of our capacity—”

“Show off.”

“—but this is where it started.”

Zynara was clearly getting better at ignoring her sass. Lottie felt warm at the thought.

The Qasira pulled up at a building overlooking the fields and got out of the car. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll show off properly now.”

Showing off properly meant a flight in another of those fantastically futuristic passenger drones, the AlTair logo and the royal crest on its door. But first, there was a sea of nerds to get through.

The building was nothing at all like the functional service buildings that might accompany any other kind of power plant. This was architecturally designed, surrounded by palm trees and landscaped gardens, the inside cool from a combination of traditional design aesthetics centred around a fountain, and exceptionally effective air conditioning. 

The Qasira swept past security guards she greeted by name and waved cheerfully to other staff who eagerly popped out of offices to say hello. The international diplomat act fell away completely. Here, Zynara was a scientist and engineer just like the rest of them, and Lottie found herself watching with an affectionate smile as staff shared secret science business on screens filled with graphs and pages of statistics. When Zynara actually high-fived an older man wearing a lab coat over his traditional djellaba, and the man grinned like his world couldn’t be more perfect, Lottie knew she was in love. 

The Qasira in her natural habitat was absolutely, endearingly geeky and wholly adorable.

Until she clocked Lottie watching. Then she hitched a beautifully proud arrogance onto her face again and lifted one smouldering eyebrow. 

Lottie nearly melted into a pool of lust at her feet.

The gaggle of scientists followed them out to a terrace where the flier sat waiting for them, scientific Arabic and English still bouncing between them all. Zynara held open the door for Lottie and handed her into the pod as if she was the princess and waved to the team as she strode around to the other side. The machine awoke to her touch, and they sprang into the air.

From the air, the solar fields were even more mind-blowing. 

“This was my father’s first field,” Zynara said, her voice quiet as the drone hushed them over. “He built it in the early 80s and we used to picnic out here when we were kids. We used to run between the rows and annoy the engineers. You can’t see it from up here, but the condensation that forms on the panels at night drips to the ground and there are hundreds of wildflowers.” She paused. “My mother used to pick them and make us each crowns.”

Lottie gave her a soft smile. “Love to see you in a crown,” she breathed.

Zynara’s eyes were heavy for a moment, then they flicked to the view again. “Of course, the field was much smaller then. What you’re looking at now is a combined park of seventeen different generation projects. Mostly photovoltaics, but wind was integrated a few years ago” —she pointed to a distant ridge where gleaming white turbines spun lazily on the breeze— “and a heliostat system came online last year.”

“Sexy,” Lottie murmured.

“It’s called Noor,” Zynara said. “My mother was a poet.”

Light. Of course.

“And your father is a scientist?”

Zynara shrugged. “Oh no. Baba was always a king first. He wanted to do what was best for his people. Did you know the first solar field in the world was in Egypt? It was just before the first world war. My grandfather was interested, and there was British involvement too. The war put an end to all that, of course, and then they discovered oil in Bahrain, Saudi and Qatar and here in Ain Zargiers and it was all over for renewables before they’d even begun.”

Lottie shook her head, and flapped a hand at the vast array beneath them. “This is not all over,” she said. 

Zynara eyed her shrewdly. “This first project powered every home this side of the mountain. Free, clean power for everyone. Now, Ain Zargiers is almost wholly renewable and we export power to Europe, but there is still… that.”

They flew over a small rise, and in the valley on the other side was an oil refinery. 

Its ugliness punched her in the stomach.

The refinery squatted in the sand, a filthy parasite of tangled pipes, corroded tanks and towers that belched gas into the sky. It was monstrous—a festering wound in the desert, bleeding toxins across the land and pumping it into dollars. Everything Lottie had just seen—the clean, shimmering solar fields, the pristine mirrors worshipping the sun—twisted into poison. An acrid tang seeped through the flier’s air-conditioning and made Lottie’s throat tighten. Almost instinctively, she held her breath, as if she could feel the petrochemicals settling in her lungs, as if her body wanted to keep the horror her eyes were seeing out. 

This was Malik’s dream. This is what he would multiply, drilling stupidly for more. If he got his way, Ain Zargiers wouldn’t be a world leader in green energy—Zynara’s country would be a choking, burning sacrifice on the altar of oil and greed.

Lottie couldn’t let that happen.

Next to her, Zynara watched her, but said nothing. She didn’t have to. Lottie could feel the sadness—the confusion, the resentment, the impatience and exasperation, the indignation, the tiredness, and the resignation rolling off her like a storm. She sighed.

Lottie’s rage erupted out of nowhere. “Someone should blow it up,” she blurted.

Zynara gave a weak chuckle. “Will it always come back to explosions with you?” She tapped at the controls and the flier skirted the refinery and flew beyond it, deeper into the desert.

“I’m serious.” Lottie thought about it. “Your country is what percent renewables?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “How many of Malik’s oil refineries are still online? I would be more than happy to take them offline for you. And I can do far more damage than he did to your hydrogen facility. I could level that thing. Melt it into the ground.”

“That’s very tempting.”

“Then why don’t we? I mean, you. I mean, me. Why don’t we destroy it? Ain Zargiers doesn’t need it. You don’t need its products. It doesn’t bring wealth to anyone in the country except Malik. Why do you insist on playing fair when he’s—”

“I didn’t bring you out here to blow up an oil refinery.”

There was a warning in Zynara’s tone but Lottie wasn’t in the mood to hear it. She was surprised at how outraged the refinery was making her feel. She craned her neck to look back at it. Even at a distance she could pick out four—no, five—critical points where a few well-placed charges could send the whole monstrous thing sky high. She was already mapping out the detonation sequence in her head, picturing the chain reaction, the glorious destruction.

“Just a few explosives,” she muttered, tapping her fingers against the armrest. “Nothing clever. Structural weaknesses, maximum impact—clean, efficient, incredibly satisfying.”

“No.”

Lottie ignored her. “You’re telling me that thing deserves to exist? It is a toxic boil on the arse of the planet. Malik wants more of them!”

“And you think turning it into a fireball of pollution is the answer?” Zynara’s voice was amused and dry, but there was still a tick of tension in her jaw.

“Well… yes! Okay, the pollution is less than ideal, but do you know how many hundreds of millions it would cost to rebuild that— No, don’t tell me, you brainiac! My point is Malik would be bankrupt just trying to sweep up the rubble, and the political fallout. Your brother would need months to recover—”

“And if he had a convenient eco-terrorist attack to rally his right-wing buddies against?”

Lottie opened her mouth. Then shut it.

Crap. That was a good point.

“You’re no fun,” she muttered.

“Not what you were saying last night.” Not having to pilot the flier meant the Qasira could leer at Lottie as much as she wanted. Her gaze was suddenly ridiculously heavy.

Lottie laid on the drama and turned up the cunning. “Fine. No destruction of oil refineries before lunch. You’re the Q’sar.”

Zynara’s smile set like cement and Lottie felt like a dick for ruining the moment. 

“You know I’m not,” Zynara whispered.

“You should be.”

“I could leave you in the desert and make you walk home.” The princess sounded resigned.

“And miss our playful repartee?”

“You mean your cheek, your insolence, your absolutely intolerable disrespect for—”

“Please Qasira. That contract you made me sign this morning included a freaking fortune for this intolerable disrespect.”

“Made you sign—?” Zynara swore under her breath in Arabic. At length.

Lottie watched her gleefully. She giggled. 

The Qasira sighed. “We’re nearly there. Can you shut up? For five more minutes? Please?”

Lottie placed her hand palm up on the console between them. Without a second’s hesitation, Zynara linked their fingers.

“Whatever you say, Qasira,” Lottie murmured.

Zynara swore again.

Zynara flew them to the very edge of the world, where the stoney canyons finally succumbed to the sands and a small camp hunkered in the shadow of an immense dune. She touched down near a date palm and a twisted acacia tree. 

A small group of camels regarded them balefully. It wasn’t quite the glamour Lottie had been expecting. 

“Camels?” she asked. “Please say no.”

“City girl.”

Zynara hooked Lottie’s hand into the crook of her arm and led her toward the tents. There was a relaxed, casual air about her that Lottie very much liked. When a cheerful gaggle of people emerged from the tents, her smile widened beautifully.

The tattered-looking tents were gathered around a tall palm, and though they looked old from the distance—coarse dark brown fabric that had been patched time and time again—the area they enclosed was nothing short of magical.

The ground between them was strewn with carpets of rich reds and vivid blues. Cushions were scattered around a fire pit. Ornate glass lanterns, not yet lit but glittering brightly in the sunlight, hung from curved metal hooks that rose out of the sand. The walls of the tents that faced the circle were all drawn up, showing the vibrancy within—one tent decorated with swathes of deep emerald fabric edge with gold, another in startling blues and oranges. If the desert was monotonous and endless tones of earth, every other colour in the spectrum blossomed inside those tents.

It was a home, Lottie realised. A genuine Amazigh family home of desert travellers in the timeless way.

And Zynara plainly loved it here.

“Uncle!” she cried in Arabic.

A man in traditional desert clothes with a smile as wide as the dunes bowed to her from the waist. She rolled her eyes at his formality and from beneath the miles of bright blue scarf wrapped around his head, the man’s brown eyes were warm. There was a beat—and then they hugged.

“Welcome, binti,” he said. “It soothes the soul to see you. You do not visit often enough.” His eyes flicked to Lottie’s, took her in, darted back to Zynara’s and his grin widened. Lottie had just been ‘approved’. Zynara chuckled. “Come into the shade, both of you. We’ll dine!”

“Nizzy!” Two women rushed forward, each seizing one of Zynara’s hands. They dropped instantly to the Qasira’s feet in a deep curtsy right at her feet, kissed her fingers, then surged up again. With perfect synchronicity, they kissed her cheeks, giggled, and began talking in rapid Tamazight.

Zynara, to Lottie’s absolute delight, blushed.

The man shooed them away. Zynara reclined on cushions beneath the palm tree and looked regal enough to draw Lottie to her knees next to her, casual enough that she wanted to capture this version of the Qasira forever.

She tilted her head at the women. “Cousins?” she teased quietly while the man rallied his family into cooking a feast.

Zynara looked coy. “No relation.” She held up a finger to stall Lottie’s inevitable cheek. “It’s traditional.”

“Uh-huh…”

“A customary greeting. For royalty. Out here, beyond the Tell. It’s ceremonial.”

“Right.” Lottie shuffled closer. She dropped her voice. “So, can I do it too?” 

Zynara choked. Her customary loftiness returned extremely quickly. “Like being on your knees for me, zin dyali?”

“You know I do.”

Zynara’s smirk became very pleased with itself. Her eyes went dark for one glorious moment, then she shook it all away. “Uncle,” she called. “I hoped we could take the birds out.”

“Of course. But first we eat!”

It was a long, leisurely meal. Lottie leaned back in the cushions, their fabric warm from the sun. Palm fronds rustled overhead and cast shifting shadows over the happy crowd. A group of almost twenty people arrived from out of the dunes, all bringing food. They greeted Zynara with a respectful bow and then treated her as casually as family. 

Two kids wanted to play in the flier. A toddler waddled up to Zynara and squashed dried fig pulp against the pristine fabric of her trousers. Zynara pulled the kid onto her lap and pretended to nibble its fingers and laughed at its squealing. Lottie was astonished.

Uncle—who Lottie soon realised was called that by everyone and who, out here in the desert, commanded more respect than the Qasira—directed the preparation for the feast. He won Lottie’s heart when he instructed his wife to sit on the cushions with Zynara while everyone else did the work. He dragged Lottie to her feet and gave her trays to carry, and when she returned with them, Auntie was braiding Zynara’s hair. Zynara had her eyes closed and a soft expression on her face. She was beautiful.

The meal was heavenly, and by its end, Lottie had a contented belly, a slight sugar overload from the date and rosewater sweets, and a dull ache in her cheeks from laughing too much with people in English and in Arabic.

Zynara looked completely different here—softened somehow, stripped of the razor-sharp edges she wore like armour in Azzouan. She was barefoot, her long trousers dusted with sand, and she was smiling—properly smiling. Lottie couldn’t stop staring.

Uncle clapped his hands as the afternoon shadows lengthened, and Zynara suddenly looked cunning.

“You ready for this?” she asked.

“Ready for what?”

Zynara stood, stretched like a cat, and reached for Lottie’s hand. “Flying.”

Lottie didn’t even bother pushing for an explanation. Hadn’t they already been flying? She held her attitude in check too. Whatever the desert was doing to Zynara was too wonderful to ruin.

Ten minutes later, after a short ride through the desert in a convoy of immaculately maintained Range Rovers—which, again, simply appeared out of nowhere—they stood on a ridge of rock in the golden light of late afternoon, the sands turning flame-red and copper around them. Zynara held out a thick leather glove and slipped it onto Lottie’s hand.

Uncle brought a falcon toward them, a fierce-looking bird standing proudly on his wrist.

“Her name is Dihiya,” Zynara murmured. “She’s my favourite. Fast, difficult to train, moody as hell.” She gave Lottie a heavy look. “And deadly.”

Lottie wasn’t sure she was talking about the bird. She put her other hand on her hip. “Sounds familiar,” she deadpanned.

Zynara smirked. “She’s named after a queen.”

The bird was placed on Lottie’s glove, heavier than she’d expected. Talons gripped her wrist, certain to draw blood if she wasn’t careful. There was a warm smell of feathers, and a tingle of power bursting to be unleashed. Uncle removed the bird’s hood and two terrifyingly wild eyes bored into Lottie’s.

Dihiya was sleek, beautiful and fierce, and she looked at Lottie like she wanted to eat her. It was exactly the way Zynara looked at her. Lottie wasn’t sure she was going to make it out of the desert.

“Hold her like this.” Zynara stepped close and wrapped her arms around her. She steadied Lottie’s wrist, guiding her, her breath hot in Lottie’s ear, her entire body like fire against Lottie’s back. “She won’t fly until you release her,” she whispered.

“And then?”

“And then she goes where she pleases.” There was a soft kiss to her ear. “But she always comes back.”

Lottie’s heart twisted. She didn’t know what the hell she was doing anymore. She’d come here to convince this woman to take the throne. To seduce her, manipulate her, and force her toward a destiny chosen by others. To have a little fun as she did.

But here she was, falling for her mark, a woman who seemed to know precisely what she was—and for some crazy reason, trusted her anyway. What messed up shit was this?

Behind her, Zynara held her breath, a sudden tension back in her body that hadn’t been there all day. And then she twitched their hands—and Dihiya exploded into the sky.

“Oh!”

Lottie suddenly saw it all from the falcon’s perspective. A vast country alive with extraordinary beauty. A vibrant people poised on the edge of a glittering future. A single woman destined to lead them but hesitating at the edge of a precipice, yearning to fly but constrained by tradition. Admired and respected for her intellect with a heart uncherished and alone. 

She saw herself too. All the greed and self interest that had charted her course until now. The whole parade of chaotic disasters that had led her to a world far wilder than the London she knew. The games, the fakery, the posturing and pretending, so deeply ingrained she no longer knew her own truth, her own values.

She watched the falcon’s proud silhouette against the burnished sky and knew she had no values. Her principals shifted like the endless dunes. Her heart was the scrabbling, panicking mouse that scurried in the sand, not even seeing the lethal beauty that bore down on her from above.

Zynara gave a sharp whistle and Uncle spun the lure. Dihiya returned with a bloodied creature in her claws.

“A jarboa! Lucky girl,” Zynara cried as the falcon circled. Then she snapped her fingers at Lottie and Lottie held up her hand. Dihiya punched down out of the sky so hard Lottie nearly toppled over—and would have if Zynara hadn’t been behind her again, holding her up. The falcon blinked at Lottie, the horizon still sparkling in her eyes, her beak red with blood. 

The bird dismembered her prize and endured the cooing praise from Zynara and Uncle. Zynara watched Lottie just as hungrily.

Lottie slipped her hand into Zynara’s and was rewarded with a deep, slow kiss, her lips warm as the evening’s chill swept over the desert. The sun set over the crest of the dune and everything, Lottie thought, was perfect. 

Yet another point in the autonomous flier’s favour was that Lottie could straddle Zynara’s lap all the way back to the solar fields. Zynara’s hands slipped under Lottie’s top and rested gently on the curve of her hips, not possessive or greedy, just soft and warm. The depth in her gaze was frightening, so Lottie kissed her instead, her hands cradling Zynara’s face, as careful as Lottie knew how to be. 

They kissed all the way to the car, then Zynara drove back to the palace, one hand tucked between Lottie’s thighs. A companionable silence settled over them like a blanket and, for once, Lottie couldn’t think of a single smartarsed thing to say. 

Zynara escorted her to the door of her new room and stood gallantly at the threshold, their fingers still linked. The Qasira’s assistant appeared out of the shadows, bowed and handed Zynara a tablet. 

Whatever Zynara read made the carefree woman who had entranced Lottie all day retreat behind her royal mask once more.

“I should go.” Zynara pressed her lips into a thin line, but she didn’t move.

“Is the world ending?” Lottie asked. “Has something exploded? How much damage can your brother do in the next few hours?”

Zynara grimaced. “You’d be surprised.”

Lottie turned to the assistant. “Can it wait until morning?”

There was a nod, and the woman took the screen back. With one more bow, she left.

Zynara looked stubborn. “I really should go.”

“You should, but you won’t.” Lottie kept hold of Zynara’s fingers and drew her into the room with a soft smile.

“This is serious, Lottie. I can’t ignore—”

“Oh, princess, not even you can be serious every single moment. Today was wonderful. Let’s make tonight perfect too.”

“I have responsibilities—”

“And you’ve shouldered them alone.” Lottie stood on tiptoes to whisper against Zynara’s lips. “But who takes care of you?”

They were next to the bed then and Zynara was weakening. Her proud posture melted a little at Lottie’s words, and she smiled against Lottie’s lips.

“Apparently a cheeky British girl who never takes no for an answer,” she snarked.

“It’s in the job description,” Lottie said innocently, then giggled as Zynara reached around to swat her arse. She knew she’d won now. “Stay, princess. Let me look after you.”

With a breath of surrender—or possibly exasperation—the last of Zynara’s resistance melted away, and her arms slid around Lottie’s waist and pulled her close. “Only because you’re so persuasive,” she sighed.

Lottie took her hands and dropped into a deep curtsy just as she’d seen the women in the desert do. When she looked up, Zynara’s eyes were black. 

“Oh, darling,” Zynara whispered. “While you’re down there—”

Lottie giggled, kissed her Qasira’s hands, surged up to kiss her mouth, and took very good care of her indeed until the sun came up.

Chapter Eighteen

The following evening, Zynara sat in Sami’s bar in the medina with something amber from his private collection sliding smoothly down her throat and the voice of Lottie Finch like the song of an angel in her ears.

The lights were low and the air was heavy with smoke and nostalgia. Old songs from another age spilled from the piano and swirled around like beautiful possibilities. Lottie Finch sang about heartbreak and love—and Zynara tried not to stare.

It was futile.

Lottie stood cradled in the belly of the piano in a red sheath dress with an outrageous split up her thigh that Zynara had had tailored for her. She swayed in the light, her hips stealing every rational thought from Zynara’s mind. Her eyes were hooded but fixed—deliberately and seductively—on Zynara. She was singing to the room, but it was obvious to everyone who she meant it for.

“She’s good,” Sami murmured, lounging back in the cushions beside her. He was watching them like it was a game he already knew the outcome of. He smoked shisha from an elaborate and elegant pipe on the low table in front of him and directed a lazy stream of double apple—too sweet for Zynara—at the stage. “I don’t just mean her voice.”

Zynara regarded him drily. “If you’re any good at your job, you already know I’m besotted with her. There is no need to rub it in.”

Sami shrugged, unbothered. “You’ve looked more relaxed this past week than you have in the last five years. How you’ve managed that despite a global energy summit, your brother attacking your hydrogen facility, and your old man lumping you with the lot is all down to that bombshell up there currently singing her heart out just for you. I think I’m entitled to a small victory lap.”

“She’s competent,” Zynara said.

Sami snorted smoke. “She’s magnificent. She’s jumped through every hoop you’ve thrown at her. She’s a gift.”

It was true.

Zynara had spent the last few days tidying up after Malik. He’d done some quality screaming about his destroyed superyacht and ‘eco-terrorists’ and insisted the Green Futures summit be cancelled. He’d only shut up when one of the Q’sar’s own aides whispered discreetly in his ear on camera in front of the world’s media. Zynara had had to hide a chuckle as Malik practically hiccuped to a halt. Baba was still confined to the palace, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t clip his youngest child around the ears every now and then.

Malik covered for that humiliation by signing a major deal on a trans North Africa oil pipeline. It was more pipe dream than reality, but he did it on the summit’s media stages, Green Future Alliance logos prominently displayed as he shook hands with Saudi moguls and they smarmily oozed crude all around.

The death of a Saudi prince on Malik’s own yacht never even made it to the media. Sami had done his job well. The Q’sar heard about it, though, of course. He’d summoned Malik and eyed him with disappointment.

“This is why I postponed my abdication,” he told his son. “I give you the opportunity to prove yourself to me, and this is how you respond? You have a year to improve yourself. Leave my presence, Malik.” He didn’t even wait until his son was out of earshot before engaging Zynara in questioning about the summit. He didn’t see the look of hatred Malik directed at him as he left.

