Total pages in book: 230
Estimated words: 217798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1089(@200wpm)___ 871(@250wpm)___ 726(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 217798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1089(@200wpm)___ 871(@250wpm)___ 726(@300wpm)
He wasn’t about to have his best friend slammed into a jail cell. “No. There will be no charges. He didn’t do this. Have him released immediately and let him know I want to talk to him. If I know Rai, he’s got his own theories. And tell him not to punch me. It’s been a long day. He can punch me later.”
Actually, that wasn’t a half bad idea. He was sick and tired of missing his best friend. He should allow Rai to beat the shit out of him, admit to having a tiny penis that couldn’t possibly have pleasured Rai’s wife, and see if they could move on.
Or he could ask Day what she thought he should do. She might be able to get him out of a beating. He didn’t really care what anyone except her thought of his penis. Only Dayita needed to know it was a glorious beast that brought pleasure to its queen.
“Kash, as your acting head of security, I have to tell you that this is a mistake,” Weston began.
“No, tossing Rai in jail when it’s obvious he’s been set up is a mistake,” Kash shot back.
“Or we’re making the real culprit feel like he’s gotten away with something and giving ourselves some time to figure this out.”
And allow Rai to hate him even more? “No. I want him released within the hour.”
Weston’s jaw tightened. “This is a mistake.”
“It’s my mistake. I won’t allow him to rot in jail for something I know he hasn’t done. Look in other places. CCTV showed nothing?”
“We believe the Scotch was brought in with the poison already inside.”
“Then whoever this is has his conspirators. It’s someone familiar with how the household is run, but not familiar with my habits.”
Weston seemed to stop, as though that statement brought on some new idea. “Yes, you’re right. Your own men would have known that Jamil typically joins you for a drink. They would have known he could potentially ruin everything. I see what you’re saying. I have an idea.”
“As long as your idea gets Rai out of his hellhole prison.” One day Rai would forgive him for deflowering his bride—before she was his bride. But there would be no forgiveness if Rai himself was deflowered by some rough and tumble prison love.
“I’m calling now. And I’ll set up a meeting that might be interesting.” He pulled out his phone. “And Kash, she’s not as bad as your lord chamberlain made her sound. I’m sorry for that. He told me she was on death’s door, but the doctors claim she could be back on her feet in a few days if she’ll rest. She’s responding to the medication well. She’s quite the survivor, your mother.”
Hanin had always been a drama queen.
Kash shook Weston’s hand and nodded to Michael Malone, who was standing guard outside his mother’s room. He was relieved that she was better than he’d expected, but he’d seen her asleep in her bed, looking so pale and fragile.
He closed the door behind him. His mother was still sleeping and he didn’t want to disturb her. Like Day was sleeping. He’d carried her out of the car and up to his room. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d passed her own room by completely, choosing to settle her into his bed.
The two women who meant the most to him were sleeping and he couldn’t. He was restless and wanting, and he wasn’t even sure what he wanted.
Kash stared out the window of his mother’s room, the slow sound of the monitors forming an odd rhythm. Each beep was another second of life, another breath, one more heartbeat. How many beeps would his mother get?
He stared out over the beach where he’d played as a young child, where he and his brother had built sandcastles and then pretended they were monsters destroying grand cities. And their mother would laugh at their antics. His father would usually be at some meeting or other. After Shray was old enough, it had been only Kash and his mother playing on the beach.
He’d run from that life, a pendulum swinging as far from his father’s regimented existence as he could. As though he had to choose. The king or the playboy. Nothing else. Nothing in between. No compromises. He had to be a king like his father or a rogue so full of himself he never, ever cared about criticism.
Did he have to be one or the other, or could he find his own path, one informed by his father’s love but free of his prejudices? One where he could be both king and man. Both sovereign and husband.
“What do you see when you look out there, son?”
He turned and moved to her bed, sinking to one knee in front of her. “Should I call the doctor?”