Faris Malik Hashim

The desert sun poured through the arched windows of the grand sitting room, painting the marble floors in stripes of gold. Faris Hashim stood in the doorway, a cup of steaming Arabic coffee in hand, watching.

She was sprawled across the divan like a lazy cat, one arm draped over her eyes to block the light. His favorite cashmere throw—the one he kept in his private study—was tangled around her legs. The neckline of her borrowed t-shirt (his, again) had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the faint shadow of bruises left by his fingers two nights prior.

Faris took a slow sip of coffee, savoring the cardamom bite.

She wasn't running today. Wasn't scheming. Just... existing. In his space. In his clothes. A novel experience.

He stepped into the room, his leather loafers silent against the cool stone. The air smelled of jasmine from the courtyard and something softer—her shampoo, perhaps. Vanilla with a hint of citrus.

She didn't stir as he approached. Didn't tense. Either she was truly asleep—unlikely—or she'd decided pretending was better than acknowledging him—very likely.

Faris set his coffee cup down on the mother-of-pearl inlaid table beside the divan with a deliberate click.

Still nothing.

Amused, he reached out and tugged the throw blanket down just enough to expose her bare feet. Her toes curled instinctively, but otherwise she remained still. The arch of her foot was delicate, the skin there softer than anywhere else. Vulnerable.

He trailed a single finger along the sensitive curve.

A sharp inhale.

Faris smiled. "Not sleeping then."

She jerked her foot away, finally lifting her arm to glare up at him. The sunlight caught in her dark eyes, turning them nearly amber. Her lips were slightly chapped from the desert air, her hair a wild tangle against the silk cushions.

Beautiful. Infuriating.

Faris retrieved his coffee and settled into the armchair across from her, stretching his legs out. The diamond-encrusted face of his Patek Philippe glinted in the sunlight as he checked the time. "You've been here forty-three minutes," he observed. "Not a single escape attempt. Should I be concerned?"

She responded by flipping onto her stomach, presenting him with her back. The movement made the t-shirt ride up, exposing a strip of skin just above the waistband of her shorts—also his, though they fit her better than they had any right to.

Faris took another sip of coffee, his gaze lingering on the slope of her spine. The notches of her vertebrae were like pearls beneath her skin. He could count each one. Had counted each one.

"You're bored," he decided.

No response.

He set the cup down again and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a slim black box. The hinge gave a soft click as he opened it, revealing a bracelet—platinum, set with emeralds the exact shade of the Arabian Sea at dawn.

"I had this made for you."

She didn't turn. Didn't look.

Faris chuckled and snapped the box shut. "It's GPS-tracked, of course. And the clasp only opens with my fingerprint." He tossed it onto the cushion beside her hip. "Try it on."

For a long moment, nothing. Then—

She reached back blindly, grabbed the box, and hurled it across the room. It hit the far wall with a satisfying thud before clattering to the floor.

Faris sighed. "That was two million dollars."

A shrug.

He should punish her for that. Should drag her up by that pretty hair and remind her who owned what in this house.

Instead, he found himself smiling.

"Fine," he said, rising to retrieve the bracelet. The platinum remained unscratched—good craftsmanship, as expected. The emeralds winked up at him, flawless and deep as the Persian Gulf at midnight. "These came from Colombia. Had to have them smuggled in through Oman." He glanced back at the divan. "Your tantrum just made them more valuable."

She still hadn't moved. The curve of her back rose and fell with steady breaths, the knobs of her spine pressing against thin cotton like a string of pearls beneath silk. Faris found his fingers twitching with the memory of tracing those ridges last night, counting each one as she shuddered beneath him.

The coffee had gone lukewarm. He set the bracelet on the side table and reached for the cup, swirling the dark liquid before taking a sip. The bitterness lingered on his tongue—like her resentment, like her stubbornness. Both were intoxicating in their own way.

A breeze drifted through the open terrace doors, carrying the scent of the courtyard's orange blossoms. It stirred the loose strands of her hair, sending them dancing across the cushions. Faris watched, transfixed, as a single strand caught on her parted lips before she blew it away with an irritated exhale.

Charming.

He set down the coffee and reached for the intercom panel embedded in the wall. "Zahra. Bring the tea set to the east sitting room. The jasmine pearls."

She finally turned her head just enough to glare at him over her shoulder. The look she gave him could have melted steel.

Faris smiled. "Ah. There you are."

He approached the divan again, this time settling on the edge beside her hip. The cushions dipped under his weight, causing her body to roll slightly toward him. She resisted, bracing an elbow to keep her distance, but the damage was done—their thighs nearly brushed, the heat of her skin radiating through the thin fabric of his stolen shorts.

"You don't like emeralds," he observed, plucking at the throw blanket tangled around her legs. "Noted. Next time I'll use sapphires. Or perhaps rubies—to match your temper."

Her only response was to kick the blanket off entirely, exposing long, sun-kissed legs that made his throat tighten. The shorts—his shorts, the linen ones from Milan—rode up dangerously high on her thighs. A provocation. Always a provocation with her.

Faris let his gaze linger, appreciating the view. "You'll burn without the blanket. The sun here doesn't forgive."

As if on cue, Zahra entered with the tea service, her steps silent on the Persian rug. The elderly woman didn't so much as glance at the disheveled scene before her—Faris perched on the divan, his captive half-dressed in his clothes, the air thick with unspent tension. She simply set the silver tray on the table and retreated without a word.

The teapot was antique, its surface engraved with intricate arabesques. Faris poured with practiced ease, the steaming liquid catching the light as it streamed into delicate porcelain cups.

"Jasmine pearls," he said, holding one out to her. "From Fujian. The leaves are hand-rolled into—"

She swatted the cup from his grasp. It shattered against the floor, tea splashing across the marble like spilled blood.

Faris sighed. "That was Qianlong dynasty porcelain."

A shrug.

He should be angry. Should drag her up by that wild hair and teach her the cost of such disrespect.

Instead, he found himself pouring another cup.

"Drink," he ordered, holding it just out of reach. "Or I'll make you."

For a long moment, they stayed locked in silent battle—his arm extended, her glare burning holes through his skull. Then, with deliberate slowness, she pushed herself upright and reached for the cup.

Victory. Bittersweet.

Her fingers brushed his as she took it, the contact sending a jolt of electricity up his arm. She didn't react, just brought the rim to her lips and took a cautious sip. Her nose wrinkled at the floral aroma, but she didn't spit it out. Progress.

Faris watched the column of her throat move as she swallowed, mesmerized by the flutter of her pulse. That fragile, furious heartbeat—he could crush it between his fingers. Could stop it with a word.

And yet.

Here she sat, drinking his tea, wearing his clothes, breathing his air.

Alive. Defiant. His.

The realization settled in his chest like a stone, heavy and undeniable. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She flinched but didn't pull away.

"Good girl," he murmured.