None of this was particularly difficult to deal with—defusing her little brother’s tantrums had been the story of Zynara’s life since Rayan died—but doing it with Lottie at her side made it strangely tolerable.

Lottie Finch was extremely good. In almost every way.

She’d attended the summit at Zynara’s side that day, and as much as Zynara admired how the woman looked in the flimsy little frocks she’d worn for Malik, she looked just as tantalising in the bespoke business suit Zynara had bought for her. With her curls tamed into a stylish chignon, Lottie Finch dialed down her usual sass and settled into the role of diplomat as if she’d been born to it. With the skill of a life-long actor, Zynara thought. She was very convincing.

The sheer audacity with which she’d blanked Malik, heir to the throne of Ain Zargiers, when he’d leered at her with a slight air of puzzlement, had Zynara smiling up her sleeve. 

She decided to see how good Lottie really was.

The press gaggle asked Zynara if she thought the two recent explosions—her hydrogen facility and Malik’s superyacht—were related. Zynara introduced Lottie Finch as her spokesperson on the matter and squeezed her arse out of sight between their bodies. Lottie blinked, fixed Zynara with a swift look more thrilled than panicked, and thoroughly owned the rest of the interview. Beside them both, Romaissa’s jaw fell open and Sami chortled merrily. Lottie appeared to enjoy herself very much.

“I hate you,” she whispered as soon as they were done, but if the way she’d fallen so eagerly to her knees in their private room during the luncheon was any indication, that was just another lie.

Zynara played with her new toy a little more after that, dropping Lottie into other conversations, testing just how far her skills stretched. Quite a significant way, it turned out. She introduced Lottie to players well over most peoples’ pay grades, and Lottie barely even squirmed. Renewable energy export deals to Spain and Germany that pretty much guaranteed they’d achieve net zero within twelve months. A subsea interconnector that linked France to Ain Zargiers’ grid for which Lottie ensured France bled through the nose. 

“Laggards,” Lottie told the French energy minister right to his face. He gaped at her, clearly having trouble reconciling her beauty with her extraordinary directness. “This is what happens when you rely too heavily on nuclear power for too long. Your country is trailing the rest of Europe and your targets are unimpressive. This deal will balance your energy portfolio while your development of wind and solar catches up with the baseline. Allow me to introduce you to the head of solar here in Ain Zargiers—”

That had been a very tidy deal. Lottie had also been ridiculously convincing during a negotiation that locked in British Aerospace to Ain Zargieri green fuels for the next decade and dropped a cool 400 million into Zynara’s personal bank account and ten times that into the country’s sovereign wealth fund.

The hydrogen deal with Petrov was poised on a knife’s edge too. Zynara wasn’t sure when Petrov’s designer dogs had become crucial to the negotiations, or his daughters for that matter, but the way Lottie cooed and laughed with Antonin over the videos they sent gave Zynara confidence.

Lottie had either done an incredible amount of research in an extremely short time, or she was blagging her way through Zynara’s summit without a care in the world.

Both possibilities were extremely attractive—even if they were festooned with red flags.

Right now, Lottie sang love songs from the previous century like she was pouring them straight from her heart.

“She is good,” Zynara agreed.

Sami chuckled. “Thought I’d lost you there for a minute. You’ve been staring at her like you want to devour her. Not in my club, Highness.”

“You never said which agency she works for. Who is she? Can I trust her? Can I trust you? If I—”

Sami blew smoke and sooky big brother vibes at her in a way that both irritated her and made her long for simpler times. “If you what, Niz?” he asked gently.

It was the question she’d been avoiding ever since she first laid eyes on Lottie Finch back in London. Every rational, sensible and scientific instinct told her to resist the feeling that was welling up inside her. Some soft, desperate, longing deep inside her chest wanted to give in.

“If I fall—” she murmured, barely hanging onto the wobble in her voice. “If I fall for this one, if I let myself like her and she’s just some spook in one of your interminable spy games—”

“Hey. Even spooks have hearts. You wound me, darling.” Sami huffed double apple in mock outrage, then smiled one of his perfect fucking smiles. “There’s many who wouldn’t believe it, but you have a heart too. This one makes you laugh. Makes you happy. Trust that, Niz. You need this.”

By the piano, Lottie crooned her way through a song that was pure sex. She winked at Zynara. 

That was cheeky. Lottie was asking for it. Zynara felt it zing through her body, the heat between her thighs boiling over into urgency. She crossed her legs.

Sami’s laugh was profoundly irritating.

“Is the green room available?” she murmured.

“I said not in my club!”

“This was your idea. Green room. Yes or no?”

“Yes, but at least let her finish her set first—”

Zynara ignored him. She strode to the small podium at the piano and waited, extremely impatiently, for Lottie’s song to end. When it did, while the polite applause was still swelling around the room, she held up one expectant hand.  

Lottie responded beautifully. She dropped her eyes, let her chest heave with a sudden breath, plunged her teeth into her lower lip, and slipped her hand into Zynara’s. She stepped off the stage and waited respectfully at Zynara’s side, her face perfectly tilted for Zynara to drop a kiss on those luscious lips. 

Zynara led her away, up the stairs to one of the club’s private rooms, tore that incredible red dress from her body, and fucked her until the woman was singing for her once more.

Malik attacked a desalination plant the next day. 

He tried his best to make it look like a critical malfunction. The grid-scale battery that supported the solar arrays accompanying the plant burst into flame, a fire that spread to neighbouring battery units and took the entire desal plant offline. But Zynara’s companies had engineered the system to be extraordinarily robust, perfectly designed for the harsh desert conditions it operated in. Her people on the ground were unanimous in their reporting: the plant had been sabotaged.

The flames looked terrifying on camera, and Malik talked loudly about the dangers of batteries and the unreliability of renewables on the summit stages for most of the morning, but he was forced to stop as soon as Zynara’s teams got the situation under control. It turned out the vision of Zynara’s autonomous drones flying in 50 megawatts of replacement battery units, connecting them like Lego and restoring power and the water supply for Ain Zargiers’ western region all before lunchtime was far more impressive. People liked a good news story after all, and happy kids playing under water fountains had it all over grumpy billionaire princes.

Malik sulked and made dark remarks about eco-terrorists and his superyacht, but no one paid him any attention. 

Stock prices in Zynara’s battery companies soared.

Lottie was very pleased to help her celebrate.

Zynara wasn’t so uptight that she wasn’t going to get back at her brother and have a little fun while she was doing it.

She sent a stupidly expensive evening gown to Lottie’s room and red soled heels to match. She also sent a rich chestnut brown wig and a hairdresser. The howls of outrage were audible from her office, but she knew Lottie would do as she was told. 

The result, which she couldn’t take her eyes off as they were driven into Azzouan, was exquisite.

“Stop smirking like that,” Lottie pouted. “I thought you liked my curls. You’ve dressed me like a Bond girl.”

Zynara flicked a finger under her chin. The chestnut hair framed her face and softened the sharper edges of her mischief. The dress settled on her curves like mercury, and Zynara was torn between going through with the rest of the evening or just taking the girl now in the back of the car. 

“I thought it was appropriate.”

She didn’t miss the quick flash of panic across Lottie’s expression, or the swift way she covered it. Zynara wondered if Lottie was ever going to tell her the truth, and then dismissed the thought. Sami was right. She could enjoy herself now, couldn’t she? 

“Where are we going?” Lottie asked.

“Casino. One of Malik’s. He calls it the Kasbah Royale because he’s a pretentious idiot, but the champagne is excellent. I have a job for you.”

“I serve at your pleasure,” Lottie pointed out with a sly smile. 

Zynara was in her favourite suit and Lottie was making her feel reckless. Pleasure was most definitely on the menu tonight—after she’d extracted some retribution from Malik, of course. She took Lottie’s chin and kissed her, running a finger over her lower lip when she was done. “Don’t you just.”

Lottie's eyes danced at her for a long, loaded moment, and then that magical thing happened again—that curious factor that Zynara could never seem to properly calculate: they both laughed, giggled even, and leant their bodies against each other as the car purred through the glittering city streets.

She’d been aiming for decadent, dangerous and debauched, and instead the two of them were comfortable.

Malik hosted a private table most evenings at the casino—the most exclusive club in Azzouan. Membership was ridiculously expensive, and entry was by royal approval or secret handshake. Malik’s crowd hung there every Saturday night, gambling away the GDP of several undeveloped countries, then pissing away the same in expensive alcohol. Zynara wasn’t a member and she rarely stooped to patronising Malik’s establishments unless she had to, but she doubted the concierge on the door would dare stop her. 

Her aim had been to sit Lottie at Malik’s table in the private lounge, stake her an amount to make her little brother weep, then count cards and whisper the play in her ear. But Lottie, of course, walked up to the table with more rizz than everyone else there, and owned the game from the top.

“Evening, boys. Got room for little old me?”

Malik was bored and boozy already. He glanced at her, but without her signature halo of curls and the cheap party frocks, all he saw was another of Zynara’s women.

“Come to raise some funds for your hydrogen plant, Nizzy?” he drawled. “Need some cash to fix that desal facility? Such a terrible accident.”

“Chasing a downpayment on another boat, Qasirim?” Lottie asked sweetly. She winked at his companions when they laughed. Zynara rested her hand on her shoulder and loved her sass. Lottie quivered under her touch.

But after the first hour, Zynara knew she wasn’t needed.

Lottie played with the lazy confidence of a woman with con artist in her blood. She played the first few hands like a siren, boldly controlling the play with some dazzling bluffs, flirting with moguls who fell for her charm and tossed their chips to the centre of the table glad to surrender. She purposefully lost hands too, amping the dizzy bint act up so high Zynara worried it was glaringly obvious, except that the men lapped it up and preened and patronised her like fools. After the second hour, four players down, the wickedly sharp edge of her game began to peak from under her act. Malik started sweating, and Lottie sipped her martini like she’d ordered his downfall as a side dish.

Zynara watched from the bar now, her appetite twisted in new directions. She’d come as a puppet-master, to remind Malik how childish his game was, but it was Lottie who was the star of this performance. Watching her work was making Zynara as horny as hell.

By the time the game was three hours in just Lottie and Malik remained and the chip count was over a hundred million. Zynara wished she hadn’t retired to the bar. She wanted to rest her hand on the nape of Lottie’s neck. She wanted to stand behind her, slide a hand down the V of gown and grope her breasts right there at the table. She wanted to tip her mouth up to her own and kiss her hard.  

She settled for staring at her moodily over the edge of her glass. Lottie met her eyes over Malik’s shoulder and dropped her gaze to Zynara with a pretty little display of submission that was absolutely ridiculous given the pile of chips in front of her. She gave it a beat—and then licked her top lip slowly and wickedly.

Zynara snorted into her whisky.

Malik turned to look at her over his shoulder, then back to Lottie. The dots finally connected.

“I know you. You’re the bitch who swindled ten million out of me after Prince Tareq Al-Farouqi died on my yacht last week. You—”

“I’d say you have a chance to win it back, Qasirim, but I really don’t think you have,” Lottie said.

Malik swore, but the croupier dealt the river and desperation kept him in his seat.

With a final flutter of those deadly lashes, Lottie went all in. Malik, in his arrogance, called her on it, and Lottie won with an exceptionally modest full house. Malik tossed his single ace and a pitiful six to the green, swore and summoned his cronies to his side. They swept from the lounge all shoulders and swagger, anything to show they hadn’t just diddled away their dicks. Lottie raked one-hundred and forty million into a messy pile and looked triumphant. 

Zynara couldn’t stand it any longer.

No words. Just a look. She crooked two fingers. Lottie followed her into the main room, out to a terrace where the eternal fragrance of jasmine and rose swirled through Zynara’s senses and tangled love with desire, and they slow-danced in the moonlight. For all her triumph, Lottie rested her cheek on Zynara’s shoulder with a meekness as thrilling as her victory, and the soft hush of breath into her neck confused things further. 

“You were very, very clever,” Zynara told her softly. Mistake. Lottie’s irrepressible ego burst exuberantly to the fore. Weird thing was, Zynara realised she really, really liked it. 

“Tell me again, princess! I was freaking incredible. Amazing. Did you see me? I just killed it! Wiped the fucking floor with them.” Zynara let her steal a kiss too. “Someone’s going to count my chips though, right? I mean, we just left them back there on the table. A posh joint like this isn’t going to steal my takings, are they? I just won a literal shit tonne of money—”

“Shh, darling,” Zynara crooned. Lottie hushed instantly, and Zynara really, really liked that too. “You’re with me. Everything is taken care of.” She raised an eyebrow, watched it hit Lottie hard until she bit her lip and pushed down her sass. She pulled her close again. “Dance,” she ordered.

And Lottie’s hand slipped under her jacket, her palm pressed against the small of Zynara’s back, and its warmth there was twice as enticing as the tease in her smile. She laid her body against Zynara’s in the most beautiful, pliant way—no pretense, no cunning, just luscious Lottie Finch and the playful way she lightened Zynara’s heart.

She’d reserved a room upstairs and had intended to take Lottie up to it. She was going to tie her to the bed and make her moan and beg—and she had no doubt they’d both enjoy that still—but Zynara realised she wanted something completely different altogether.

She linked their fingers, kissed the back of Lottie’s hand and invited her back to her penthouse in the Tower of Falcons. She messaged ahead and commanded rose petals be strewn over the bed and a hundred candles be lit to bathe the place in gold.

Then she summoned the car.

Her first mistake was forgivable, even if it went against a lifetime of royal protocol. She was high on Lottie Finch and Lottie was high on her, so neither of them checked in with the members of her detail, the minders who had swirled at the edge of Zynara’s vision all her life. 

The valet held open the door of her car and Zynara smacked Lottie on the arse as she tripped in first. That produced a giggle that was pure rocket fuel, and Lottie slid across the seat to make room for Zynara. Her hands were already on Zynara’s lapels pulling her in for a kiss as she gave the order to the driver. 

“My city apartment, please—” but the rest was stolen from her lips. She always used her staffs’ names when she spoke to them, and maybe if Lottie hadn’t been shifting around in the seat she’d have noticed. But Lottie’s thigh was over her own and there was a perfect split up her evening gown that meant Zynara could run her palm over all that gorgeous flesh and squeeze it hard. She could swallow the moan Lottie made into her mouth and push her hand higher, slip it under the fabric, around the mind-blowing swell of her backside to where she utterly failed to find lace underwear of any kind—and the rest of her mind collapsed completely.

“All through that game—?” she murmured. “Are you telling me you’ve been naked under your dress all this time? For me?”

Lottie gave her just the perfect amount of cheek for Zynara to slap it away. “Who else, princess?”

“How many times am I going to have to order you not to call me that?”

She could taste the sass before it came.

“At least a hundred more, Qasira—”

But it was then that the driver took an unnecessary turn.

Zynara finally looked at him. It was dark. His face was even darker under the peak of his cap. 

“Where is Massan?” she asked.

The sensation of Lottie stiffening in her lap made it real. They both swung around to check for the car that always followed with her detail. Four black SUVs surrounded them instead. The driver reached one arm back. 

Lottie moved like a blur. She seized the gun and twisted it out of the man’s hand before Zynara had fully registered the weapon was even there. Without wasting a move, Lottie yanked his arm back and pushed her knee into the back of his elbow. There was a sickening snap, an appalling yell and the car veered sharply into the other lane.

“Get down!”

Lottie was already vaulting forward. She had the gun trained on the driver as she barged her way into the front seats. When the driver punched the side of her face, she simply shot him in the chest. 

Tyres screeched and the car swerved again. Zynara was thrown against the door.

“Out you get, arsehole,” Lottie sang. She was a small tornado in the passenger seat—unclipping the man’s seatbelt with one hand, correcting the steering with the other, backfisting the man to the nose when he continued the fight, then popping his door. She booted him onto the road with a feral grunt and slid into his seat like it was nothing.

“Keep your bloody head down, Niz!”

Even in the chaos, Zynara felt herself warm at the use of her nickname—a split second later, the first bullets struck the car and she did as she was told. Lottie drove like a Formula 1 driver, steering with her knees as she dropped the magazine from the handgun and inspected the ammunition.

“Fuck’s sake!” She slammed the weapon back together, swerved through traffic, then flung them into a side street. Lights flooded in behind them. At the end of the street, another two vehicles hemmed them in from the front.

“Fuck!” she drawled, like this was an irritating inconvenience and not a threat to her life. She tugged on the handbrake and spun them to a stop. “Busy night. Friends of yours, princess, or does your little bro want his pocket money back?” Another spray of bullets rattled against the car. “Arseholes! I was having a really nice evening.” 

A group of men jumped out of the SUVs and advanced on them down the street, firing as they came.

Lottie ignored them. She leaned over and rummaged in the glovebox. Her voice turned bright and chatty as she did. The same damned cheeky tone she used to wind Zynara up. Zynara blinked. 

“Nice bulletproof glass though, princess. Totally rate that. Is that shit expensive? Come on, come on, give me something” —the curve of her backside came into view as she disappeared under the front passenger seat— “Oh, hello, gorgeous! Come to mama.”

Despite herself, Zynara rolled her eyes. Lottie had found a semiautomatic and she chuckled gleefully.

“HK SP5. Nice! I have always wanted one of these!” She slapped in a mag. “Okay. We are playing my game now. Cover your ears, babe.” She opened the sunroof, winked at Zynara, then rose up through it like an angel.

Zynara watched with awe as Lottie fired, calmly and with control, taking out the advancing silhouettes one by one, not even flinching at the gunfire. The last man hit the ground and there was silence.

Lottie flopped back into the car like it was a convertible and they’d been on their way to the beach. Zynara tried not to find her wired grin insanely attractive.

“Let’s go!”

“What—? Where—?”

“Never had to run for your life before, princess? You are missing all the fun. We can go anywhere, but we’re not hanging around here.” She tugged off the wig, floofed out her curls and grabbed Zynara’s hand. She was wild, beautiful, stark raving bonkers—and everything Zynara wanted. 

They ran—their heels ringing off the street, their breath sharp in the 3am air, their hands locked together, their laughter edged with adrenaline. Five blocks deeper into the backstreets, they burst into a too-bright kebab shop, and collapsed against the wall. 

The owner opened his mouth.

“Two halal snack packs to go,” Lottie told him. “Yalla!”

Zynara wrapped her fingers around Lottie’s throat and kissed her. Hard.

“You’re— you’re the Qasira!” the owner blurted.

“And I just saved her life,” Lottie crowed. “I want all the sauces, okay? I deserve all the sauces.”

“You never, ever shut up, do you?” Zynara whispered. She pressed Lottie back against the wall and thrust her thigh between her legs. The woman was literally vibrating against her.

“Make me, princess.”

“You know I will,” Zynara breathed.

“Order up!” the owner called frantically. He thrust two large takeout boxes of loaded fries across the counter and Zynara pulled out her phone to pay for them. “On the house, Qasira.”

Zynara thanked him, but Lottie was already laughing again and pulling her away. “Let’s keep running, Niz!” she called. “Let’s run forever!”

She wanted to run to the end of the world with this girl.

Common sense kicked in eventually, as it had to. There’d just been an attempt on the Qasira’s life. There were five dead bodies in a downtown street, murdered by a non-citizen and in the presence of royalty. There was a lot of cleaning up to do.

They ate their meal on the edge of the medina in a hanging garden brushed with moonlight. Water from a fountain provided a white noise static and they made their respective calls—Zynara to Sami, and Lottie to whoever Lottie answered to. Sami already knew. He insisted she come in. 

“Now, Niz. Get to the club immediately.”

“We’re safe,” she protested. “We haven’t been followed.” As wild as the night had been, she was still holding Lottie’s hand, and she didn’t want to let it go.

“The only reason I’m not completely furious with you is that I know you’re with Lottie Finch. Get here now, Highness.”

Zynara sighed. There it was—her royal title and the limit of her freedom. What would happen, she wondered, if she didn’t? If she tugged Lottie’s hand and left Ain Zargiers forever? She could focus on the science and forget about politics. She could work anywhere—it didn’t need to be here. They could run away together, go wherever they wanted to, the entire world at their feet. Lottie would follow her, wouldn’t she?

But what if she did run. What kind of Ain Zargiers would remain after her brother had drained it of its wealth—and its spirit? Did she really want her country to become the type of place where money could execute whoever it didn’t like in the streets at night? Where rich thugs trampled on the rights of the people and democracy died under their designer shoes?

Of course she didn’t.

She and Lottie crept into Sami’s bar at four in the morning and were greeted by the usual phalanx of suits from his security team. Two people met Lottie as well. Zynara didn’t miss that one of them was the girl from Malik’s house who’d been there when the Saudi prince died. It was a tangled web.

“The women from my detail,” Zynara asked, duty and responsibility settling on her shoulders like a familiar weight. “Are they okay?”

“Unharmed,” Sami confirmed. “This was definitely Malik. He’s gone too far this time. We have to take this to your father.”

“No.”

“This was a deliberate and deadly attempt on your life—”

“We don’t actually know that was his plan. It was Lottie who escalated things—”

“For fuck’s sake, Niz!”

“And my father has already lost so much,” Zynara told him. “He doesn’t need to know his two remaining children are trying to kill each other. I will deal with Malik.”

Sami blew out an unimpressed sigh, deeply impatient. “How? Are you going to reclaim your right to the throne? Are you going to rule? Are you going to have him convicted of murder and send him to jail?” Zynara didn’t see his exasperation because she couldn’t take her eyes off Lottie who was getting a similar dressing down on the other side of the room. She felt it, though. “No, of course not. You’re just going to let it slide. Disappear back into your physics and your chemistry as if the rest of the world doesn’t matter. For fuck’s sake, Niz—”

“He’s my brother.”

