Claimed For The Desert Prince's Heir

‘I’m so sorry,’ she yelped. But before she could say more, his eyes closed.

The darkness was descending fast, but gripping his robe she tugged it away to reveal bare skin beneath. Scars—so many scars—and a tattoo marred the smooth skin, making the bunch of muscle and sinew look all the more magnificent.

She ignored the well of heat pulsing at her core.

So, so not the point, Kaz.

She pressed trembling fingers to his chest, felt the muscles tense as she frantically ran them over his ribs up to his shoulder to locate the wound. Her fingertips encountered sticky moisture. She drew her hand away, her eyes widening in horror at the stain of fresh blood. The metallic smell invaded the silent night.

She swore again, the same word that had made her feel empowered several hours ago when she’d found herself alone in the desert with a broken-down Jeep.

Now she was alone in the desert with a bleeding man. A bleeding, unconscious warrior prince, who had saved her from a sandstorm and whom she’d shot for his pains.

She’d never felt less empowered in her life.

CHAPTER THREE (#u97093d80-abb7-53fa-adde-057f842e2a39)

‘YOU’RE NOT MY SON—you’re not anyone’s son. You’re nothing more than vermin—a rat, born by mistake.’

The angry memory ripped through Raif’s body, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if it would gag him. His father’s face reared up, the cruel slant of his lips, the contempt in his flat black eyes, the cold echo of the only words he’d ever spoken to him cutting through the familiar nightmare like a rusting blade.

‘I clothed and fed you for ten years. You are a man now—any responsibility I had is paid. Now, get out.’

‘No…’ The desperate cry came out of his mouth, shaming, pathetic, pleading.

The crack of his father’s hand sounded like a rifle shot, although the ache wasn’t in his cheekbone this time but his arm. He shifted, trying to escape the cruel words, the bitter memories. The echo of remembered pain, too real and so vivid.

‘Shh… Prince Raif, you’re having a bad dream. Everything is okay, really, it was just a flesh wound.’

Soft words in English drifted to him through the cloaking agony. Something cool and soft fluttered over his brow. Like the wings of an angel.

‘Not a prince…a rat,’ he whispered back in the same language.

An exotic fragrance—jasmine, spice and female sweat—floated through the night on a cooling breeze. His nostrils flared like those of a stallion scenting its mate. The warmth of the night settled into his groin, swelling his shaft. He concentrated his mind on the pulse of pleasure, let it flow through him, to dull the aching pain always left by the nightmare in his heart.

Not a rat. You’re a prince… And a man now, not an unloved boy.

He thought the words but swallowed them, remembering even through his exhaustion that he should never admit to a weakness. Not to anyone.

Soft fingers touched his chin, then something cold pressed against his lips.

The urgent female voice spoke again but he couldn’t hear what it said because of the blood rushing in his ears. And the heat hurtling beneath his belt.

The taste of fresh water invaded his senses. He opened his mouth, gulping as the liquid soothed his dry throat.

‘Slow down or you’ll choke.’ The voice was less gentle, firm, demanding—he liked it even more. But then it took the refreshing water away.

He dragged open his eyelids, which had rocks attached to them.

The pleasure swelled and throbbed in his groin.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered in Kholadi.

The hazy vision was exquisite, like an angel, or a temptress—flushed skin, wild midnight hair, and large eyes the same colour as precious amber, the shade only made more intense by the bruised shadows under them and the wary glow of embarrassment and knowledge.

I want you.

Had he said that aloud?

‘I can’t understand you, Prince Raif. I don’t speak Kholadi.’ The lush lips moved, but the address confused him. Why was she mixing his Narabian title with his tribal name?

‘Beautiful,’ he whispered in English, his fatigued brain not able to engage with the vagaries of his cultural heritage. He wanted to touch her skin and see if it was as soft as it looked, to capture that pointed chin and bring her mouth down to his, trace the cupid’s bow on the top lip with his tongue, but as he lifted his hand, the twinge of pain in his arm made him flinch.

‘Lie still and go back to sleep, it’s not morning yet, Prince Raif.’

Prince Raif? Who is that? I am not Prince to the Kholadi. I am their Chief.

He gritted his teeth as her cool fingers brushed his chest, an oasis in the midst of the warm night.

‘Not an angel…’ he said, trying to cling to consciousness, wanting to cling to her, so the nightmare would not return. ‘A witch.’ Then the sweet, hazy vision faded as the rocks rolled back over his eyes and he plunged back into sleep.

Beautiful.

Kasia stared down at the man she’d been lying beside for several hours now.

Lifting the cloth out of the bowl of warming water beside the bed, she squeezed out the excess liquid with cramping fingers. Placing it on his chest, she brushed it over the contours of muscle and bone shiny with sweat. The now familiar prickle of awareness sped up her arm as she glided the cooling cloth over the taut inked skin of his shoulder.

The red and black serpent tattoo that curled around his collar bone and covered his shoulder blade shimmered in the flicker of light from the kerosene lamps she’d lit as night fell.

She blinked, forcing herself to remain upright and focused. His cheeks above the line of his beard were a little flushed but he didn’t have a fever, thank goodness. Surely the rambling that had woken him up had just been a nightmare.

As he sank back into sleep, his breathing deepened.

He’d managed to swallow a fair portion of the water this time.

She re-dipped the cloth and continued to sweep it over the broad expanse of his chest, her gaze drawn to the scars that had made her wince after wrestling him out of his bloodstained robe the night before.

How could one man have sustained so much damage in his life? And survived?

Heat flushed through her as she followed the white puckered mark of an old wound into the sprinkle of masculine hair that tapered into a fine line and arrowed beneath his pants.

Her gaze connected with the prominent ridge pressing against the loose black cloth—the only piece of clothing she hadn’t been brave enough to take off him.

Soaked with sweat, his pants didn’t leave much to her imagination as they clung to the long muscles of his flanks and outlined the huge ridge she’d noticed several times during the last few hours.

A sight that managed to both relieve and disturb her in equal measure. Surely he couldn’t be badly hurt if he could sport such an impressive erection? But what kind of man could be aroused after getting shot, however superficial the wound had turned out to be?

Look away from the erection. Maybe it’s a natural state for a man suffering from exhaustion? How would you know? You’ve never slept with a man before, and you’ve certainly never shot one.