Chapter 16 · Chapter 16

The midnight quiet in the private wing of the Riyadh house was a thick, heavy thing, settled deep into the wool of the rugs and the cold marble borders along the skirting. I pulled the linen up to my collarbone and leaned back against the tufted headboard, my bare shoulders still holding the residual heat of his skin.

On the low walnut table beside the bed, right beside the water jug and the small silver tray where my mother’s ring lay, sat the heavy brass key to the inner door.

Turki had not tucked it into his pocket. He had not dropped it into the drawer of the console or hidden it behind the heavy drapes. He had set it there openly, the polished metal catching the amber slit of light from under the corridor lintel. It lay well within reach of my right hand. If I stretched my arm six inches, my fingers would curl around its cold ridges.