“He’s a psychopath.”

“He is my family and my problem. I will deal with it.” Zynara was out of patience too. She felt her voice harden and ice over in a way Sami didn’t deserve, but she’d had plans for Lottie Finch all night and she needed her now. “Are we done here? You can do your job without me holding your hand?”

“Alright, alright,” Sami huffed. He grimaced at the look Zynara turned on him. He put a hand on her arm. “Don’t be like that. I was worried—” Zynara shook him off. “There’s a car waiting to take you back to the palace,” he finished.

She stalked across the room, took Lottie’s hand and pulled her away. The driver tried to argue with her, but she was the Qasira and, in the end, he obeyed. She didn’t want to be at the palace. She wanted to be free. 

By the time they entered her apartment on the 150th floor of the Burj Al Saqr, she and Lottie had found each other again. The bath was cold and most of the candles had burnt down to nothing, but she laid Lottie down in the middle of all the rose petals and loved her differently—softly, gently, with a fullness in her heart she’d never felt before, with something that definitely tasted like potential—like hope—on the tip of her tongue, and she trailed it all over every inch of the incredible bewitching bewildering woman beneath her.

“Oh… Qasira…” Lottie whispered. 

She wasn’t even making fun. Zynara could see the devastation in her eyes. The same inevitability that coursed through her.

“I’m in danger of loving you, Lottie Finch,” Zynara admitted.

Lottie gave a weak chuckle, the remnants of her unflappable ego rising for one exhausted, compulsive dig. “Oh, my poor, silly princess.” Her whisper was so soft. Her hand on Zynara’s cheek was all the tenderness Zynara had once calculated she could live without. “You already do. It’s okay. How could you not? I don’t even know why you’re fighting it. I love you too.”

And Zynara was deeply concerned that that was true.

Chapter Nineteen

“Iliterally couldn’t be more focused on the Qasira,” Lottie protested. “I saved her life last night. She moved me into the palace. I’m with her all the time. She bought me. Everything is on track.”

Ace leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “You’re shagging her. That’s not focus. That’s having too much fun on the Nightingale’s money and becoming a bloody liability.”

They were having a late breakfast in the safe house cafe across from Sami’s Place. Ace had called the meeting.

“Total bollocks,” Lottie said. “The closer I get, the more Zynara listens. She is one-hundred percent wrapped around my little finger.”

Bili snorted into her mint tea. “Your little finger?”

Lottie blinked. It was a sign of just how intense last night had been that the obvious comeback took a few moments to surface in her mind.

“All my fingers, babes, but back off, will you? We’re doing fine. We blew up Malik’s yacht and pissed him royally, one of his pet billionaires conveniently expired mid-orgy, his media profile is tanking, and I won a hundred million off him at poker last night. He is definitely running scared. The attack last night was proof. You’re welcome.”

“You won what?” Bili looked stunned.

“How much?” blurted Ace.

They gaped.

“Yeah.” Lottie was as cool about it as she could be, given the circumstances. She sulked into her cup. “One-hundred and forty million actually, but the Nightingale sequestered the whole fucking lot of it the moment it landed in my bank account—”

“The Circle’s bank account,” Ace corrected.

“Yeah,” grumbled Lottie again. “I was a multi-millionaire for slightly less than two hours. It was really fucking nice while it lasted.” She’d had the craziest feeling everything in her life had been going right, for once.

Bili squeezed her hand. “All in Her Majesty’s service,” she said. She was talking about Queen Alexandra of Britain, but there was another queen— Qasira— Q’sar— whatever— that Lottie would rather give her life to any day.

Ace still looked dazed. “Nice work.”

“Thanks.”

They looked at each other. They were back where they’d started. The mission had stalled—this emergency meeting was proof. Lottie was secretly prepared to admit that a lot of the blame fell on her—she was completely gone for the Qasira and it not only compromised her judgement, it obliterated it utterly. The Nightingale could squawk all she liked back in her nest, but Lottie was in love with a princess who was real, who had a heart that needed her, who had hopes and dreams, and who didn’t deserve to be manipulated by forces that cared more for bottom lines than they did for Zynara.

She wasn’t going to admit that to Bili and Ace, though.

They were still looking for someone to blame.

“We could have used the Saudi’s death to greater impact,” Bili mused, “except you negotiated our silence. Now we can’t use it without exposing ourselves.”

“We did it to detonate his boat—”

“As a gift for the Qasira,” Ace pointed out. “Did she like it?”

Lottie stuck up a finger. “Loved it. Really touched her soul. Never had a present like it. Screw you.”

“But his oil pipeline deal went through anyway.” Ace’s tone was blunt. “None of it’s worked, Finch. Malik’s still heir, the summit is floundering, the Q’sar is nowhere to be seen and Zynara’s distracted. Now there’s been an attack on her life. We know Malik killed his older brother. He’s clearly feeling threatened by Zynara now. We need to speed things up. And I hate to lay on the pressure, but it’s down to you. The Nightingale is getting impatient.”

There was a pause. They grimaced at each other. This was stupid. 

“Tell me again why we just can’t kill him?” Lottie grumbled.

“Because the Queen of England has prohibited it. You kill him and you will be explaining to Her Majesty why you murdered her cousin. And you’ll be doing it on your own. From prison.”

Lottie sulked.

“Okay. Petrov,” she said. “That deal matters.”

Ace nodded. “If he signs with Malik, we’re screwed. If he backs Zynara’s hydrogen developments, we shift the narrative.”

“I can handle Petrov—”

The other two sighed loudly. Ace pushed back from the table and put one foot up on her chair. She rested her elbow on her knee. Lottie would have admired her upper arms once, but a princess commanded her thoughts now.

“I can!” she protested. “I’m playing a longer game. You want to undermine Malik? You want Zynara on the throne? Then trust me. I’ve got this. I promise!”

“We’re running out of time.”

“Well, we step it up. Ace—be ready to torch a refinery or two. That will rattle his cage.”

Ace barked a short laugh. “Your only bloody tactic is explosives.”

“I’m good at explosives!”

“Maybe you should try some craft. Some cunning. Some strategy.”

“Ouch.”

Bili held up her hands. “Alright you two. Back to your corners. Let’s not take it out on each other.”

There was another long silence.

The sounds of the medina went on around them—the hum of people living a simpler life, selling silk slippers, trading spice and hawking jewellery. The chatter was a mix of English and Arabic and the sound of it made Lottie feel… comfortable. She had the curious feeling of finding a sense of place here—something she’d never experienced before—and she knew that had almost everything to do with a woman. One she was wholly and completely obsessed with. One who was just as fixated on her.

Ace still had an axe to grind. “If you want to play house with a princess, go ahead, but don’t pretend you’re still committed to the mission unless you’re prepared to act like it. The Nightingale had a message just for you. She said, ‘Remember Libya.’”

Lottie’s hands were clenched so tight they trembled, but she didn’t argue. Not because Ace was wrong, not because she was scared of going back to that prison in Libya—but because she wanted to defend Zynara. Not use her.

And that was all of the problem.

Chapter Twenty

If Lottie was going to convince Zynara to rule Ain Zargiers in her brother’s place then she needed to focus on the woman’s love for her country. Lottie didn’t doubt that Zynara was loyal and devoted to her homeland, but she worried that in amongst all the politicking, engineering and saving the world, she’d forgotten how to love it with her heart. She needed to remember how to nurture her country. How to live for its people.

Lottie knew just how to remind her.

They’d spent the day at the summit. Zynara was cautiously optimistic. Lottie had tried for a fist bump and received a royally raised eyebrow in return, but gas mogul Antonin Petrov had succumbed to Lottie’s charms and revealed—privately—that he was satisfied with the final details in the hydrogen deal negotiations and would sign tomorrow. One-hundred and eighty billion over ten years. It was an extraordinary triumph. Zynara’s teams were busy making arrangements for a flashy contract signing event at a ski resort in the snow at the top of the Atlas Mountains. 

Zynara was pleased enough to want to take Lottie somewhere expensive to celebrate.

Lottie had other ideas.

She cleared things with Sami and the Qasira’s detail. After the shootout in the alley, they trusted her with Zynara’s safety. She gave Ace a list of gear she needed and a very short timeframe. Sami gave her a shrewd look and Ace was definitely pissed, but she came good. Everything was sorted. Lottie just needed to appropriate some wheels.

Entering Malik’s garage was easier than expected. She put on her shortest frock, strolled down to the party house and batted her eyelashes at a guard. A lipstick-sized signal jammer took out the cameras.

Malik was a total twat for imagining a biometric security lock keyed to his fingerprint would stop anyone in a house where he literally fingered all of the residents. Lottie copied his prints to a handheld device and cracked the garage lock in under twenty seconds.

Then it was simply a matter of choosing a car.

She lost a bit of time on that. A flame red Ferrari Enzo, a Lamborghini Revuelto in a gold that matched her curls, an actual McLaren Senna in an eye-watering lime green. There was a very tempting vintage Dodge Charger, a very boring Rolls Royce, a Bentley and a Range Rover—all gold-plated, of course.

But it was the Bugatti Chiron Super Sport that took Lottie’s eye. Midnight blue with a gold trim and plenty of room for Lottie’s ego. She bounced over to it and breathed reverently on its majesty.

The keyless entry didn’t stop her either. Lottie had a relay attack ready for that. For good measure, she synced her burner phone to the car’s infotainment system and the party house’s security AI and routed the tracking software into a closed loop. As far as the tech was concerned, the car never left the garage.

And fuck, the roar it made when she put her foot down—something between religion and a nuclear strike. Lottie felt it with her body. She spared one rueful thought for the Qasira and her whisper-quiet electric vehicles, then shrugged it off with a laugh. The noise hit her deep between her legs, and Zynara needed to live a little.

She hurled the car up the long drive back to the palace gates where her princess had been politely requested to wait for her. In almost every way, the amount of power under Lottie’s fingers was ridiculous. 

She was having the time of her life.

“This is theft.”

“I borrowed it!”

“You stole it.”

“Malik stole it from the people. I simply reclaimed misallocated national resources. I’ll put it back.” Lottie thought about it. “Maybe. Besides, you look very good in it.”

She’d asked Zynara to wear something casual. She’d been absolutely stunned when she’d pulled the car up in front of a vision in light blue jeans. Zynara wore a white tee tied in a knot at her waist, Converse sneakers and her hair down, and Lottie had to take back every uncharitable thought she’d had back in London about rich bitches and personal stylists. Zynara looked sensational no matter what she wore, but the everyday clothes made her look human. Made her look like someone Lottie could slip her arm around and slide her hand into the back pocket of those jeans. Someone she could be comfortable with. Forever.

“Where are you taking me, you criminal?”

Lottie played it cool. “Somewhere special.” She feathered the accelerator.

“Wait,” said Zynara.

She reached over the centre console and gripped Lottie’s chin. Lottie could feel her amusement through those long, elegant fingers. She tipped Lottie’s lips to her own and kissed her—deeply. Ardently.

“Reprobate,” she murmured when she was done, her eyes still on Lottie’s lips.

Lottie panted.

“When you’re ready,” Zynara said mildly, settling back in the luxurious seat.

Lottie burnt rubber as she hit the main road. The car handled like liquid fury and Zynara’s hand slid to the door grip, even as her laughter bubbled up.

“Is this your idea of romance?”

“Oh, princess. You ain’t seen noth—”

“Don’t say it. Don’t— Just— don’t talk. You are a nightmare.”

“Yeah, but I’m your nightmare. You bought this nightmare, princess. You love this nightmare—”

The L-word hung in the air between them for a second. They just kept on saying it. Zynara sighed. “I do,” she admitted.

Lottie grinned, dropped her foot to the floor, and they screamed down the coast. 

They stopped at a small town called Axam n’uzarfi. Lottie’s Arabic tapped out at local place names so she was putting some effort into learning Tamazight. This town translated as falcon’s nest. It was perfect.

Chalky white buildings were stacked against a rocky slope, their doors painted in cobalt blue, the colour faded by salt and time. They gathered around a small bay graced by a park that edged a wide boardwalk. The sun was sinking low, casting golden light over fishing boats that bobbed on the tide, and music filtered from a handful of market stalls, a lazy, swaying rhythm that matched the waves that hissed on a pebbly beach.

Lottie left the car near a group of lads loitering near the water’s edge. “Mind it like it’s your own, yeah?”

On second thought, she tossed her burner phone to the nearest kid too.

He looked between the sleek muscle car, Lottie’s grin, the Qasira, and the keys to freedom in his hand and his eyes bugged out. His nod was so solemn Lottie almost laughed. She took Zynara’s hand and drew her away.

“You just gave the Qasirim’s car to a bunch of teenagers.” There was something close to respect in Zynara’s tone.

“I gave it to someone with more integrity than Malik. So, morally, we’re ahead.”

Zynara huffed a laugh despite herself and ran a hand through her hair as the sea breeze tangled it. Lottie watched the weight of the world—of crowns and countries, of deals and duty—fall away and drift across the water. The woman underneath was beautiful.

“Come on,” Lottie said, urging her toward the market stalls. “Let’s waste some time. You and me.” 

She ignored the tiny frown that revealed just how foreign that concept was to Zynara and did the thing she’d been dying to do ever since she’d first admired Zynara’s backside in those jeans. She leaned into her body and tucked her hand into her back pocket. There was a beat, then she squeezed her arse. 

Zynara’s snort of outrage blew away over the Mediterranean too. It turned into a sigh of resignation as relaxed as the breeze.

When she slung her arm over Lottie’s shoulders and kissed the side of her head, Lottie knew she had won. 

They strolled down to the market.

They wandered the cobbled streets until the scent of fried fish, garlic and spice made them stop at a food stall. Lottie ordered one of everything, proud to be able to do so in Arabic and laughing with the vendor. She passed greasy paper plates of divine-smelling goodness back to Zynara and was very pleased when the Qasira added two beers to the order.

“Now you’re getting it,” she smiled.

Zynara poked out the very tip of her tongue.

The woman serving them looked at Zynara with sudden recognition. She popped her eyes at Lottie. Lottie nodded. “It’s her day off,” she joked, and laughed as Zynara swatted her. 

The woman behind the stall pressed an extra paper cone filled with sweet chebakia slathered in orange syrup and honey into her hands and looked exceptionally pleased about it. She refused to take money from either of them, and Lottie had to pull Zynara away when she tried to insist. As they walked away juggling an absolute feast between them, Lottie heard the vendor boasting to her neighbour that she’d just served the Qasira.

She cast a sly look sideways at Zynara. She’d heard it too, and bless, but she actually looked surprised.

“Your people love you. Do you think she’d have thrown in the free sweets for Malik?” Lottie asked.

Zynara’s snort answered that.

They sat on a low wall overlooking the beach, the bustle of the town behind them fading into the hush of the waves, and ate until they were bursting. Zynara leaned back on her hands and watched the twilight colour the sea. Lottie mirrored her, but she didn’t look at the water. The weights that dragged on her spirit—the Circle, the mission, the Nightingale’s orders—fell away from her too as she admired the sunset caressing Zynara’s skin. They were two women on the edge of the world, on the edge of potential and something wonderful. The future Lottie could see in Zynara’s silhouette was beautiful beyond anything she’d ever dared dreamed for herself.

“I haven’t done anything like this for too long,” Zynara said eventually. Their shoulders pressed together. Lottie hooked one leg over Zynara’s knee. They sipped their beers. 

Lottie waited.

“I used to think I had to run away from Ain Zargiers to get freedom like this. I studied in Cambridge when I could have studied here in Azzouan. I used to dodge my minders so I didn’t have to fly home on my father’s jet. I spent three years in the States at MIT because it’s even further away from the palace, and if work takes me anywhere else in the world, I always go. I always leave.”

“But you love your country.”

“I was young, I guess. You resent everyone and everything when you’re young, no matter how good your situation is. I was rebellious.”

“Mmm. I can totally picture it. Leather jacket, ripped jeans, colour in your hair.” Lottie’s imagination got away from her. “Intimate body piercings. Serious tatts.”

Zynara swatted her thigh. “I had them removed.”

“What! You didn’t!” Lottie moaned. “You had tatts? You are killing me. Seriously?”

There was a cruel chuckle.

“I hate you,” Lottie whimpered.

“You really don’t.”

There was another companionable silence. Lottie almost hated to break it.

“Does that mean you don’t want to run now?” she asked.

There was no answer for a very long time. Lottie could feel the hesitation in Zynara’s body, a tension under her thigh that she’d been hoping to erase completely with this adventure. She’d been foolish to think a casual jaunt down the coast was enough to sweep away all the responsibility that rested on Zynara’s shoulders, but she wanted the woman to know she was here to help bear it if she could. 

“I’m beginning to fear I made a mistake,” Zynara whispered. She hung her head and was suddenly timid. The proud, confident woman Lottie admired looked hesitant and afraid, and—even more alarming—seemed to be turning to Lottie for advice.

It was exactly the position her mission had been aiming for. Lottie should have been triumphant, but her heart sank like a stone.

“Malik is wrong for Ain Zargiers. He is the wrong ruler for my people. I always thought I wanted freedom. I still do. But I don’t know if I have the courage to serve my country. I don’t know if I’m ready to surrender all the things I still want.” She waved a hand that took in the two of them entwined on the water’s edge, the sunset and the market behind them. “I could never do this again.”

Lottie swallowed. “Rubbish. You heard that woman at the food stall. Wherever you go, your people love you. And if you are Q’sar, you can do whatever you want. If you want to eat chebakia on a balmy, gorgeous evening and watch the sunset by the beach, you can do it.”

Zynara looked Lottie full in the face. “I don’t know if I can do it alone.”

Lottie heard everything she wasn’t saying—and was a total coward. 

“There’s my contract,” she said, forcing a fake coquettishness into her tone and hating every second of it. “You only need to say the word, and I’ll be here.”

It wasn’t what Zynara needed, and Lottie felt like shit the moment she saw the Qasira’s expression crumple. It was only a split-second lapse. Zynara pulled her haughty, domineering mask back over her features like it had never left.

“Oh, you’ll do as you’re told, zin dyali,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, her fingers already dancing around Lottie’s throat. “You wouldn’t dare disobey.” And she pulled Lottie in for a kiss. 

It was a hot kiss, of course—there wasn’t a universe where the Qasira’s touch didn’t wind Lottie up like a toy—but Zynara didn’t linger on her lips. She ducked her head and attacked that point on Lottie’s neck, just under her ear, that she seemed to love so much. 

It was a way to hide her face.

Lottie’s conscience screamed at her, which was doubly astonishing because, until now, Lottie had never been aware of its existence. Tell her! it shouted in her head. Tell her you’ll always be here to stand beside her!

But how could she promise that when her orders were to fly in, convince the princess to rule, and then fly on to whichever job the Nightingale ordered her to do next? Lottie was a tool, in every fucked up sense of the word, and her heart was aching. 

Zynara seemed to sense the moment was broken and they strolled back toward the town.

The car was gone, which was no surprise, but they took a bus back to the city—an open-topped, double-decker tourist thing. Lottie cleared some gawkers out of the back seat, and Zynara lay down, put her head in Lottie’s lap and watched the stars.

Lottie carded her fingers through her poor Qasira’s hair and wondered how the fuck she managed to mess up every job so profoundly.

Chapter Twenty One

Lottie would be having serious words with the Circle’s briefing team when she got back to London— if she ever got back to London. 

“Oh, sure, here’s ten thousand pounds,” Lottie griped. “Spend it on luxury fashion,” she minced. “Party dresses and socialite heels,” she mocked, then she swore soundly. “None of this shit is any good when I’m knee-fucking-deep in snow!” she wailed, loudly and furiously. “And you just took the last decent vehicle,” she hollered, hoping she was deafening everyone who was listening. “How can I save the Qasira when I’m stuck at the top of a fucking mountain thigh-deep in snow?!”

Russian gas-mogul billionaire and surprisingly nice all-round good guy Antonin Petrov had met the Qasira’s team of companies and the global media at an exclusive ski resort at the very top of the Atlas Mountains. The mountains were the backbone of the Maghreb, separating the North African coast from the Sahara, and their peaks were covered in snow, their slopes clothed in cedar forest. The signing ceremony was to have been stupidly luxurious and glitteringly triumphant, the snow a beautiful symbol of everything they were determined to save.

Zynara looked amazing in a white turtleneck and a snow white suit. Petrov honoured his culture with a fur hat he insisted wasn’t actual mink, and even Bili and Ace were there in suits that Lottie deeply suspected were Armani. 

Looking sexy at the princess’s side meant Lottie was in something stylishly backless with four-inch heels, though after the shootout in the alley after the casino the other night, there was no way she was wandering around unarmed anymore. She had a sweet little Walther PPK in a holster on her inner thigh and she thanked the fashion gods for Italian microfibre crepe. It hid the line.

She and Zynara had flown up the mountain in her dedicated flier and touched down on a helipad on the building’s roof. Cue Lottie swearing at the intense cold, Zynara raising an eyebrow at her for her poor fashion choices and the two of them tripping through the snow like children eager to get inside where it was warm.

Lottie had also been mentally cataloguing a number of other things they could do to stay warm once the deal had been signed. The look in Zynara’s eyes suggested a similarly wicked list was being drawn up in her mind too.

They didn’t get anywhere close.

They’d been milling around enjoying cocktails and posh nibbles, and admiring the extraordinary view over Ain Zargiers when Lottie kissed Zynara’s cheek and wandered to the bar to fetch them both more champagne. In that moment, ten men in terrorist gear burst into the room, flash bombs dropping the crowd in an instant. Lottie had a split second to see two women in Zynara’s detail shot to the ground and Petrov backhanded with a pistol.

Zynara kicked some oaf in the groin but he still managed to cuff both her hands. Lottie tried to fire, but the room was chaos, Zynara was thrashing—and another flash bomb went off right at her feet. It threw Lottie back against the bar, blinding her, driving her ears into her skull.

By the time she could raise her head and blink through the chaos, Zynara, Petrov and the men were gone.

So were Bili, Ace and Sami.

“No! Noooo!” Lottie howled. It wasn’t training, it wasn’t spy craft, it wasn’t cunning or guile. It was sheer panic and fear. Where the hell was Zynara? Because Lottie was going to fucking disembowel anyone who hurt her.

And where were Bili and Ace? Sami’s security forces had better be fucking moving—

Lottie activated a comms button in her ear she hadn’t ever expected she’d need to use. “Where are you?!” she yelled. Once Lottie had made it clear to both Sami and Ace that she wasn’t going to leave Zynara’s side, they’d all been wired into the same comms system. The channel was going crazy now.

—Three black SUVs headed down the mountain!— That was Sami. —I’m getting airborne now—

There was the noise of a helicopter. The old-fashioned kind.

—I’m in pursuit— Ace confirmed. —The Qasira is in the second vehicle—repeat: the second vehicle. Petrov is in the third—

Bili chimed in. —They’ve just left the main road and are headed into the forest. I need maps. Sami! Where the hell does this road go?!—

They all sounded like they were well into the chase. How much time had Lottie lost? That flash bang had rattled her brains. How the hell was she going to catch up with them now?

She pushed through the staggering guests and out to the snow. The cold hit her like a wall, but there were no vehicles left—the majority of the guests had arrived by cable car. She cursed out her idiotic wardrobe choices and plunged through the snow toward the helipad. She had to get moving.

There was some kind of palace official hovering by Zynara’s flier with his phone in his hand. Lottie stormed up to him.

“Is your phone the controller? Will it fly for me?” she demanded. He blinked at her tone. “Does it have a fucking key? Tell me! Make it go!” She yanked open the door and climbed in. She grew up hot-wiring cars, but she had no idea how to jump start a computerised miracle machine like this.

The man dithered. “It requires authorisation from a connected device—” he started.

“So connect me! Now, for fuck’s sake. The Qasira needs me!”

“My phone is the back-up—”

Lottie pulled the gun from her thigh and pointed it at his head. “Sorry, mate, but I’m going to need that.”

She plucked the phone from his fingers and slammed the flier door closed. All the gold stars to Zynara’s brilliant engineering because the vehicle responded immediately. It took Lottie a few precious seconds to thumb through the settings and disable autonomous mode and the safety settings but she sent thanks to any god that was listening for the promise of a glorious future where technology actually worked the way you expected it to and didn’t ask if you were sure.

The flier lifted into the sky.

“Hell yesssss,” breathed Lottie. It was just like a video game. The flier wobbled and she braced herself against the seat, then she set about discovering just how fast the flying machine could go.

It was quiet at the top of the world.

Lottie took the flier high, up where the falcons soared around the peaks. She stared desperately down. The flier didn’t roar like a helicopter did. She didn’t need headphones to muffle the noise so she could concentrate. There was a hum instead, and its pitch matched the urgency thrumming through Lottie’s whole body. It focused her mind.

The flier was also more aerodynamic than a traditional helicopter or a standard drone. She had vertical height and forward thrust. She could cover the whole damn mountain range.

There!

A flash of movement in her periphery—a convoy of cars—a solid blur of black flickering between the snow-covered trees. They were halfway to the snowline now, heading down the mountain at a stupid speed. And there—there!—was one of the followers. Ace or Bili. They were on a different forest trail. Lottie traced it with her eyes. It would cross the road the kidnappers were on, but not fast enough. Not in time to cut them off.

Lottie would have to be faster.

She flung the flier at the mountain.

She caught up with them as the convoy barrelled down a narrow trail, the three black SUVs cutting grooves in the snow like a single beast. They had no regard for the trees or anyone stupid enough to get in the way.

The flier just fit between the branches. She leveled off above the middle vehicle and wondered what the fuck she was going to do next. She could see Zynara’s face, pale through the windows of the car. 

“Sorry, babe,” she muttered. She knew Zynara was proud of the flier, but Lottie had a handgun and a total absence of operable windows. She shot straight through the plexiglass. 

Thank goodness it wasn’t bullet proof. Her shot hit the lead vehicle and all hell broke loose.

Muzzle flashes spat back up at her from the passenger windows of all three SUVs, bullets peppering the underbelly of the flier with sharp thuds. One of the rotors shrieked and the cockpit dipped hard to the left.

Lottie didn’t even need to adjust the controller. The whole flier automatically stabilised, the other seven motors compensating perfectly.

“Oh, you beautiful, beautiful thing,” Lottie murmured. She lined up another shot through the plexiglass. The handgun had a pathetic range, so she dropped the flier even closer. Shots vibrated under her feet, but she steadied her breathing and exhaled. 

Her next shot blew apart the lead vehicle’s rear tire.

It veered sharply and hit a log, then flipped end over end into the trees. The sound was carnage—metal shearing, glass exploding, the whine of the engine. Lottie peeled away across the treetops, sending a snowstorm in every direction.

—Is that you, Lottie? You mad bitch!—

The chase flashed past a gap in the trees and Ace’s silver SUV screamed onto the trail behind the convoy. Seconds later, Bili’s battered Range Rover fishtailed into view. They both laid on fire as they closed on the remaining cars in the convoy.

Above the trees, Lottie could see what was coming.

—There’s a village ahead— she yelled. —It’s only small, but it’s going to be tight—

It was insanely picturesque—a cluster of red stoned, flat roofed buildings built half into the hillside, terraces at their feet that in the summer might grow vegetables. Brightly coloured flags in the rich blues and oranges of Ain Zargieri tradition were stark against the snow and strung between the buildings. A wooden barn sat perilously close to the only road that snaked through the middle of town. 

The front car in the chase clipped it as they ploughed past. Chickens exploded into the air. Shingles rained down. Lottie winced.

“I’m gonna owe someone a goat,” she cursed and dove after them. Ace’s car went wide, hoping to circle the village. Bili flanked them on the other side. The flier trailed flags and another rotor crapped out—but only Lottie saw the drop from above.

—River!— she screamed into the comms. —There’s a gorge and a five metre drop—

—Well, there has to be a bridge— Bili yelled back. —Where’s the bridge? There’s a road!—

Lottie couldn’t see it. —There’s no bridge! I can’t see the bridge!— 

Her panic kicked up. The Qasira—the woman she was now wholly certain that she loved—was in a car being driven by psychopaths to the edge of a gorge. They were showing no signs of slowing.

She suddenly realised it didn’t always snow in this little village. The flat roofs, the flags still flying, the road totally covered in snow and indistinguishable from the land around it. From her birdseye position she could just make out a causeway at the bottom of the gorge, and a narrow track leading down to it. Ace had corralled the convoy off course. They couldn’t see it either.

Everyone was running blind.

The roar of a helicopter thundered up the narrow gorge. 

—Pull back!— Sami ordered. —Everyone pull back now! The risk to the Qasira is too great—

But it was too late. The SUV at the front—the one carrying Zynara—reached the edge of the gorge, skidding and sliding sideways in an attempt to stop at its edge. And it nearly did—except that the second vehicle ploughed into its side—and they both rolled and bounced over the lip of the canyon. They spent too many agonising seconds suspended in the air—then they crashed in horrifying slow motion to the bottom of the gorge.

“Niz!” Lottie screamed.

She didn’t even think about it. She hurled the flier into the canyon.

There was nowhere to land. The snow had given way to rock and a fast moving river that hissed over boulders. The two SUVs were a heartstopping tangle of metal wedged between the rocks. She set the flier into a hover just at the river’s edge, a foot above the water. 

The flier totally refused to open the door while still airborne.

“Open!” she shrieked. She didn’t even recognise her own voice. She tugged at the handle and kicked at the door, breaking one of her stupid heels and feeling the unforgiving impact of precision engineering in her bones. “Open the door! Open the motherfucking—”

The flier beeped politely.

Lottie took her handgun and emptied three more shots into the plexiglass. It tore at her skirt as she clambered through, it scratched a gash up her thigh, but she didn’t feel a thing. The water, when she landed in it, was shockingly cold. She lost both shoes with her first steps, but she didn’t care about that either.

There was movement from Zynara’s car—and an awful, awful moaning noise.

“Niz? Zynara? Darling?” Lottie clambered over rocks and made her way up to the wreckage. There was broken glass, the reek of petrol and the stench of burnt rubber. “Oh, fuck no, please, pleasepleaseplease—”

One of the kidnappers stumbled from the car. He moved like he was drunk, but he still had his gun in his hand. He pointed it at Lottie.

She shot him—she didn’t even think about it—just unloaded her last bullet right into his heart.

Upside down in the car behind him was Zynara. 

She was moving. She was alive, held up by her seatbelt. She watched Lottie with liquid eyes and didn’t even flinch as the man fell, dead, to the ground. Lottie scrambled to her side, on her hands and knees in the ice and the rocks and mud. 

Zynara’s eyes locked onto hers.

“You’re okay!” Lottie breathed, reverently. “Oh, thank god. I thought— I thought I’d lost you— Oh darling, darling Niz.”

She was dimly aware of the helicopter hovering low nearby and Sami at her side. Bili was there too, helping Petrov out of the other vehicle. Two shots rang out way, way in the back of her consciousness. Ace was dealing with the kidnappers. But all Lottie could see was Zynara. 

She was alive. Her eyes were open, dazed but bright, and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

And Lottie— Lottie was done. Finished. The whole rest of the world and every game she’d ever played in her life could go to hell. All Lottie wanted was Zynara.

She loved her. She knew that now.

And not just in the giddy, high-stakes, shag-and-run kind of way she’d always fooled herself with in the past. This was bone-deep. Blood, heart and sin. Her shame bleeding on its knees at her woman’s side. She’d crash a flier into a canyon to be with her— She’d kill whoever stood between them. She’d never loved like this before. She’d never even known she could. Not once. Not ever.

Not until she met Zynara.

Zynara reached up, still dangling from her harness. She brushed Lottie’s cheek with shaky fingers. 

“You’re bleeding,” she said softly.

Lottie didn’t even know. A scratch of plexiglass. “So are you,” she whispered. “But you’re safe. I’ve got you. I— I love you.”

Zynara smirked. “Thought so,” she croaked. “How could you not?”

Lottie had said the exact same thing the other night. She poked her tongue out.

They stayed like that for a beat. Just staring. Just breathing. Somewhere, a million miles away, Sami was calling in medical teams. Ace and Bili were assessing how to get the princess out of the wreck.

“Are you just going to leave me hanging here?”

Lottie cradled her face, her hands featherlight on her cheeks. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’re too precious to risk.” She kissed her, though, as gently and carefully as she could.

Zynara’s eyes landed on something behind her. She frowned.

“What have you done to my flier?”

Lottie looked at it. It was still hovering, but at a distinct angle. The string of flags had strangled three rotors. Two others had been blown off completely. The windows were smashed.

“Um. Strategic manoeuvres?” Lottie protested.

“I built that flier. I designed it. Created it. I loved that flier.” Zynara was trying very hard to be lofty, but it came over a bit silly given she was dangling upside down in an actual car wreck and her nose was turning red. Lottie knew her line, though.

“Oi, princess! Who just rescued you? Who single handedly chased your kidnappers down a mountain? Who followed you over a cliff into a fucking canyon? I was amazing! I was lethal! Fuck your flier, princess—I was brilliant! You love me.”

Zynara laughed, weak, breathy and beautiful, and Lottie was lovesick and bleeding from it in the snow all over again.

“I do,” Zynara agreed. 

Lottie grinned stupidly back.

Sami was suddenly at her side with Ace and Bili just behind her. 

“Let’s get the Qasira to safety,” he said. “Let her go, Lottie.”

“I don’t think I can,” Lottie whispered.

Chapter Twenty Two

It was a long time before they had a moment to themselves.

Sami insisted on a medical team giving both Zynara and Petrov a thorough examination when they made it back to the palace despite both of them protesting they were fine. It was a while before someone came to clean Lottie’s scrapes but she ended up with plasters on both knees like a child, and a few sutures in a cut on her thigh. Someone even gave her a change of clothes. 

The gentleness and respect with which it was done crumpled a few more of the walls she’d built around her heart. She had never felt so cared for. She felt Zynara’s eyes on her whenever the forest of doctors separated enough for their gazes to meet, but somehow, in all the fuss, the weight of royalty settled on Zynara’s shoulders again and she became distant.

Once the medics had gone, and Petrov had been escorted back to his hotel, they discussed who was behind the attack. Lottie sat with Bili and Ace on a collection of low sofas in what might have been Zynara’s study. Zynara’s assistant, Romaissa, bustled in with servants who brought tea and sweetcakes.

“We need to talk about Malik’s line,” Sami said. 

Romaissa shot a sideways look at Zynara, but she kept her eyes low. “The line he crosses over and over again?” she asked, mildly. She had no such timidity before Sami. She pinned him on an absolutely furious glare and slapped his tea down in front of him with a huff. “After that stunt with those idiots with guns in the city the other night, I’m absolutely astonished he’s still walking free in the world!” 

“Oh, I wanted him behind bars, don’t you worry.” Sami seemed used to her attitude. “It was Niz who wouldn’t let me.”

They all looked at the Qasira. “He’s my brother,” Zynara said, simply. “And technically, he wasn’t there. On either occasion. You have nothing on him.” She looked sadly at Lottie. Lottie could see inevitability creeping behind her eyes like the dunes across the desert. It was going to swamp her.

Bili cleared her throat. “Well, actually, there’s heaps on the Discord—” she started.

Zynara’s impatience crested first. She glared at the three of them—Lottie, Bili and Ace seated in a neat row on the couch opposite her. The British contingent. They’d never looked more foreign. “And you are?” 

Bili made the mistake of looking at Ace before she answered, and Zynara snapped. “I don’t know any of you, yet you came to my rescue faster than my own people did. Two of my detail—women who have served me for years—are in hospital with serious gunshot wounds, and yet you three followed me down the mountain while Sami—my own chief of intelligence—was still scrambling. You have my gratitude of course, but I would appreciate knowing who the fuck you are.” Her voice sharpened, but Lottie could still hear the tiredness in it. “And who you work for.”

Sami put a hand on her knee. “Niz, it’s fine—”

“It’s not. I’ve had enough of being a pawn in other people’s games. Tell me.”

Sami and Ace shared a long and assessing look and Zynara only seemed to get angrier. “I gave you the order, not him. Tell me now, please!”

Sami nodded.

Ace sat up straighter. “My name is Melanie Swift—” 

Lottie couldn’t stop a snort. It had never even crossed her mind that ‘Ace’ might be a nickname. ‘Melanie’ was the last thing she’d expected. Bili smacked her.

“I work for—”

A knock on the door stopped her and Lottie held her breath as a servant walked in and spoke with Romaissa. Was Ace about to reveal the existence of the Circle? An organisation that had operated in complete secrecy since the 1860s?

“The Q’sar wishes to see you, Highness,” Romaissa said.

There was another long sigh. “Of course he does.”

No one moved for a moment, then Zynara unfolded herself and stood. She went to the window first and stared out of it. Dusk was settling over the palace gardens. Lottie could see the sunset painting highlights in her hair. 

“Two attempts on your life in the same week, Niz. He’s worried,” Sami murmured.

Zynara ignored him. Everyone waited. Finally, she pulled herself tall and turned back to face them. “Excuse me, please,” she said. She pointed at Bili and Ace, and sneered slightly. “Don’t imagine any of you are off the hook.” The finger pointed to Lottie, then crooked. “You will come with me.” She appeared to reconsider. “You will also behave.”

As meek as she’d ever been, Lottie left every smartarsed remark unsaid, and followed the Qasira through the palace.

The Q’sar’s private quarters weren’t grand. They were lived in. 

Lottie’s very first glimpse gripped her tight in a way that felt like regret—or longing— neither of which made sense. She was a hired gun. Why would a room like this make her wish for a life she’d never even known? Lottie scammed her way through everything. She’d never found herself wanting something she couldn’t steal. But this? This was shabby. In a palace of luxuries, there was nothing here even worth lifting, yet it was all worth more than anything Lottie had ever owned. This was a home.

There were books everywhere—laying open on a vast cedarwood table, spilling out of shelves, stacked on footstools. Cushions were strewn on hand-woven carpets. Both the cushions and the carpets were worn, as if they’d been chosen thirty years ago and been comfortable ever since. A tattered throw-rug was just the same, draped over a leather chesterfield that had seen better days and had three open books face down on its back.

A guitar leaned against an easy chair. There was a lute in the corner. Every surface not covered by books supported a forest of photo frames. A collection of glass paperweights gathered like bubbles on a side table and a forgotten cup of tea sat with them—in the company of yet another book.

Low lamps lit the room and mosaic-glass lanterns hung in the windows that led out to the gardens. A powerful fragrance of jasmine drifted in on the evening breeze, mingling with something warmer. Spices, slow-cooked meat and stone-baked bread.

The king of Ain Zargiers was clearing a space on a low table for dinner, and he smiled at Lottie.

“You must be the young woman who saved my daughter.”

His voice was rich and deep. Again, that curious tightness squeezed Lottie’s throat. This man was royalty, sure, but he spoke with the warmth of a father—that useless brand of creature Lottie had never known and never had a need for—and the way he looked at his daughter, the way he welcomed Lottie into his life hit her hard.

How could she suddenly be grieving something she’d never experienced?

The Q’sar looked frailer than she’d expected. The elegant man Lottie knew from media shots was schlepping around in traditional robes that had definitely seen better days, and the twinkle in his sharp eyes seemed to anticipate all the contradictions Lottie was feeling. 

She hovered, unsure, but he winked. She grinned back. Zynara watched the two of them, then strode forward to kiss her father on the cheek—royalty as ordinary as anyone.

“Twice,” Zynara said, lightly. “But I’d prefer you didn’t go on about it, Baba. Her head is big enough as it is.”

The Q’sar’s eyebrows shot up, then he swatted Zynara’s arm and thrust a pile of books at her. “Come in, Charlotte Finch. Sit down. We are in your debt. Ignore my daughter. I am grateful.”

A servant with a tray brought the meal to the table and the Q’sar waved him away when he began to serve. Zynara dropped to the cushions beside the Q’sar’s armchair and ladled a rich tagine into bowls. Lottie hesitated, then lowered herself onto a floor cushion like she belonged there. 

Which she absolutely didn’t, but damn she wished she did.

She listened to the Q’sar grill Zynara about her ordeal. They swapped between English, Arabic and Tamazight, not to hide what they were saying from her, but because that seemed to be the way they thought—English for politics, Arabic for engineering, Tamazight for affection—and Lottie admired and envied that too. Their voices drifted over her and made her think of Memeti and life, choices and opportunities. She watched Zynara and marvelled at how vulnerable she looked, sat on cushions chasing stew around her bowl with flatbread. How tender this moment felt, and how lucky Lottie was to be in it.

Under the table, Zynara slipped off her shoes and pressed the arch of her foot against Lottie’s thigh. Every now and then, her toes curled. It felt casual. 

It felt like love.

When the meal was done, the Q’sar finally turned to Lottie. “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “What brought you to Azzouan?”

Lottie opened her mouth. Closed it. Her instinct was to lie. Default to some slick, practiced cover. But Zynara was watching her too. Not the cool, collected Qasira. Just a woman watching her with curiosity and trust.

Lottie really, really wanted to be worthy of that trust.

“I’m sure you know about your son’s party girls,” she started, carefully. 

“Of course.”

“And I know your intelligence people work closely with our team in the UK.”

He nodded.

“So you already know who I am,” she said.

Two sets of gorgeously warm eyes regarded her patiently. There were so many chances here—wonderful possibilities that swirled around the glisten on Zynara’s lip, the heat of her foot on Lottie’s leg, the relief that had coursed through her entire body when she kissed Zynara after the crash, the feeling of family that was here, and the safety of home like she’d never known. 

So much potential to completely fuck this up.

She took a deep breath.

“Integrity can be bought and sold just like anything else, your Majesty,” she started. “And I’ve always known I have none. I grew up stealing cars and running cons. I loved the adrenaline and the money—and the prestige. I’m a shallow kinda girl. So I go where I’m sent and pretend to be what people expect. And I try not to blow too much up.”

There was a beat.

“Except my son’s yacht,” the Q’sar said gently.

“Ah. Yeah,” she gave a sheepish grin. “Except that.” 

“Hated that boat.” The Q’sar didn’t look the slightest bit angry. “Go on.”

Zynara was still watching her. Still waiting. Lottie owed her the truth at the very least, even if telling it might cost her everything.

She laid every single card on the table. She was sure he knew, but she said it anyway. Fuck, when had this game become so real?

“I work for an intelligence operation that serves at the bidding of the Queen of England. It is run by the Nightingale.” The Q’sar nodded, but Zynara’s face didn’t change. “I was sent to ensure that Malik is removed from the line of succession and that your daughter Zynara takes the throne.”

Under the table, Zynara moved her foot away, and the place where it had rested on her thigh became cold.

There was a long silence. In it, all Lottie’s blood drained out of her heart and left her dizzy. Zynara wasn’t saying anything. She was just… staring. In panic, Lottie started babbling and found she couldn’t stop.

“I’m a spy. I’m nothing. I’m an order and a gun— or at least, I was. And I’ve never really had a place either, or a home, or a cause. I’ve never even wasted a thought on anyone’s happiness except my own. But then I met your daughter, your Majesty, and everything changed, and I’m so confused.” 

She ignored the twitch in the corner of the Q’sar’s mouth. She needed to say this. 

“I want to complete my mission and put this woman on the throne because she is fucking brilliant and Ain Zargiers needs a strong woman like Niz at its helm. But I also feel her fear like it’s mine, and I want to run away with her and set her free. I want to run with her forever so she can be all the incredible things I know she can be, and I want to be right here at her side while she saves the whole damned world. I want to protect her with my life. I want to give her my heart. I want to be everything she needs and everything she loves. I want to hold her, love her— I want—”

She hiccupped to a stop.

The Q’sar was outright grinning at her now, and Zynara’s eyes were wet. She still didn’t touch her though. Lottie sniffed. She had no idea what Zynara was thinking.

“I appreciate your honesty, Lottie Finch. I’m prepared to overlook your interference in the governance of my country because I understand you were doing a job. I will be having words with your Nightingale and the Queen of England. But you must accept that I will object very strongly to any attempt to abduct my daughter.”

Zynara snorted. She rested her hand, palm up, on the table, her face still carved from marble, but Lottie could see she was trying very hard not to crumble. That was okay. Lottie was making enough mess for both of them. She slipped her hand into Zynara’s and felt something inside her click into place when Zynara shifted her grip and laced their fingers. She squeezed her hand and Lottie suddenly knew everything was going to be fine.

“I think you’ve found a good one,” the Q’sar told his daughter.

“I like her,” Zynara murmured. She still looked haughty.

And Lottie, who was rubbish at emotion, who flirted, lied and ran, blurted out such a relieved guffaw that both Zynara and her father looked at her with alarm. 

“Oh, thank fuck for that,” she sobbed. She wiped a hand under her nose, but she took her cue. “Of course you like me though. Princess, you love me. You are so gone for me. Totally understandable. I mean, how many times have I saved your life this week? It’s hero worship, plain and simple. You idolise me. Adore me. Babes, you can’t keep your hands of me—”

The Q’sar coughed. “I see what you were saying,” he said to Zynara.

“Never shuts up,” Zynara agreed. “It is supremely annoying.” A very dangerous tone edged her voice. Lottie loved it. 

They all smiled stupidly at each other for a moment and everything felt right.

They were drinking mint tea and enjoying orange syrup basbousa when the Q’sar asked his most important question.

“Have you completed your mission, Lottie?”

She didn’t miss the tension that immediately flooded back into Zynara’s body.

“I’m failing dreadfully,” Lottie admitted. “Because committing her life to her country shouldn’t be anyone’s choice but Zynara’s.”

There was a squeeze of her fingers. 

The Q’sar grunted. “It is my everlasting misfortune that the two of my children best suited to follow in my footsteps were always more interested in gardening and in science. And the one who wants to rule…” He trailed off and turned to look at a portrait on the wall—a woman who could only have been Zynara’s mother. “I miss her so much, Niz,” he murmured. “She’d know what to do.”

There wasn’t much to say to that. Zynara sniffed, and the Q’sar shook the mood away.

“I’ve been feeling better,” he announced. “Well enough to appear in public again. I think I will join you all for the closing of the summit.”

“Only if you’re well, Baba. What do your specialists say?” Zynara asked.

“They can say what they like.” The Q’sar lifted his chin and looked proud, and Lottie instantly knew where Zynara got it from. “It’s two days from now. The people and the world—and my good for nothing son—need to see I’m still Q’sar. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think—” started Zynara, but the Q’sar turned to Lottie.

“Back me up here, Finch,” he said with a grin and a truly wicked glint in his eye—and Lottie’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “If she thinks she’s going to be bossy, she can do it from the throne. Until then…”

It turned out the Q’sar was an unbearable tease, and Lottie had just found a kindred spirit. 

Zynara didn’t stand a chance.

Chapter Twenty Three

So it wasn’t until much later, when Zynara led her through the darkened palace to her own rooms, that they found each other properly.

“Come in,” Zynara murmured. It felt like an invitation to something far more important.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealed the world out, and Lottie’s chest tightened all over again.

Zynara’s rooms were different again. Another expansive sitting room that led deeper into the suite. High ceilings and teal-coloured walls with vast mirrors and french doors. Tall potted plants hunched between bookshelves. But where the Q’sar’s rooms were chaotic, Zynara’s were neat as a pin. Still far more casual than royalty had any right to be, and equally stuffed with all the trappings of a vibrant, scientific mind—but ordered. Lottie almost thought ‘uptight’, but there was a battered leather jacket thrown over the back of a chair. And there were the long, sheer curtains billowing in like sails on the night breeze.

Everything here was real. Zynara was real.

And Lottie—who’d spent her life being everything to everyone—stood there, wondering if she could be real too. 

Zynara turned, arms crossed, studying her in that way she did, like Lottie was a puzzle to be solved. An equation to be balanced. A risk to be assessed.

“You told him,” she said, her voice low.

“I told you too,” Lottie pointed out, half a smile pulling at her mouth. She shoved her hands into her pockets to stop herself from reaching out. “I didn’t want to lie to you anymore.”

Zynara stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “You didn’t lie. You just didn’t tell me. Not all of it.”

She was so tall and so proud. Her poor lonely Qasira. Lottie could feel the heat of her. They were almost touching. She wanted to put her hands on Zynara’s hips and pull her in, but she wasn’t sure if she was allowed.

“I didn’t want to tell you because it hurt. My humiliating past laid bare, and the god-awful admission I only hit you up as a con.” Lottie sighed. “And to be fair, Sami had already shared my file. He’s your personal intelligence officer, isn’t he? You knew, and we still didn’t talk about it. We lied to each other, princess. You see how that works, right?”

“You were here to manipulate me,” Zynara said, but there was no malice in it. Only sadness. She knew what Lottie was now. It gutted Lottie worse than a knife ever could. 

Lottie nodded.

“Just promise me you’re not still trying to do that.” Zynara reached out, brushing her fingers along Lottie’s jaw like she was committing her to memory.

Lottie screwed up her eyes.

There was an awful silence.

“Are you still trying to manipulate me?” 

Lottie suddenly wheeled away, her hands in her hair, her beautiful future still balancing on an edge. 

“Agh!” she cried. “Look at us both, princess. We’re hopeless. Two strong, powerful women—sexy as fuck, mind you—but trapped in our own dilemmas. You are the best and only person to rule Ain Zargiers. You know it. I know it. But if I suggest you do, you’ll think I’m exploiting you. If I don’t” —she blew out a harsh breath— “Agh, I don’t even want to think about what will happen if I don’t persuade you. There’s so much at stake! Your country, your businesses, quite possibly your life if your idiot brother doesn’t settle down, net-fucking-zero, the whole damn planet, my job, my actual life—you have no idea how fucking scary my boss can be— And… and us.” She looked at Zynara still standing stiffly in the middle of the room. “There is an us, isn’t there?”

It was Zynara’s turn to hold the agony of the moment.

“If I am to be Q’sar,” she gritted eventually, but she paused.

Lottie crumbled. “I know! I know,” she wailed. “The Q’sar of Ain Zargiers can’t be involved with a worthless, useless spy like me. I understand. I accept that. I’m not good, princess. Whatever you think I am, it’s not something you need in your life. I am so full of shit. I lie and steal and kill. I subvert governments, entrap politicians and blackmail princes. I get paid to flirt with royalty, Zynara. I’m rubbish.”

Zynara ignored all of that. “If I am to be Q’sar,” she repeated, “will you leave me to do it all alone?”

Lottie gaped at her. Was that what Zynara was scared of?

“Oh,” she said, stupidly.

“Because I’m not sure I can do it alone.”

“I will be wherever you want me to be,” Lottie whispered. “Here, if you’ll have me. Right by your side, if that’s allowed. I will be wherever, whatever and whoever you tell me to be.”

Zynara closed the space between them with two long strides. “Not the way I want you,” she whispered. “I fell in love with you way back in a bar in London. I fell for a girl who sang like an angel. Who was that girl?”

“That was me.” Lottie breathed it like a prayer. She’d felt the same thing. “I knew you were my queen even before I found out you were a princess.”

Zynara’s mouth twitched. She tipped her chin up. “Idiot,” she murmured, gently. Her fingers were warm. She was watching Lottie’s lips

Lottie felt everything fall into place. She let the tension slip from her body, and her swagger flow back in. But she had to be sure. “You’re the idiot, princess, if you think wanting me is a good idea.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Zynara said simply. “You don’t get to decide what I want.”

And then she kissed her.

“I want you.”

Lottie wasn’t used to this level of bare, emotional openness. 

She was in borrowed clothes—plain, sensible underwear the hospital had sourced for her after their ordeal. She’d never seduced a woman in anything less than satin and lace. The heels and the tight, tiny dresses were cover—deep down, she’d always known that—but she’d never actually done the opposite. 

She’d never stood in front of anyone she loved in cheap polycotton and navy blue briefs.

Scratch that—she’d never stood in front of anyone she loved.

Somehow, it was the most dangerous thing she’d ever done.

“Off,” Zynara murmured. She flicked her fingers at Lottie’s body, and Lottie didn’t even try to hide the rush that swept through her. 

Her strong and decisive Qasira was back, and Lottie adored her like that—forceful and masterly. They were still standing in the middle of Zynara’s room, the lights low, the breeze heavy with the scent of jasmine. Lottie tugged off a sweater and dropped track pants to the floor. She felt slightly foolish.

Zynara’s head tipped to the side and dragged her eyes slowly up and down her body.

“And the rest.”

Lottie stripped to her skin and gave it all to Zynara—the medical adhesives on her knees, the antiseptic on her thigh staining her skin an ugly yellow, the bruises a deep, dark blue. 

She caught sight of herself in one of the wood-framed mirrors leaning against the walls.  

Oh, god. She was a mess. 

Zynara didn’t agree. “My beautiful, brave, knight protector,” she whispered. “I’ll be very careful with you.” She stepped closer and put her fingers under Lottie’s chin. She tipped it up. Lottie could see the exhaustion in her eyes and remembered Zynara had been through far worse today than she had.

“How about we be careful with each other?” she suggested. “I don’t want to play games with you anymore.”

“You don’t want to play games?” Zynara smirked and raised one imperious eyebrow. It was the final flicker of her act. She let her fingers trail painfully slow down Lottie’s throat, over her collarbone to her breast. She circled it—feather-light—tips of her fingers, backs of her knuckles, then the greedy press of her thumb and a full-handed grab. She squeezed. 

Lottie sucked in a breath, and it pushed her harder into Zynara’s hand. Zynara’s lips fell open.

“Well, those games, fuck yeah,” Lottie breathed. She blushed at Zynara’s proud chuckle. “But no other games. I would gladly swallow every lie I’ve ever told just to be truthful to you forever.” 

Zynara’s expression crumpled. Her eyes darted between Lottie’s, desperately searching for truth, and Lottie regretted every play she’d ever made. 

“Believe me, Niz. Please. I love you.” She stepped into Zynara’s embrace and slid her arms over her shoulders, pressing their hips together. She felt eternity in the perfect way Zynara’s hands fell to her waist. Their foreheads touched and their noses bumped softly together. It was sweet, soft and sensual—all things Lottie barely knew—but it was everything she wanted. “Let’s just do this gently. Every atom of me is yours and I give myself to you.”

Zynara nodded, and Lottie stepped back to carefully, reverently, peel the clothes from her body—

—and she winced at the appalling seatbelt bruise beginning to blossom on her chest.

“Oh, Niz,” she whispered. She ducked her head to kiss it better.

There was a scattering of tiny cuts around Zynara’s throat and at the V of her neck. Lottie kissed those as well, and a cut on her shoulder blade. Her magnificent Qasira was as black and blue as she was.

They looked at themselves in the mirror.

“We’re a disaster,” Zynara snorted softly.

“We’re unstoppable,” Lottie corrected.

Acceptance finally dawned with a crooked smile, and Zynara gave a gentle huff. “I like you, Lottie Finch.”

Lottie rolled her eyes.

Zynara swatted her arse.

“Like?! Princess, I’m baring my soul here.”

The hand on her backside squeezed. Zynara peered over Lottie’s shoulder at it. “Is that what you call it? It’s fucking gorgeous.”

Lottie laughed and gave up. She took Zynara’s hand and drew her toward the bed.

Gentle didn’t last long at all.

It wasn’t that they were playing, it was more that Zynara’s towering need for control was wholly natural—her genuine state—and that Lottie lived and died for being possessed.

Zynara loomed over her, powerful arms either side of Lottie’s shoulders, her thigh pressed hard against Lottie’s core. Lottie grinded against her, her feet drilling into the mattress, her hips driving up to keep their rhythm. Zynara was making her work for it. She looked down between their bodies and snarled a vicious smile.

“Come on, zin dyali,” she crooned. “You can do better than that. Don’t you want what I’m giving you?”

Lottie groaned, and Zynara dropped her head to nip at her shoulder. It was a punishment, but it was delicious and it crinkled all of Lottie’s skin. She threw her head back, not thinking, not caring that it would expose her throat. 

“Mmm,” Zynara sighed. “Perfect.” And she grazed her teeth over that wonderful spot below Lottie’s chin. She was hot and greedy—god knew where their promise to be careful had gone—and Lottie wanted more, but Zynara rose up to watch her again.  

Lottie’s rocking became erratic. She opened her knees wider. She thrust with her hips. She was slick all over Zynara’s thigh and the sound of it was sinful, but it wasn’t enough.

“I need—” she tried—and shut her mouth instantly. Just the act of begging wound her even tighter. She screwed her eyes shut and concentrated on her hips.

“Yes, darling?”

“I need— Oh, god, please, I need your fingers—”

The dip of the mattress shifted as Zynara lifted one hand and pinched her nipple.

“Yes! More! Please!”

There was a merciless chuckle and Zynara moved again. She pulled her knee away from Lottie’s core and sat back on her heels.

“What?” Lottie’s eyes snapped open in confusion. Then she threw her head back again as Zynara plunged two fingers inside her, squeezed her breast and bit down on her other nipple with perfect timing. Her mouth was hard, her fingers curled like machines—and Lottie was flying at the top of the world in a moment. “Can I come?” she begged, holding on for dear life. “Can I—? Princess? God, Zynara! Niz! Fuck! Please say I can—”

Zynara looked up at her. Lottie was nearly gone, but there was adoration in Zynara’s eyes—and it was all for her. It was just as powerful as her fingers.

“In a moment,” Zynara drawled. “I want to taste it.” And she settled down between Lottie’s legs with a moan of her own. She flicked the tip of her tongue against Lottie’s clit and laughed at the way her hips twitched. She held her down with an arm across her chest and smiled, wolfishly. “Come whenever you need to, zin dyali. It’s all for you.” And she flattened her tongue against Lottie’s clit and devoured it with firm, hard circles, chasing her hips up off the bed as Lottie arched and shrieked and pitched over the edge into blinding pleasure.

Zynara kissed her way tenderly back up her body—navel, breasts, the hollow under her chin. Her lips.

Lottie tasted herself and love on Zynara’s lips, and the combination was beautiful. 

“Again?” Zynara asked, gazing at her with a devotion Lottie had never thought could be hers. She laughed at Lottie’s weak groan. “What happened to unstoppable?”

Lottie idly swatted her shoulder, and instantly regretted it when Zynara flinched.

“You’re hurt,” she protested. “You shouldn’t be doing all the work.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Zynara grinned, “but the brush with death has made me urgent. I want you undone and I want it on my tongue.” She lay down beside her, and Lottie didn’t miss how gingerly she did it. Her Qasira was being brave. “Up you get,” she ordered.

It was clear what she wanted. She even suggested Lottie would need to grip the headboard, but Lottie had a better idea. 

“Hey, science nerd,” she asked. “What’s your favourite number?”

There was a goofy snort—which Lottie loved just as much as she worshipped the overbearing princess—and Zynara’s thighs fell open of their own accord. Lottie kissed her first—wet, hard and messy—then climbed over her, and got to work.

Every hurt in Lottie’s body disappeared. Every doubt left her too.

There was the tickle of Zynara’s hair between her thighs and at her lips. There was a hot, hungry mouth on her pussy and the taste of Zynara’s cunt on her tongue. Lottie had never believed in heaven, but she’d found it, deep within the woman who writhed beneath her. 

Zynara thrust upwards with her hips and Lottie chased her back down again. Zynara wrapped her arms around Lottie’s thighs and ate her out with a ragged eagerness that made Lottie’s whole body shake. She smothered her face in Zynara’s heat. She strained to hold herself above her queen, and then surrendered everything when Zynara hauled her down.

She lost her mind over the knowledge that Zynara wanted this—wanted her—wholeheartedly and without hesitation. That Zynara trusted her. Her! Lottie Finch. 

She wanted to lick and kiss and devour her Qasira all the way to ecstasy and all the way back down again.

She wanted to do it forever.

The adrenaline of the day fired them both and accelerated the synchronised dance of their hips, the beats of their hearts. They were electric—they were hydrogen fuel burning with the heat of the sun—a thousand suns—and it lifted them from the ground and shot them into the sky. They left the world behind in a blur of colour and song. They burned. They cried. And with two staggering moans that almost cancelled each other out, they tore euphoria from each other, gifting it, taking it, in wave after immense wave of pleasure and promise—and trust—and it was perfect.

Lottie lay on her back, tangled in the rumpled sheets of Zynara’s massive bed, and stared up at the ornate ceiling, too tired to move. Her skin still burned where Zynara had touched her. Kissed her. Owned her. Her body was a wreck of pleasure and her heart a more dangerous mess still.

Zynara was half-asleep beside her, one arm thrown possessively over Lottie's stomach, her hair mussed, her expression soft.

Lottie studied her in the half-light. Every line. The scratches and bruises from today’s ordeal. Every wondrous curve. Each perfect eyelash.

It was so much. It was terrifying. She wanted Zynara, but if she was honest, she wanted the warm, close sense of family and home that was here too. Zynara had so little family left and Lottie had none at all—but together they could create a new one. It was everything she'd never known she wanted.

And it was going to change her entire life. Lottie was poised on a precipice.

They both were.

It had never felt so good to know she could jump with someone who loved her.

Quietly, she brushed the very tips of her fingers over Zynara’s bare shoulder. Zynara stirred but didn’t wake.

"I’m staying," Lottie whispered into the dark, even if Zynara couldn’t hear her. "I’m yours, princess. I’m staying with you."

No missions. No orders. No bloody Circle. No Nightingale.

Just her Qasira.

Zynara’s hand twitched against her skin, and Lottie smiled, a real one, small and a little broken, but brave.

She turned her face to the pillow, tucked herself into the warmth of Zynara’s body, and let sleep finally claim her—her heart full for the first time in her life.

And if Malik was going to bring the terror, if the whole world was about to catch fire—she’d face it. They would face it. Together.

Chapter Twenty Three

“We’re done with the cloaks and daggers then?” Lottie asked.

Ace and Sami had given up every pretense of their two clandestine organisations not knowing each other. The following morning’s Kingmakers Anonymous meeting was held in a back room in Sami’s lounge. Lottie was summoned on pain of the Nightingale’s wrath. Bili nursed a coffee. Romaissa eyed Lottie warily.

Lottie had found it very difficult to leave Zynara’s side.

“I will talk to my father,” Zynara said. “This morning. We’ll draw up the royal orders to remove Malik from the succession and put them before the parliament. It doesn’t require a vote as the Q’sar is technically the head of state, but there is still a process.” She didn’t sound excited.

Lottie gazed at her. They were still in bed and Lottie had pulled the sheet up over their heads making a tent that shielded them from the world. It was the second last day of the summit, and later Petrov and Zynara would re-attempt a signing ceremony for the green hydrogen deal. Before that, Zynara was going to surrender her life to her country. It was a big day. Their breaths mingled, their limbs tangled together. Lottie revelled in the warmth of Zynara’s skin on hers and the trust in her eyes. It was their last soft moment together before everything changed.

“It’s the right thing to do,” she whispered. 

“I know.”

“And I’ll be right there with you. All the way. I promise. I love you.”

But she’d only made it as far as the Q’sar’s door. Her phone buzzed with a message from Ace that was absolutely undeniable. 

Zynara watched her carefully.

“I have to go.”

The resignation and disappointment in Zynara’s expression nearly killed her.

“Just this once. It will be the last time, I swear. If I don’t go—” She purposefully didn’t think about the Nightingale’s displeasure, or the prison in Libya. She stood on tiptoes and offered her best kiss to Zynara, willing her to accept it and everything it meant. “You’ll be fine, princess. And hey, I got you this far, didn’t I?” She tried some cheek to lighten the mood and dialled it up even higher when it failed to land the way it usually did. “Tell your dad he owes me, yeah? Your whole country is gonna owe me. And I’m the lucky one— I’ll get you in return. Best play of my life—”

“Lottie.”

Her voice was bleak. Lottie buttoned it immediately, but she had her orders.

“I’m so sorry, Niz. I have to go.” She squeezed Zynara’s fingers, kissed her, and ran. 

Like a coward, she didn’t look back.

The room at the back of Sami’s club smelled of stale cigars and gambled dreams. 

Ace gave her a grimace. “We’ve been working together from the top. Something you’d know if you actually read the briefing.” She spun a laptop on the table between them and Lottie found herself facing the Nightingale. 

Shit.

Evelyn Knight looked impatient and profoundly irritated. Lottie could do without another powerful woman’s gut-wrenching dissatisfaction aimed right at her.

She blagged. “Hey guv. It’s done. Mission complete.” She flashed her most radiant grin.

The mood in the room changed immediately.

Sami raised his brows. “She’s toppling her brother? I’m her best friend. She hasn’t told me this.”

Romaissa tapped furiously at a screen.

“Delivered her to the Q’sar’s lawyers myself,” Lottie crowed. “Fifteen minutes ago. It’s probably constitutional at this very moment. Ain Zargiers has a new heir-apparent, and the Q’sar is bringing forward his abdication date. All mission parameters met and quite possibly exceeded with minimum carnage. Gold star for Lottie Finch.”

There was a silence that Lottie tried not to read as shocked.

“What? You didn’t think I could do it?”

The Nightingale smiled tightly. “And Malik?”

“Still breathing, unfortunately,” Bili muttered.

“Has he been informed of Zynara’s intent to take the throne?”

“Not yet, but we can expect a counter-attack and further death threats when he does. The recent chatter on the harem Discord suggests something big is coming. The girls are nervous.”

“He nearly killed the Qasira yesterday,” Romaissa said. “Everyone is nervous. He needs to be neutralised now.”

“Agree—”

They all froze as the Nightingale’s connection stuttered. The lights flickered momentarily.

Sami narrowed his eyes. Ace swung her laptop back around and began tapping at it furiously. 

“I know this is a secure connection,” she muttered, “but we’ll end it there. We have our orders.” She nodded at the Nightingale and closed the laptop.

“We do?” Lottie asked. 

“Malik is about to lose the multi billion pound deal with Petrov and the crown all in the next few hours. He’ll be desperate and even more unpredictable than usual. We take him down.” Ace made a gun shape with her fingers.

Romaissa blanched. “He’s still the Q’sar’s son. You’re going to assassinate a member of the royal family?”

Sami stepped in. “No one said that. And while we appreciate the UK’s assistance in this matter, Ain Zargieri sovereignty is our concern.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “But it is delicate. Lottie and Bili, you get back to his party house and stay by his side. Petrov signs with Zynara’s company in a few hours. It’s one of the summit’s crowning deals. The whole world is watching. We can’t throw the Qasirim behind bars in front of an international audience, but we need to keep him on a tight leash.”

The lights flickered again.

“What the hell is that?” Ace said, looking at the ceiling. 

“It’s the medina. Oldest part of the city,” Sami said, doubtfully. “Crummy wiring.”

“Bollocks,” said Lottie. A distinct feeling of dread settled in her stomach and the growing fear that they were already too late.

Chapter Twenty Four

Sami and Romaissa flatly refused to re-stage the signing at the top of the Atlas Mountains.

“The Green Futures Summit has been taking place on the island,” Romaissa said firmly. “We finish it there. All the delegates are there anyway. Maximum exposure, secure proximity. We’re not risking you again.”

Zynara gave her a look and the woman didn’t even flutter her eyelids. She was probably losing her touch. She’d probably surrendered it to Lottie Finch, the grifter who worked for the Queen of England and who likely had been lying so long and so hard in her life she probably no longer knew she was doing it.

Zynara hated probabilities. She preferred cold, hard facts, scientifically demonstrable and repeatable. Solutions nailed down after rigorous testing. Not whispered promises sealed with a dubious kiss.

At least her father had been pleased. Hell, he’d been so relieved and had hugged her so tightly when she told him, it made her realise just how much he’d been carrying on her behalf. She’d been selfish. She’d denied him his rest as his illness had progressed. 

It crystalised a few things. 

She hadn’t seen Lottie since that morning, but the signing with Petrov was going ahead on the Azure islands. She’d flown over in a brand new flier with two regular members of her detail at her side. It made her realise how comfortable she’d become with Lottie’s protection instead. 

If you could call that gorgeous little psychopath’s care protection, she thought, smothering a smile.

She still wanted her, even if she wasn’t sure she could trust her.

Antonin Petrov hadn’t been scared off. In fact, the attempted kidnapping at the top of the Atlas Mountains had only solidified his resolve.

“I don’t believe we were in any danger, Highness,” he told her respectfully. “The leaders of today’s authoritarian governments devote full-time attention to the crippling of their opposition without annihilating it. They flout the rule of law all while maintaining a plausible veneer of order, legitimacy and prosperity. Trust me. I live under Putin. This I know. But you cannot trust your brother.”

There wasn’t anyone Zynara could trust.

So there they were, facing the summit on the Azure islands again, the eyes of the world watching Ain Zargiers and Russia’s bravest gas mogul sign a ten-year deal to make the planet a safer place. Zynara had hoped to do it with Lottie’s cheeky smile waiting for her off stage, but she couldn’t see her anywhere.

Two insanely expensive fountain pens scratched on excruciatingly detailed contracts—and the deal was done.

Cameras flashed. The polite applause was optimistic. She and Antonin shook hands. Champagne popped—and nothing happened. 

The press conference went without a hitch and they mingled for canapes. And still the world hadn’t ended.

Where was Malik? He would know by now, she thought. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t there. He was throwing his toys out of the pram up at the palace. Smashing his cars.

And then the lights flickered—

—and she knew.

The screen behind the summit dais glitched once, twice, then cut to black.

She felt it before it happened—a shift in the air, the collective intake of breath from a crowd unsure if what they were seeing was an error or a spectacle. From the corner of her eye she saw the high-res LED banners swirl. The Green Futures: Powering the Next Century logo dissolved into a single line of text.

‘Can’t keep the lights on, sister?’

And then everything went dead.

Romaissa was at her shoulder in an instant. She handed her a tablet and leaned in close.

“The connector to Spain,” she murmured. “It was cut five minutes ago. All high voltage cables from the offshore wind farms are down. Local power is out in five provinces. This” —she waved a hand at the room— “is the least of it.”

Zynara stared at the screen. For a moment, nothing moved in her chest. 

This is what it was to rule, she thought. This is what lay in front of her.

Then she snapped into action. “Get Sami. Now.”

She pivoted, calm as glass, and strode from the room. It barely even mattered that back-up battery-supplied power clicked on mere milliseconds later.

In a conference suite, the news struck harder.

“We think it was mechanical failure,” Romaissa repeated, as if trying to believe it herself. “But— there’s no seismic activity. No maintenance in any of those sections. No explanation.”

Zynara flicked through the feeds, her fingers trembling despite herself.

Three major transmission lines from three of Ain Zargiers’ largest solar fields were offline. The dual deep-sea high-voltage direct current connectors that carried massive amounts of critical renewable energy to Spain, France and onwards to the UK were dead. Europe’s southern grid had been severely destabilised. Whole sections of the network blacked out before her eyes. They all relied on Ain Zargieri transmission of renewables.

Her entire green energy infrastructure had been made a joke in front of every energy minister on the planet.

“This isn’t failure,” she said, her voice low. “This is sabotage.”

She turned sharply as the door banged open.

Sami stood there, rumpled and furious. He threw down a tablet with a satellite image. Black shapes, clustered near the intercontinental connector route.

“Thank god for your batteries, Niz. The whole city went offline for a moment before commercial backup kicked in.” He grunted at the image. “Submersibles. Heat signatures. Likely foreign-manufacture. Someone severed both lines with highly focussed, deliberately placed undersea explosions. Anyone want to guess who?”

Zynara barely looked at the satellite pics. Her spine straightened. “Where is Malik?”

“Standing in front of a camera on Twitter offering emergency oil support to Europe.” He held out his phone. Malik was dressed in traditional robes. The desert stretched out behind him, brilliant in the sunshine. The pipes of an oil refinery crunched in the sands, the Ain Zargieri flag flying from its heights. A gas fired power station hunkered at its side.

There it was. The knife twist. Her brother turning her country into a punchline, her father's dream into a laughing stock.

“Of course,” she murmured. Of course he was.

There was another commotion at the door as Lottie barged past her security detail.

“Give me one good reason not to fly out there and torch every single one of his oil wells,” she demanded.

Zynara didn’t look at her.

“Because he wants you to,” she said. “He wants us to look like extremists.” Her voice cracked.

Europe would be running with the story now. Markets would be crashing. Investors would start asking questions. Power grids would be straining. People would be stuck in darkened subway tunnels, children would be trapped in elevators. Life support machines in hospitals would be triaged as generators struggled to supply optimum power. 

It wasn’t the game Malik thought it was. It was life and death, and Zynara had an obligation. 

Heavy the head that wore the crown, she thought bitterly.

“Where have you been?” she whispered.

But bloody Lottie Finch didn’t give up so easily.

“So, you can fix this, right?” she blurted. “I mean, you flew in those batteries last week when he took out your desal plant. You can do the same again. Can’t you?”

“I can fix all the local outages, of course.” Zynara lifted her chin. Rage, heartbreak and calculation were all wired into her next breath. “But I can’t fly batteries to Spain and France. I can’t fix the subsea cables inside a month. We need his fossil fuels—oil and gas. We have supply agreements with Europe. He knows that too. We need his fucking oil.”

“Then that’s where he’ll be!” Lottie cried. “Bili and I have been trying to find him all morning. And I really, really hate to tell you this, princess, but I think he’s got your father.”

Part Three

Chapter Twenty Five

She simply grabbed Lottie’s hand. She didn’t even think about it.

“Take me to him.”

Sami and Romaissa erupted into immediate protest, but Zynara brushed them aside. 

“At this point,” she gritted, “you are talking to the future Q’sar of Ain Zargiers. Get out of my way.” 

Romaissa bowed. Sami didn’t. Lottie punched the air and sailed past the women of her security detail as if she was the queen of Sheba. They jumped into Zynara’s flier and Lottie took the controls. They were off the ground and streaking over the water in seconds, Sami scrambling to organise backup in their wake.

She watched Lottie pilot the flier as if she’d done it all her life. There was an efficiency to her actions that Zynara had only caught a glimpse of once before—in that lane when she’d taken out the men firing on their vehicle with precision and a confronting ruthlessness. The girl who primped in front of Zynara and who flirted like sass flowed through her veins was nowhere to be seen. She flicked the flier off auto, bypassed its safeties, even negotiated a rapid flight path with Azzouan air traffic control—all from her own phone.

Zynara didn’t even want to think about how she’d managed to access that.

It was the final proof—plain and obvious for her to see beneath all the posing and posturing—that Lottie was not what she seemed to be, and never had been. An agent of a foreign country’s intelligence bureau, sent to influence her country’s politics. She should be furious with her. She should have thrown her in prison and rid Ain Zargiers of all outside interference. She should have—

But she didn’t.

Because she loved her. 

She loved her still.

“This is madness,” Lottie muttered, raising the flier to lift them over the Atlas Mountains, somehow already knowing the best route through the peaks, unerring in her sense of direction. “This is most certainly a trap. If he’s got your father—and you—then he has the two biggest obstacles between him and the crown. You walk into this, you’re giving him everything.”

Zynara didn’t want to think about that. “I’m not going to let him hold the country hostage. I won’t hide while he drenches my homeland in oil again.”

Lottie faced her. It was quiet in the cabin. The flier soared over the villages below. Everything Zynara loved was here.

“Malik will kill him.” Her voice was tight. Zynara could see her holding it all back—her cheek, her impatience, her lethalness and her love. “He will kill your father. And you too.”

“He wouldn’t.” Zynara’s breath snagged. She remembered the frog in the jar and the awful, awful glee on her brother’s face as he’d shaken it. He was mad. A sociopath. The money and power he’d enjoyed all his life had done nothing to mitigate it. Lottie was probably right.

A gentle hand landed on her leg. “He would, Niz. You know it. He already has killed to get where he is.”

The blood set like cement in Zynara’s heart. “What?”

“Your brother, Rayan. Seven years ago. It was perfectly staged, but it wasn’t an accident.”

Zynara stared.

Rayan had died in a small town in the foothills of the mountains. There’d been rain—so much rain. Driven by climate change, of course, but what did that matter when avalanches of mud and water and debris sluiced through towns and villages and entire families were swept away in the tumult? People were drowning. Houses were underwater to their second storey windows. Cars and cattle bobbed down streets turned to rivers, and the mud was everywhere.

It had been horrifying. Incomprehensible. And Rayan, like the decent, noble heir to all of Ain Zargiers he was, rolled up his sleeves and got to work helping out on the ground. Helping their people.

Zynara had been in London. Dancing. She’d been clubbing with some woman she didn’t know and never saw again when the house Rayan had been sheltering in that night fell apart on its foundations. He’d been in a village carved assunder when its gentle stream became a violent torrent of mud, and the ground was unstable. Apparently the house simply crumbled as the earth caved in beneath it. Everyone sleeping in it—the family, the workers, the members of her brother’s security, and wonderful, annoying, idiotic, loveable Rayan himself—had fallen into the ravine and been washed away forever. 

They never found the bodies.

“Staged?” Zynara ran through every permutation, but she had to admit her mind was sluggish. “You can’t stage a climate catastrophe. It was an accident.”

“It was an irresistible opportunity.”

Zynara pulled her leg out from under Lottie’s hand. “Explain yourself.”

Lottie looked torn, but she obeyed. “I was in Libya,” she said. “Not at the time. A month or so later. I was there to catch a pair of bastards boasting about a job they’d done. The perfect crime, they were saying. Killed a prince and got away with it.”

“Libya?”

“Nationals. Incredibly well paid. They said the order had come from your golden boy of a little brother, and the flood had been a gift from heaven. They got close to Rayan while he was out of the city and under minimum security, they shot everyone in the building under cover of darkness, and with one small explosion, they toppled all the evidence into the river. It was beautiful.”

Zynara looked at her.

Lottie’s eyes flicked downwards. “I mean, as a job, of course.”

There was a silence while they flew over villages just like the one her brother had died in. 

“And you met those men?” Zynara asked, tightly.

Lottie’s hand landed on her knee again. “I killed them, Niz. And I’m glad I did. They were dirt. They were so fucking proud of themselves.” She scrunched her nose suddenly. A rueful grimace. “I messed it up a bit though. There may or may not have been a bit of a car chase through Tripoli. I could possibly have blown up a train, driven a bus into a government building and totaled a few other cars. One of them might have belonged to the son of a regional militia leader. I ended up in Abu Salem prison.” She chuckled.

“Good times?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Different times. And I was a different person. But I’m not that girl anymore, Niz. I promise.”

They cleared the mountains, and the landscape below began to brown and dry, tilting and tipping toward the desert. The trees thinned. The cliffs and boulders began to tumble into sand.

Lottie was still looking at her with eyes that begged her to see her. 

“Zynara?” she whispered. And then—bleakly— “Qasira?”

“I believe you,” Zynara whispered back. “I don’t know why. Nothing has made sense since I first laid eyes on you. All the evidence points to me loving you being the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but—”

“You love me?”

It sounded so surprised, so eager, and so desperate.

Zynara lifted her chin and summoned the shreds of her lofty attitude. She could tell Lottie wasn’t fooled. “I love you. And I am certain I’ve already informed you of this—”

“I can stand to hear it again, you know. Often, actually. That would be nice. I think you should tell me hourly at least. It would be good practice for you. Break down that ice queen shit you seem to think is attractiv—”

“Lottie—”

“Hmm?”

“I love you. Concentrate on flying the damn drone.”

Lottie kissed her—just leaned over and kissed her hard, and Zynara could taste the relief on her lips. It was tinged with hope too, and potential. She tasted divine.

She could also taste excitement. Lottie was as dangerous and chaotic as her younger brother had proven to be, and Zynara couldn’t help loving her. She wiped her thumb across Lottie’s lips when she pulled back, and adored the way her own gorgeous little psychopath fluttered her eyelashes and turned into a complete pussy cat under her fingers. If they survived the next few moments, they could play with that forever.

“Libyan prisons are notorious,” she said. “How did you get out?” 

There was an eye roll that was half embarrassment, half pride. “Evelyn had to come bail me out. The guv herself. Very nice private jet on the way back to London. You should have seen my style.”

“Evelyn?” Zynara’s stomach fell through the floor of the flier and smashed on the rocks.

“The Nightingale,” Lottie said. “Your friend. Evelyn Knight.”

Zynara pressed a hand to her forehead. The Nightingale. She’d heard it the other night when Lottie had confessed everything to the Q’sar. Her father hadn’t even blinked at the word. Her mind leapt forward and figured it out. Evelyn Knight—the agent her father and her aunt, the Queen of England, had positioned to befriend her back when she’d first started studying at Cambridge. She wasn’t just any agent—she was the head of the Queen’s private intelligence service, just as Sami was the head of hers. She was the one who’d sent Lottie to her, to manipulate her, to position her on the throne, all to ensure Ain Zargiers continued to benefit the United Kingdom. Evelyn Knight and Lottie Finch. Which, of course, meant Sami was in on it too.

“My whole life—” she began. She’d stepped onto sand and it turned to water beneath her.

“—has been filled with secrets,” Lottie finished. “Tell me about it, princess. I know. But I’m here now. And I’m with you, and I will never lie to you again. I swear it.”

Zynara blinked hard, trying to hold back the sudden burn in her throat. She hadn’t known Lottie could look like that—serious, raw, and loyal to the edge of recklessness.

And then her brother’s oil refinery came into view, a brutal sprawl of pipes and towers belching smoke into the endless sky. The Ain Zargieri flag snapped against the breeze beside another golden one emblazoned with Malik’s name.

Zynara sat straighter. She held out her hand and felt the earth pause on its axis when Lottie took it.

“Then let’s end this,” she whispered.

Lottie’s answering grin was unholy.

Chapter Twenty Six

The smell hit them first—acrid, metallic, choking.

Zynara stepped off the flier straight into the sand and cursed the idiotic heels she was wearing—they’d come straight from the summit. She had grit between her toes and the sudden stupid feeling she was at the beach below the palace. She was eight years old again, keen to prove she could swim better than her brothers, chasing Rayan down to the surf and stumbling in the soft sand. Her mum called after her with sunscreen. Her father seized her around the waist, lifted her effortlessly onto his shoulders and ran like a titan into the waves. 

She would be saving him now.

Lottie pulled gear from behind the front seats of the flier. There was something conflicting about the casual way she handled it—a handgun into a holster under her skirt on her thigh, another tucked into the waistband at her back. She checked the magazine on a third and handed it to Zynara.

“It’s loaded.”

Clipped and efficient. She didn’t know this Lottie at all.

“I don’t want it. I’m a scientist, not a—”

“You’re walking head first into a trap with a killer, princess. Take the gun.”

Zynara shook her head. “Protect me,” she ordered, knowing exactly how unfair that was.

“With my life,” Lottie said simply. She looked at her. They both knew it was the most honest thing she’d ever said.

They walked toward the refinery.

It was a labyrinthine sprawl of pipes and towers and steel that stretched into the hazy heat. Zynara knew precisely what it did. She might have carried renewables to the summit of the world, but she was Ain Zargieri royalty. They had pierced her country’s belly for oil eighty years ago and gorged on it for decades. It had made them the wealthiest country on earth. She could split a long chain hydrocarbon into saleable products in her sleep. Crude went in messy, sticky and almost useless and a series of vertical stills heated it, vaporised it and sorted the results by boiling point. Physics and chemistry. Nothing elegant. Not even clever. Just effective.

And profitable.

This facility split cracked crude into petrol, diesel and jet fuel, and the associated natural gas as condensate. She could see the fractionation process in the pipes, the distillation towers in sequence. She could smell it in the air. Valves hissed. Somewhere overhead, a rusted chain clanged in the breeze.

Her phone buzzed.

A message. Coordinates. Nothing more.

“He’s playing with us,” Lottie muttered, looking over her shoulder.

“Why does everyone think it is a game?” Zynara wondered.

Inside, the refinery was dark—a metallic warren of dripping pipes and flickering yellow lights. Their footsteps rang hollow on steel walkways. Zynara’s heart thudded harder with each corner they turned, each stairwell they descended. Shadows jumped in the corners. All the while, the refinery rumbled like a sleeping beast.

“Ah, my darling sister.” Malik’s drawl echoed from the depths.

They found him in a wide control room, surrounded by pressure tanks and quality testing stations. Her father was there too, seated—too still—on a folding chair. His walking stick lay several metres away, the beautiful cedarwood snapped. The Q’sar’s head hung low.

There was a phone set up on a stand in front of the Q’sar’s chair. It even had a ring light. Malik always cared too much about appearances. Two men, almost comically goonish in suits with curly earpieces, hulked in the background. 

“You made it,” Malik said, lifting a gun in greeting. “Now we’re all here together—as a family. Well, what’s left of us, of course. We can finally sort this shit out. Lose the whore,” he muttered to the men.

Beside her, Lottie Finch moved faster. In an impossible flash of movement, she pulled two handguns from her waistband and shot each of the men in the forehead before they’d even drawn their own weapons. They fell to the ground. 

Lottie aimed both her guns at Malik.

Malik jabbed the muzzle of his at the back of the Q’sar’s head.

There was a horrible groan.

“Put them down, Lottie,” Zynara said.

“Not a chance, princess.”

“He will kill my father.”

“Pretty sure he’s going to do that anyway.”

“Put them down.” She looked at Lottie. There was absolutely no sign of the cheeky, ditsy, teasing woman she’d known until now, but she loved this woman too. “Please. He’s all that’s left of my family. Please put the guns down.”

Lottie didn’t take her eyes off Malik, but she crouched and placed the weapons neatly at her feet. When she stood, she gave Zynara a tight smile. 

Malik snorted. “Kick them away. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Do you have to ask?” Lottie retorted—but she swept the guns away with her feet and popped her eyes when she was done, as if the whole thing was a drag.

Malik strode around the Q’sar’s chair. His eyes flicked to Lottie and he smiled a patronising smile at Zynara. “Our own little courtesan turned bodyguard,” he snarked. “So romantic. Is the bedroom talk all solar panels and wind turbines?”

“Zero emissions and maximum heat, mate. A sustainable circuit of desire and satisfaction. Not like your limp pipeline.” 

Zynara nearly choked.

Malik blanched. He stood between Zynara and her father and folded his arms. “I want the throne. You can still walk out of here, go live your herbal little life with this slut somewhere, anywhere, I don’t care, and you can take Baba dearest with you. But I will be Q’sar. All you have to do is record a message now—you and father—ceding power to me. Easy. Three minutes and we can all go home.” He grinned. Viciously. “Well, I can go home and you can fuck off, because I’ll be banning revolting little queers like you, but details, right?”

Zynara straightened her shoulders. “I won’t do that. This country will burn under you. I won’t let that happen to our people.”

Malik surged suddenly forward, right into her space. She barely stopped herself from stumbling backwards. He was crazy. Insane. She could see it in his eyes now—but if she was honest, she’d always known it was there. He waved his gun around—not pointing it at her head, just gesticulating like a madman, another rant frothing behind his lips. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Lottie skitter backwards too, then off to the side. Malik was too wrapped up in his own performance to notice. Zynara wondered if she still had the third gun.

“I have been merciful,” Malik hissed. “You think I’ve wanted any of this? I could be at the casino, I could be designing my new yacht, I could buy Hawaii instead of fucking around here in the sand—”

“We are your family, Malik,” Zynara tried.

“You’re right, and the optics would be better if I didn’t have to kill you both and leave your bodies under a dune, but if you are half as clever as you’ve always thought you were, Nizzy, you and father could just get the hell out of my way. We’re all ready to go.” He gestured at the phone with the ring light. “Record a message saying you’ll stand aside, that you were wrong, and that I am right. Admit that all of this is the only future worth betting on and renewable energy is a waste of time. Declare me king of Ain Zargiers and we’re done.”

“Don’t do it, my darling Niz.” 

The croak came from the Q’sar and the wreckage of his voice nearly tore Zynara apart.

Malik spun on his heel, raised his gun and pointed it straight at the Q’sar.

“Oh, do shut up, Baba.” 

“No!” Zynara screamed—

—but Lottie was faster.

She was suddenly there, leaping between Malik and the Q’sar like a spark of electricity. The crack of the gun was deafening. The bullet caught her in the shoulder, spinning her sideways and down, but she rolled on the ground in a confusing blur. She pulled a sleek matte pistol from her thigh and raised it in one fluid, wild, impossible motion. Her face twisted in pain, but her hand was steady.

“Lights out, dickhead,” she hissed—and shot Malik in the stomach.

It didn’t kill him.

Zynara wanted to believe that was deliberate.

She threw herself to the ground beside Lottie.

“I’m fine,” the woman gasped. She sat up, pushing Zynara out of the way. She still had her weapon in her hand and she still had it aimed at Malik. She pressed at her shoulder with her other hand. Her face was white against her curls. There was a stupid amount of blood oozing between her fingers. It was shockingly red. “Check on your father. Is the Q’sar okay? We should get out of here, princess. We need to move.” 

“But you’re shot—”

“I said I’m fine. You get your father, I’ll deal with this.” She was glaring at Malik who had curled into a ball and was moaning like a baby.

Zynara was still clinging to her childhood. “Don’t hurt him, Lottie. He’s still my brother.”

“He’s still an arsehole,” she hissed between gritted teeth. She dragged herself to her feet. She stalked toward Malik like an angel of chaos—so incredibly beautiful, so chillingly lethal, so devastatingly unpredictable. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered. “He’s still trying.”

Malik gripped his gun again, but his hands were slick. His shot went wide and ricocheted off a pipe. His next shot whizzed by them and hit a tank in the background. Lottie managed to look supremely unconcerned and thoroughly pissed at the same time. She shot the gun out of his hand. 

He howled.

She looked dispassionately down at him and then back at Zynara. She raised an impatient eyebrow. “The Q’sar. Come on, babe, let’s move.”

A tiny remnant of Zynara’s ego rekindled itself. “Babe?” she asked. She hooked her father’s arm over her shoulder. He was appallingly frail.

“Just something I’m trying,” Lottie mentioned.

“I don’t like it.”

“We can workshop it.”

Malik crawled across the floor, took the gun in his remaining hand, and fired wildly again. Three hopeless shots pinged off the metal pipes overhead. Lottie shot his other hand. 

And then both knees for good measure.

“Honey?” she suggested. She slipped herself under the Q’sar’s other arm and they shuffled away. There was a distinct hissing sound that was only growing louder. No odour, but that made sense. The short chain hydrocarbon gases were odourless in their natural state. Zynara could feel herself getting dizzy.

She shook her head.

“Cupcake? Shuggy? Habibi?”

The Q’sar groaned again. “This is agonising,” he muttered.

They both looked at him.

“Clearly, my daughter is a marshmallow. This place is leaking LPG at a dangerous rate. Can we get out of here now?”

They made it to the flier and helped the Q’sar carefully into the pod. Zynara took her jacket off, completely failed to tear it into pieces, and instead balled it up and thrust it at Lottie’s shoulder. 

“Constant pressure,” she ordered. “Lie down in the back seat.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do as you’re told.” She didn’t say anything when Lottie meekly took the jacket but refused to lie down. Zynara piloted the flier to the nearest ridge. 

Her father tapped her knee. “Put us down here, binti.”

They sat in the cool air-conditioned pod and watched the oil refinery. 

“We should probably go back for him,” Zynara murmured.

The Q’sar shook his head. “He doesn’t deserve it,” he said sadly. “I never told you, darling child, but all the intelligence I have points to him killing your brother. I didn’t want to believe it either. I was a foolish old man for ignoring it, for hoping he’d change” —he aimed a sharper gaze at Zynara— “for letting you hand him the succession.”

He looked at Lottie. 

“Thank you, young lady. You saved my life. I will be forever in your debt, but I have one more thing to ask of you.”

Lottie ducked her head and reached out for Zynara’s hand. It was sticky. Zynara squeezed it.

“Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve?”  

He tilted his head at the oil refinery in the distance.

Lottie’s eyes bugged right out of her head.

“Oh, boss,” she breathed. “I have all the tricks. I brought them along just in case. I mean, a girl should never leave home without them, right? You are going to love my tricks. My tricks are—” She rummaged around in the backseats. “Bingo,” she cried. She held up a long, olive green tube that looked suspiciously like a rocket launcher. The light in her eyes was both insanely attractive and utterly terrifying.

“Would you be so kind as to blow that abomination off the face of the earth?” the Q’sar requested.

Lottie bounded from the flier, far too overjoyed and far too beautiful. She knelt on the rocks and took careful aim.

“He’s still in there,” Zynara said quietly.

“I know,” her father murmured. “I’m sorry, Zynara, darling. I should have dealt with him long ago. Please forgive me.”

She nodded.

Outside the flier, Lottie caught her eye one last time.

“Do it,” Zynara ordered.

“You’ll have to hold me up.”

Her shoulder. They were both so deep in this together. Zynara slipped out of the flier and knelt behind her, her body at Lottie’s back, her blood on Zynara’s cheek.

They both drew a deep breath.

For a moment, there was only silence — the kind that felt like the world was waiting for justice. Then Lottie pressed the trigger.

The rocket hissed through the air and the impact rocked Lottie back into Zynara’s arms.

The refinery erupted in a fireball of fury, the blast thundering skyward with a force that shook the flier and tore the breath from Zynara’s lungs. A split-second flash lit the dunes like sunset—blood red and apocalyptic—then everything bloomed golden, an inferno devouring Malik’s empire in one savage breath.

Pipes screamed. Towers folded like paper. The sky burned.

Zynara admired the view. Heat licked her cheeks. Lottie grinned, wild and radiant, the launcher still smoking at her feet.

“Appallingly toxic,” Zynara said, eventually, observing the smoke.

“Fucking glorious,” Lottie protested.

She was fucking glorious. Zynara found she was more alluring than the flames. She went to throw her arm possessively over her shoulder with her best imperious eyebrow raise, but Lottie stopped her with a hand on her heart.

“Don’t do that, Niz, sweetheart. You’re hurting. You’ve lost almost your entire family. Your childhood has been shattered. It’s okay to cry.”

“I don’t cry.”

Lottie tucked her head under her chin and wrapped her arms around her. “Yes, you do,” she murmured. “Cry as much as you want. I’ve got you. You’re safe, and I will always be here for you.”

So Zynara cried, and Lottie kissed her hair and only winced a little bit when Zynara hugged her so tight it must have hurt. They sat and watched the flames—a funeral pyre for greed and corruption, for a mean little boy who had tried to choke the future in ego, oil and lies.

“Ain Zargiers will rise from this. You will be an amazing Q’sar,” Lottie whispered.

Zynara reached for her hand, warm and strong, and held on tight.

The sky behind the plume was a fierce, bold blue.

Chapter Twenty Seven

The bullet to her shoulder had grazed her collarbone and embedded itself in her scapula. Azzouan’s best surgeon dug it out, but Lottie only lasted an hour post-op before she tried to sneak out. Ace caught her halfway down the corridor trailing an IV line and flashing her arse in a paper gown.

“You’re still dozy, you silly bitch,” she said affectionately. “You lost a lot of blood and you’ve just had a two hour operation. You’re not going anywhere.” She simply picked Lottie up and carried her back to bed. “The Qasira is fine,” she added when Lottie protested. She dragged her chair in front of the door and sat in it with her arms folded. 

A rather loud hour followed and Ace gave her a quality ticking off. She let Bili in after the first round and she let rip too. Lottie was, apparently, reckless, stupid, bloody lucky and in a shit tonne of trouble. There were a lot of things Lottie would have liked to say to that, but Ace called a nurse and they dialed up her painkillers. The next thing Lottie knew it was a brand new day, there was a princess sitting at the end of her bed and she did actually feel better. 

Zynara’s smile was like the sunrise.

“I can’t stay,” she said. She brushed Lottie’s hair back from her forehead and pulled a face. “The summit wraps up today. I have to face the world. But I needed to see you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you yesterday. Sami shouted at me and my father for quite a while.” She dropped a soft, gentle, infinitely loving kiss on Lottie’s forehead and their entire future together was in the brush of her lips. “No trying to escape,” she whispered. “The surgeon said you were lucky but you’re under observation with antibiotics and pain management for another twenty four hours. I’m not going to lose you. Try to be good for once.” Lottie tried to complain and she raised an eyebrow. “Do as you are told.”

She chuckled when Lottie’s face flushed so hard she got dizzy. Lottie didn’t know where to look. Zynara’s eyes were everything but holding them was hard and she didn’t need to be staring at her lover’s tits when she wasn’t sure where she stood or what was going on. She’d fired a rocket at a prince—

“Hey.” Zynara slipped two fingers under her chin and tipped it up. Her fingers were warm. Something fizzed the length of Lottie’s spine at the thought of them. She may have whimpered, but it was a tiny sound that came out more worried than lustful. “What’s going on in there?” Zynara murmured.

“Public place,” Lottie whispered. “Not sure I should say all the things I’m currently thinking out loud.”

Zynara smirked but her eyes were soft. “But what are you worried about? It’s over, zin dyali. We’re safe. We won.”

“It was never a game.” It hadn’t been since she first saw her. She’d been so stupid to think it was. “It’s real. I killed your brother.”

Rich, deep and utterly gorgeous brown eyes watched hers for a long moment, and then Zynara leaned in and put her lips to Lottie’s ear. Her breath hushed down Lottie’s throat and every inch of her skin crinkled. This woman owned her, and always would.

“We’re all guilty,” she whispered. “You, me and my father. It’s another secret, but one that will bind us forever.” She pulled back and fixed Lottie on her gaze again. “Will you be okay with that?”

Lottie nodded, tiny, vigorous, desperate little nods—and she didn’t even care that Zynara was laughing at her again. 

“Finally figured out how to shut you up.” Zynara sounded triumphant.

They grinned, stupidly, at each other for a moment.

“I know a better way,” Lottie said. She grabbed the lapel of Zynara’s jacket and pulled her in for a kiss. It was perfect, and in it, every worry and every doubt was soothed away. They were going to be fine.

They were going to be brilliant.

They were going to be so fucking amazing.

Lottie couldn’t wait.

But she did.

Very impatiently.

She watched the summit wrap up while she was still stuck in her hospital bed. The Q’sar stepped carefully onto the world stage with a new walking stick and no pretense, and nudged his daughter to the fore. She was extraordinary. It had been the most dramatic eco summit in history, but world-changing deals had been struck, and Ain Zargiers was still leading the world into a bright, safe future. 

A few of Malik’s flunkeys tried to make trouble. They screeched about the oil refinery and eco-terrorists but the Q’sar shut that down in a second.

“My son killed himself,” he thundered over the media rabble. “He rigged the refinery to blow thinking he could blame it on militant environmentalists. He intended for it to be a trap—a trap for renewable energy, for progress, a noose around the neck of your childrens’ futures. But he was not as clever as he wanted to be.” The Q’sar was very convincing. His regret was barefaced and stark. The cameras caught the vision, not of a politician angling for points, but of a sad, old man. Hearts broke for him all around the world. “My son was misguided. Caught in his own foolish game. He died in the explosion.”

Lottie saw the camera angles shift as the media people behind them joined the dots. Every eye was on Zynara.

“It will be my honour to serve the people of Ain Zargiers as your Q’sar when my father decrees it is time.” She bowed her head, humbly, but her own father bumped their shoulders together.

“It is time,” he said with a loving smile.

Things got crazy after that.

Lottie nearly howled the hospital down with her demands to be released, but Zynara had given her orders. She was Q’sar now too. There wasn’t a soul who was going to disobey her. Nurses gave Lottie particularly smug smiles and tucked her in securely. 

Bili and Ace arrived with popcorn and beer and they spent the day watching Zynara dismantle the deals her brother had struck during the summit. They watched her direct every effort to extinguishing the refinery fire and permanently capping her brother’s oil wells. She poured an astonishing amount of her personal wealth into infrastructure to repair the interconnectors to Spain and France. She raced backup battery systems around the continent. 

She saved the whole fucking world.

“Job well done, Finch,” Ace said, swigging beer and tilting her chair on its back legs. “Wasn’t sure you had it in you. The Nightingale will be proud.”

“The Nightingale can go to hell,” Lottie muttered.

“Bold call.”

“I mean it. I’m totally done with the Circle after this. I’m out.”

Ace snorted beer. She rocked forward and appeared struck between laughing with derision and glowering dangerously. She settled for pointing her bottle at Lottie and wiping beer from her mouth with the back of her hand. “You don’t leave the Circle,” she said. “No one leaves the Circle. What gave you that crazy idea? You serve the Nightingale for life. She’s not going to let you just walk away.”

Lottie gaped at her. “But—”

“You must have known that, babes,” Bili said. “We signed a contract. Remember?”

“But—”

“Oh, god. She didn’t even read it.” Ace sounded profoundly resigned. “Of course she didn’t. It’s not like Lottie Finch would ever properly prepare for a job.”

“But— but—” Lottie stopped gibbering and pulled herself together. She was leaving the Circle. That’s all there was to it. She was in love with the woman who ruled Ain Zargiers, and the Nightingale could take a long walk off a short pier. “I’m staying in Azzouan,” she declared. “I’m in love with Zynara and Zynara is in love with me. I’ll fucking tell the Nightingale myself!”

Ace and Bili stared at her. 

“Love!” she insisted. “Yes. Me! And no, it wasn’t just a mission! It wasn’t just a honey pot. It definitely wasn’t a game. I love her. Really, really love her. Plus” —she wrinkled her nose— “I might have told her all about the Circle and— I may have revealed the identity of the Nightingale. I mean, she was already friends with Evelyn Knight— I just kind of assumed—”

“For fuck’s sake, Finch.” Ace was already on her feet. She was shaking her head but there was also a smile playing around the corner of her lips. “Your talent for ballsing things up remains unparalleled. Evelyn is arriving to speak with the new Q’sar tonight. Her plane touches down in an hour.”

They all looked at each other.

“Help me get out of here?” Lottie begged. “Please? I need to be there.”

Bili giggled. “The Nightingale is going to kill you. It’s going to be so dull without you, Finch.” 

“Pfft. It’s going to be quiet. Peaceful, even.” Ace grinned. 

“Please?!”

Ace went to steal clothes for her and they went tripping and giggling over the rooftops of Azzouan.

They needed Sami’s help to get into the palace. 

“I think I’m in as much trouble with Niz as you are with the Nightingale,” he said. He didn’t appear concerned. He looked as casual as ever. “She’s furious I didn’t tell her about the Circle, but my office and the Circle, Britain and Ain Zargiers, have always worked together. If she’d been heir to the throne all this time like she should have been…” He trailed off and shrugged.

“Probably not an argument that’s going to help you,” Lottie told him.

They barrelled into Zynara’s office. 

Evelyn Knight was already there. She stood at the window, frost in a suit by Louis Vuitton. She wore a platinum blonde wig and an expression like judgement day. Her eyes landed on Lottie and took in her stolen scrubs. One eyebrow arched.

“I have to admit you’ve done well, Lottie Finch,” she drawled. “The future Q’sar of Ain Zargiers is quite taken with you. She has pleaded your case quite passionately.”

“I didn’t plead anything, thank you, Evelyn.”

Zynara was seated behind her desk looking just as dangerous. She’d carved herself from desert stone again—contained and untouchable—but she still looked infinitely warmer than the Nightingale. There was that hazel in her eyes, the golden flecks amid the rich brown that Lottie adored, and the glint that shone from deep within that seemed to be just for her. 

She gave Lottie a microscopic smile.

“The Nightingale and I still have much to discuss, zin dyali,” Zynara said gently. “Will you all excuse us, please?”

Sami and Ace mouthed ‘zin dyali’ at each other and popped their eyes, and Lottie poked her tongue out at them.

Romaissa ushered them out and into a sitting room at the end of the pavilion. There was mint tea and sweetcakes which nobody touched.

“Would love to be a fly on the wall in that room.” Ace blew out a low whistle.

“They’re talking about me,” Lottie said, fluffing out her hair with one hand. Her other arm was in a sling and her shoulder hurt like hell. “I mean, of course they are. The two most powerful women in the world and what’s the only name on their lips?”

Bili winced. “Don’t say it,” she begged.

“Mine! Lottie freaking Finch!”

“Oh, god. She’s going to be unbearable.” Ace put her head in her hands.

“Told you I’d end up with a fucking tiara,” Lottie crowed.

Bili looked sly. “Are you sure? You do realise she owns all her brother’s assets now? That includes the harem.”

Lottie would have exploded out of her chair if it hadn’t been for her shoulder. She ignored Ace and Sami’s snickers. 

“And you bitches can all walk home! She’s mine. No one touches her! I’m going to marry Zynara, Q’sar of Ain Zargiers. She’s going to be queen of the world and I’m going to marry her. Just you wait ‘til you see me in a crown, babes. Lottie Finch from Bethnal Green—”

“She proposed?”

“Um, nope.”

“You did?”

“Well, okay, also nope— but: technicality! It’s just a matter of time. You wait and see. Written in the stars, we are.”

“I could shoot her.” Ace clearly meant Lottie. Lottie recognised a woman at the extreme end of her tether. She had that effect on people. “Can I shoot her?”

Sami shook his head. “You don’t want to piss Niz off.”

“Break her legs then? I could do that.”

“You’re just jealous.” Lottie’s heart was going to explode out of her chest. She’d come a long, long way from that grubby council estate on Hackney Road. She was in love—better than that, she was loved, and that love meant she was home. 

She’d never had a home before.

Not a real one.

Zynara stepped into the sitting room half an hour later, followed by Evelyn. Both looked composed. The Nightingale’s expression was surprisingly reasonable. She waited, very respectfully, for Zynara to sit first.

“We’ve reached an agreement,” Evelyn stated. Her eyes landed, cold as steel, on Lottie—and for one horrifying second, Lottie utterly freaked out. Libya, she panicked. Miserable, cold Blackcroft and every grimey flagstone in London. She couldn’t decide which was worse. But Zynara cleared her throat, gave the Nightingale an extremely pointed look and fuck the world and every gorgeous woman in it but Evelyn Knight actually lowered her eyes. She inclined her head and let Zynara speak.

Lottie’s heart pumped itself dry.

“Lottie is free to leave the Circle,” Zynara announced, “if she chooses. She is contractually bound to each of us, and it seems we both want her, but rather than having our lawyers thrash it out, we have decided the choice will be Lottie’s.”

Lottie blinked. She was on the edge of her chair, bouncing on the cushion. If there hadn’t been five other people in the room she’d have jumped into Zynara’s lap and kissed her ‘til the world ended. 

“No decision! Absolutely no choice. I’m Zynara’s. Don’t even need the thinking time. Sorry guv, but also not sorry. Not one teeny tiny bit. I belong to Niz.” 

Sami snorted up his sleeve. Zynara smothered a smile. Ace’s eyes rolled into the back of her head.

Evelyn smirked. “I had a feeling you’d say that. Very well. I’m still furious at you for revealing the existence of the Circle and my identity to the Qasira, but our countries and our intelligence agencies have been working together for the last hundred and sixty years. The Q’sar of Ain Zargiers has always been aware of the Circle, and Zynara was destined to become Q’sar as the preferred outcome of this mission. You are” —Evelyn’s lips twisted like she’d sucked a lemon— “forgiven.”

Lottie let out a hoot.

“But—” Evelyn held up her hand. “I have a condition. The Circle needs a presence here. Eyes and ears. You’re not off the hook yet, Finch. You will run the Azzouan desk.” Her smile was lethal. “And report directly to me.”

Lottie’s happy little balloon deflated. One look at Zynara’s face—impassive as it was—and Lottie knew she didn’t like the idea either.

“No.”

The temperature in the room plummeted. “No?” Evelyn asked mildly.

“No. I’ll pass on that one, if you don’t mind.” Lottie kept it light. Just enough casual entitlement to match Evelyn’s ice and get thoroughly under her skin, and just enough respect to make Zynara proud. The faintest stirrings of the game twitched in the tips of her fingers, but she had the heart of the new Q’sar of Ain Zargiers in her hands and she was going to cradle it and protect it with every atom of her existence. She couldn’t waste time on the Circle. She looked around the room. “I think Ace would do a much better job than me.”

“Woah—” Ace held up her hands, and then froze like a bug on a pin when the Nightingale’s fierce gaze impaled her.

“Interesting suggestion,” Evelyn mused. 

“I like it,” Sami said. “We already work well together.”

“Settled!” Lottie grinned triumphantly, then squawked when Ace thumped her shoulder.

Zynara ended the meeting instantly. 

“Lie down, darling.”

“I’m fine. I’m so fine. I am completely and totally fine.”

“You are not. You leapt in front of a bullet to save my father. You saved my life too. You are distinctly pale, you are tripping on painkillers and I order you to get in the bed and lie down and rest.”

Lottie grinned. “Well, when you put it like that.”

They were in Zynara’s rooms. It was late. There was a gentle breeze blowing up from the sea and the smell of spice and a hint of jasmine curled around the edges of Lottie’s mind and lured her closer to feelings of forever. Life with an actual head of state was certain to be busy and chaotic, but right now it was quiet, and Lottie didn’t want to miss a moment, not when Zynara was right there.

Zynara flicked her fingers at the bed—their bed—with the same regal grace she used to dismiss ambassadors. “In,” she repeated.

Lottie fluttered her eyelashes and sank slowly onto the edge. “As you wish, your Majesty.”

Zynara’s eyes rolled back, but she stripped off her clothes and knelt on the bed beside her. “All the way, darling.” She tipped Lottie back carefully, plumping the pillows behind her head and setting one gently under her wounded arm. 

Lottie watched her and felt her heart expand to ten times its size. No one had ever treated her so kindly.

“I hope you realise,” she murmured, looking up at her queen with mock solemnity, “you’re going to be stuck with me forever. I am going to protect you, seduce you, and love you every day. Possibly all at once.”

Zynara lay beside her, her head propped up on her hand. “Protect me? I don’t want another bodyguard.”

“You’re rejecting the services of the hottest bodyguard in the entire Commonwealth? In the world? Qasira, I think you know, but it doesn’t get hotter than this. Are you saying—”

“I’m saying when I am Q’sar, you will be my Q’sarina, and I don’t want to be protected like a fragile thing.” She brushed curls back from Lottie’s forehead with a maddening tenderness. “I want to be loved.”

There was an endless moment. Love, as wide as the desert, as high as the falcons flew, was right there in Zynara’s eyes. And it was all for Lottie.

How the fuck had she gotten so lucky?

“Okay,” she whispered.

Zynara’s lips quirked. “Okay?”

“Yeah. I ‘spose I can deal with that.”

There was an indignant royal snort. Zynara hooked her leg over Lottie’s thighs and pulled the sheet up to their waists. Her fingers trailed soft spirals over Lottie’s breasts, and Lottie could tell she was trying to be proud and lofty. It was a losing game.

“You can have it all,” Lottie said, softer now. “Let me be strong for you sometimes. There will still be right wing nutjobs who’ll threaten what we build here. There will always be danger and way too much responsibility. And you don’t have to carry your country all on your own. I’m scrappy. I’m ballsy. I can be everything you need me to be. Let me care for you.”

Zynara blinked. Those rich brown eyes flooded and were suddenly a million times deeper. There was a sniff, and then Zynara’s face was buried in the crook of Lottie’s neck and her breath was everything.

“Promise?”

“With all my heart,” Lottie whispered, more honest and fervent than she’d ever been. She kissed Zynara’s hair.

They stayed like that for a very long time.

“Q’sarina, hey?” Lottie said eventually. “Has a nice ring to it. Do I get a crown with that?”

Zynara muttered something under her breath in Arabic that was definitely not parliamentary.

“Infuriating and delightful? I’ll take that.”

“You are so cheeky.” Zynara sighed theatrically. 

“And you like it.”

Zynara said nothing, but the corner of her mouth tugged up like she couldn’t help it and Lottie knew she’d hit the jackpot. She basked in it for a second, then wriggled in the bed with exaggerated enthusiasm. 

“Is this all we’re doing then? Cuddles? Pretty sure I deserve a bit more than that.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I did save your life, after all. I demand a kiss at least—a fucking royal one—and then a bunch of orgasms. Oh, princess, you’re totally going to owe me—” 

She was stopped by a hot mouth on her own. Zynara climbed carefully over her, deliciously warm thighs pressing against her own, and kissed her until every drop of Lottie’s sass was drained away. Everything Lottie wanted was in the warm tongue that licked into her, that owned her and commanded all her desire, that loved her so perfectly and so completely. Zynara tugged Lottie’s lower lip with her teeth when she pulled away and looked at her with eyes that were wholly black.

“As your Q’sar,” she murmured, leaning close to drip the words into Lottie’s ear, “I decree you be held and cuddled while you heal.” There was a beat. “Quietly,” she added.

Lottie giggled, but stilled when Zynara slipped back to her side, curled around her and snuffled into her shoulder. 

“Good girl.”

They lay there, breathing in sync, their hearts full and the future unwritten. The city murmured far below, the breeze stirred the silk curtains, and Lottie closed her eyes.

Everything was going to be perfect. Just like this. Forever.

Epilogue

She’d never tell Sami, but his bar in the medina was her favourite place. Especially now Lottie was always in it.

Zynara sat at her usual table in the shadows, her arm draped over the back of the velvet bench, her glass of gin drained to the ice cubes. Her eyes were locked, as always, on the stage.

Lottie had that damned microphone in her hand again, crooning something slow and smoky—a jazz standard about foolish, eternal love. Her lips brushed the mic like it was a secret. Her body swayed in a filthy hot red dress Zynara had had made for her. The woman was loose-limbed and lazy in a way that made Zynara forget how to think.

“She’s showing off,” Sami murmured beside her, sliding a fresh drink across the table.

“She always is.” Zynara heard the fondness in her own voice and wondered when she’d turned so completely to marshmallow. 

Lottie looked her straight in the eye as she hit the chorus, flashing that half-smirk she always wore when she knew she was driving Zynara mad. 

Zynara narrowed her eyes. “If her precious Memeti wasn’t sitting two tables away, I would have dragged her off that stage and into bed fifteen minutes ago.”

“She did tell me to keep your gin flowing so you’d relax,” Sami said dryly. “I can’t believe how well she knows you.”

Zynara huffed a short laugh. “Marrying her may have been the most unscientific decision of my life.”

“And the best.”

Sami was right, but she wasn’t going to tell him that either.

Six months ago, she’d stood on the sunlit steps of the palace court, her father in his finest robes before her and her people roaring below. It had been her honour to kneel and receive his blessing—and his crown—and then to stand and be declared Q’sar of Ain Zargiers. 

Her very first decree had been performed with all her country watching and with her heart exploding with love. She’d turned and called Lottie Finch to her.

Her woman. Her flame and her light. Her maddening, magnificent force of chaos.

Lottie swaggered up the steps grinning like a pirate, though she sobered instantly when Zynara indicated she kneel. She did it beautifully—humbly, for once in her life—and Zynara placed a circlet of gold on her head and kissed her full on the mouth. Mercifully, the citizens of Azzouan were cheering so loudly no one heard Lottie’s comment when Zynara handed her to her feet.

“Tiara! Fuck yeah! I am totally going to outrank you in bed.”

It was outrageously brazen and utterly inconceivable, but it made Zynara laugh and smile right there with the world watching, and she had to confess Lottie Finch always seemed to know what was best.

She spanked her silly for it later, of course, but that was just what Lottie wanted too, and she fucked her until they were both exhausted. It didn’t temper Lottie’s gorgeous effervescence in the slightest.

If anything, the crown and the title only fueled Lottie’s ego—and her devotion to Zynara.

“I thought your father would be here,” Sami said eventually.

“Probably best he’s not,” Zynara mused. Lottie was vamping up the bedroom eyes ridiculously hard. 

Zynara knew her father wouldn’t mind. He had taken to Lottie like a co-conspirator and the pair were thick as thieves. Zynara spent her days working her backside off for her companies and her country, only to return to the private wing of the palace in the evenings to find raucous poker games being held in her father’s quarters with Lottie raking it in and the old Q’sar’s team of valets and carers bleeding from the eyeballs. 

“What are you playing for?” Zynara would ask, falling into the sofa and watching her wife indulgently. 

“Healthy stuff!” Lottie and her father said it together, which definitely meant it wasn’t.

Zynara should have words with the kitchens about the volume of sweetcakes and candy being delivered to the Q’sar’s rooms, but she knew she wouldn’t. Her father was having fun. What difference would a handful of sweet dates make?

Lottie took him driving in the Aston Martin DB5 too—out to the solar fields and to inspect the new heliostat towers. They visited Uncle in the desert camp.

Zynara had the strongest feeling Lottie had found a father, and Idris had welcomed his new daughter with all his heart.

“He’s fine,” Zynara said. “Just having a slow day. He watches the news and grumbles about the idiots in the British parliament and lets me do all the hard work. He’s catching up on his reading.”

“He’s earned it,” Sami said.

Zynara inclined her head. “He has.”

They grieved, of course.

Malik had been a monster in the end, but he’d still been a brother and a son. Learning about Rayan’s final moments meant Zynara mourned him all over again, something she found much easier to do with her head in Lottie’s lap and loving fingers carding through her hair.

She forgave herself for being away when it happened, and for running even further in the aftermath. And she forgave Lottie, Sami, Evelyn and her father for keeping their secrets. 

As much as Zynara was determined to serve her country and live up to her family’s responsibility, she valued Lottie’s skills at helping them both escape every now and then.

“Who gets his cars?” Lottie asked when Zynara first ordered the party house emptied, the women paid appropriately and everyone sent home.

“You want a gold-plated Range Rover?”

“Oh, fuck, no,” Lottie squawked. “But that McLaren was nice. And the Bugatti.”

Zynara wrinkled her nose. She was neck deep in data for the latest hydrogen fuel tests and was secretly having the time of her life. Lottie could have whatever car she wanted, but Zynara was definitely going to tease her a little first.

“Noisy,” she said. “Smelly. You cannot be the wife of the queen of the world’s leading renewable energy powerhouse and drive a gas-guzzler. I’ll buy you an EV.”

“Pfft.”

Zynara let one eyebrow arch dangerously. “What was that, zin dyali?” She crooked two fingers and delighted at the way Lottie sashayed obediently to her desk. Zynara pushed back her chair and let Lottie plant her gorgeous arse right in the middle of her hydrogen fuel statistics. Lottie put her heels on the arms of Zynara’s chair and spread her legs wide. Short skirt. Underwear so lacey it wasn’t going to stand a chance. “Was that sass, my darling?”

“That McLaren totally matched my curls,” Lottie pouted.

Zynara trailed her fingers up Lottie’s thighs and watched defiance flicker bravely in her wife’s eyes.

“It’s lime green,” Zynara pointed out, her other hand at the back of Lottie’s neck and her lips at her ear.

“So?”

“So? So, you’re being greedy. Covetous,” she breathed down Lottie’s neck. “Disobedient.” She dragged a wet, hot kiss down her throat and nipped at her collarbone. Lottie’s thighs shuddered. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll buy you a proper car.” She tapped her fingers against the lace between Lottie’s legs and waited. “Are you going to be good?”

Lottie squirmed all over her desk. “I will be so fucking good for you,” she promised. There was a beat. “And your shit electric car.”

Zynara slipped her fingers under the lace and thrust them deep inside her, and knew everything was perfect.

It took a few drag races in the desert until Lottie finally believed her. The all electric Lotus Evija Zynara imported for her did zero to sixty in well under two seconds, and Lottie lost her mind. It was an absolute pleasure to watch her finally give in and regale Uncle and the others at the desert camp about the benefits of kilowatts over horsepower. 

She was so transparent.

“Do I get a flier too?” she asked, the lamp light in her hair, the desert sunset in her eyes and her spirit as wild as the dunes. Her beautiful woman in the heart of her beautiful country.

“No,” said Zynara.

“No?”

“Absolutely not.”

But she knew Lottie would wheedle one out of her eventually. She’d do anything for Lottie Finch.

Memeti joined their little family not long after that. Lottie’s sharp-eyed old neighbour had joined them. Memeti was eighty-five and not showing the merest sign of slowing down. In fact, returning to her home country had given her a new lease on life. Lottie had wanted to install her in the palace with them, but Memeti had flatly refused. She lived in a house in the medina that Lottie insisted on furnishing to Memeti’s satisfaction—and which had a nurse on call. Memeti had a tongue like a razor and a laugh like church bells, and in her Zynara could see the mould that had shaped her Lottie.

Memeti also had strong opinions on palace protocol, gambling for sweetcakes, and the correct temperature of tea. She shared them freely.

Zynara didn’t mind. She had Lottie. And Lottie came with chaos, torch songs, dreadful jokes, amazing kisses, and the kind of love that literally leveled buildings.

The last note of her song echoed in the air, and Lottie took a bow, her gaze never leaving Zynara’s. 

The patrons of Sami’s Place applauded and Lottie leaned into the mic. “I’ve got a song just for my Q’sar next,” she purred. “I wrote it myself.”

Zynara raised a brow.

Lottie winked. “It’s called Let’s Get You Naked.”

Indulgent laughter filled the room—Azzouan loved its lovesick royalty—but Zynara stood up.

“That’s enough,” she muttered.

Sami chortled into his drink. “Better go fetch your queen.”

“Oh, she’s not my queen,” Zynara said coolly, striding toward the stage. “She is in a lot of trouble.”

Lottie’s delighted squeals rang through the whole city.

About the Author

Jolie Dvorak likes to write steamy, angsty romance featuring women who fall hard and love harder.

When her first book was released, she revealed that ‘Jolie Dvorak’ was, in fact, the pen name of another sapphic romance author and challenged readers to guess who. This led to some very lovely compliments and quite a few long, funny conversations, but Jolie’s true identity remains a secret known only to her keenest fans.

If you think you know, send an email to hello@joliedvorak.com with your theories. Gold star if you get it right.

Research is important, right? After her last book, Jolie left the wilds of bonny Scotland for a writing nook in Marrakech. For the last three months she has been installed in a traditional riad, where life revolves around a central courtyard shaded by fragrant orange trees. The noise of the world filters softly through ornate screens.

Jolie’s days are spent browsing the souks trying not to buy more babouche and leather notebooks, and sharing a pomegranate juice with the elderly Amazigh ladies who sell aphrodisiacs and snake skins. By night, she gorges on harira and flat bread, drinks endless cups of mint tea, and fills those notebooks with stories.

The wife has a new collection of brass lanterns and rugs, and the cat, somehow, has learned to meow in Arabic.

Of course, Jolie doesn’t actually exist, so all the above is yet more of her alter-ego’s fantasies. You can read the whole adventure of Jolie's writing life on her webpage at www.joliedvorak.com

Also By Jolie Dvorak

The Nightingale and the Rose

On Her Majesty’s Secret Sapphic Service

Detective Rose Martin has spent years trying to bring down Sterling Montague, a corrupt British billionaire with plans of destroying democracy. 

But her pursuit of justice throws her into a shadowy world of spies and assassins—a clandestine organisation called the Circle. Tasked with guarding the monarchy, the Circle operates outside the law, led by a mercurial and dangerous woman known only as the Nightingale.

When Rose realises it is the Nightingale who stalks her through London’s midnight streets, the click of her heels haunting Rose’s dreams, it ignites a passionate obsession neither can deny. 

Rose’s investigation pulls her deep into a high-stakes game, where every answer only leads to more questions, where every touch blurs the line between duty and desire. Where trust becomes a powerful weapon and love becomes the ultimate risk.

For fans of Killing Eve and Atomic Blonde and for those who wished James Bond and The Kingsman were sapphic, The Nightingale and the Rose is the perfect read for anyone who loves their women oh-so-deliciously dangerous.

Ebook available on Kindle Unlimited
Buy the audiobook and paperback direct from the author at www.JolieDvorak.com
Or at Amazon and Audible

Ensnared in Her Symphony

Maestro Virve Vintinen is at the very top of her game.

She’s the principal conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra – the classical music world is hers to rule and she does so in style. She has a reputation, sure. She’s been known to make entire brass sections cry with one raised brow. She’s reduced the harshest music critics to tears of rapture. She is widely regarded as one of the finest musicians of the age. And she likes to be in control – on the podium and in the bedroom.

Sabina Harper is the acting concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra but her career until now hasn’t been stellar. Previous rivalries and jealousies have made her wary of the limelight, and with a sick niece to help care for, she doesn’t find herself burning with ambition.

When a freak accident leaves the London Symphony Orchestra without a conductor just days before their European tour, Virve steps in to assist. Sitting in the first chair looking up at her is the delectable Sabina Harper. Ms Harper is hot, talented and she plays music that fuels Virve’s soul.

Which is odd, because Virve thought she’d thrown her soul – and her heart – away long ago.

As the tour begins, Sabina Harper proves herself to be eager for exactly the kind of pleasures Virve likes and they make an arrangement to enjoy each other on the tour. But Sabi’s music, her luscious body and her searching brown eyes threaten to crumple Virve’s steely resolve.

The Maestro might control the music, but who controls her heart?

Available on Kindle Unlimited
Buy the paperback direct from the author at www.JolieDvorak.com
Or at Amazon

Captured in Her Gaze

Love, passion and possession captured by her lens.

Mem Swan stands reluctantly at the precipice of stardom. As Hollywood’s newest darling, she struggles to come to terms with the mercenary nature of the industry. Beauty equals money – and Mem’s is worth billions – but she longs for someone to see her. Really see her.

Enter Thea Voronov, an acclaimed portrait photographer whose work captures the souls of stars and catapults them to fame. She is ice cold, a complex tempest of talent and mystery, and she’s seen far too many pretty young things eager to exploit the power of her lens.

When Mem steps into Thea’s studio, an unexpected spark ignites and Mem becomes her muse. It’s a role that binds them both in an intense dance of desire, domination and inspiration. In the exacting pull of Thea’s focus, they explore connection and creativity, limits and love, every shot leading them deeper into each other.

But as Mem’s star ascends, the lures of the industry beckon. For Thea, scarred by a past littered with opportunists, Mem’s rise echoes with narratives she’s long despised. Doubt becomes a deep shadow that blurs the image of the woman she’s come to adore.

Can the love that flourished in the darkroom survive the glaring spotlight of fame?

Available on Kindle Unlimited
Buy the paperback direct from the author at www.JolieDvorak.com
Or at Amazon

Enthralled in Her Design

Their attraction is instant, their connection undeniable.

Syrene Harkman likes to be in control. She heads an award-winning global architectural firm, she designs things of beauty, she pays for the finest pleasures. When she loses one of the biggest jobs in her company’s history and turns forty-five on the same day, she does not appreciate the cheap, tacky, dive of a strip club her friends drag her to. With a half-decent whiskey in her hand, she decides to stay. What’s the worst that could happen?

Burlesque dancer and stripper Beatriz Rose has bills to pay, her grandmother to support and dreams of one day doing something more with that art-school degree than just repaying the student debt. She never expects true love to strike when she’s at work, but when it does, it hits her hard in the form of a steely, demanding and outright gorgeous woman. Bea breaks her own rules and finds herself in a client’s bed.

They’re perfect for each other but their worlds are a million miles apart. In the aftermath of a one night stand that flares hotter than either expected, the two women decide they’re meant for each other—but real life has other ideas.

Society tells them one night to forever is a fairy tale.

What are they prepared to surrender to prove that fairy tales can come true?

Available on Kindle Unlimited
Buy the paperback direct from the author at www.JolieDvorak.com
Or at Amazon

Dear reader

If you've come this far, thank you! You are wonderful.

Your support means the world to me, and knowing you're out there, somewhere, makes this simple writer very happy. It's readers like you who keep our vibrant community of indie publishing alive and thriving.

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Jolie Dvorak

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