Seduced By The Bad Boy Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Bad Boy Romance by Sarah Croix
Authors: Sarah Croix
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someone else for so long. It was important to me - I had given myself to him. I deserved to know the real Aziz al Salam Mussayef.
I went through a few more drawers of shirts and shoes, belts, and cufflinks. I came upon a drawer that held a box, with the royal crest on it. Carefully I opened it. Three medals. I looked at them intently. The Medal of Valor, given to the kingdoms soldiers who return from a tour of duty. The Medal of Distinction, given to any soldier who commits himself on the battlefield for his comrades. And finally, the Sultan's Medal - given by the Sultan to any soldier who places his life on the line to advance the safety of his compatriots as well as the cause. You had to be nominated and voted on by your peers to receive this award and only one man was given this award each year. I knew all this from my Middle Eastern History courses I had taken specifically on Qumar after Mother got her job and moved. This was massively impressive, but a little bit confusing. I had always thought as royalty, Aziz had been on the administrative side of things, arriving in Afghanistan only after it had been secured and planning the troop deployments. The way the tabloids had put it, he had most likely gotten drummed out of the service because he was drinking too much of the general's scotch.
I closed the lid and put it down, finding a binder next to it. Curious, I opened it, to see it full of newspaper clippings that had been put into transparent plastic sheaths. I turned through them, curious to see why Aziz had kept them. Most of them were about the War in Afghanistan, where Qumari forces had committed a sizable deployment along with other Allied nations. I stopped at one article, which had a side profile of Aziz. The face was unmistakable, despite being in black and white. Aziz had a little bit more of a beard at that point, not having shaved or showered for a few days perhaps. He was wearing Army fatigues and held an M5 in his hands, looking and talking off-camera. It was obvious it was a candid shot. There wasn't any caption under the picture. Either the newspaper hadn't printed Aziz' name, which was highly unlikely, or they hadn't expected to see Aziz in the picture and had missed him entirely. It didn't make sense to me that someone whose main goal was administrative paperwork would be holding an M5 and looking like they had just come off the battlefield.
The headline on the article simply read, "Qumari Forces Serve With Distinction Against Jihadists in Afghanistan."
Most likely the photographer had taken a picture that exemplified the forces of Qumar but had never bothered to find out whose picture they were taking. I read the article.
"Royal forces today began a massive strike against Taliban strongholds in Kandahar as the main wing of the Allied forces closed in towards the Afghan city. Taliban forces have increasingly adopted insurgent like tactics, increasing the need for Allied special units to be sent in advance of the main force to clear deadly traps and bottlenecks in an effort to prevent major casualties..."
I didn't understand at all. This article was written before the country was pacified. How and where did Aziz fit into it. That was his picture for sure. I'd recognize Sheikh Passion's strong jawline and piercing eyes anytime. Hell, I'd never forget them. According to everything I had ever read about, he shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be on the front lines, and certainly not in layers of forces sent before the main unit was sent.
"Had a good read, love?" a voice called out from the doorway.
Startled, I dropped the binder and turned to see Aziz standing there, in his jeans and leather jacket. A tingle went through my loins as I looked at him, even as I knew I'd been caught red-handed snooping.
"I see we're curious in the mornings, aren't we?" he asked giving me his trademark smirk.
Was it wrong that all I wanted to do was jump his bones at that point?
11
Aziz
A fter my phone called home , I
I went through a few more drawers of shirts and shoes, belts, and cufflinks. I came upon a drawer that held a box, with the royal crest on it. Carefully I opened it. Three medals. I looked at them intently. The Medal of Valor, given to the kingdoms soldiers who return from a tour of duty. The Medal of Distinction, given to any soldier who commits himself on the battlefield for his comrades. And finally, the Sultan's Medal - given by the Sultan to any soldier who places his life on the line to advance the safety of his compatriots as well as the cause. You had to be nominated and voted on by your peers to receive this award and only one man was given this award each year. I knew all this from my Middle Eastern History courses I had taken specifically on Qumar after Mother got her job and moved. This was massively impressive, but a little bit confusing. I had always thought as royalty, Aziz had been on the administrative side of things, arriving in Afghanistan only after it had been secured and planning the troop deployments. The way the tabloids had put it, he had most likely gotten drummed out of the service because he was drinking too much of the general's scotch.
I closed the lid and put it down, finding a binder next to it. Curious, I opened it, to see it full of newspaper clippings that had been put into transparent plastic sheaths. I turned through them, curious to see why Aziz had kept them. Most of them were about the War in Afghanistan, where Qumari forces had committed a sizable deployment along with other Allied nations. I stopped at one article, which had a side profile of Aziz. The face was unmistakable, despite being in black and white. Aziz had a little bit more of a beard at that point, not having shaved or showered for a few days perhaps. He was wearing Army fatigues and held an M5 in his hands, looking and talking off-camera. It was obvious it was a candid shot. There wasn't any caption under the picture. Either the newspaper hadn't printed Aziz' name, which was highly unlikely, or they hadn't expected to see Aziz in the picture and had missed him entirely. It didn't make sense to me that someone whose main goal was administrative paperwork would be holding an M5 and looking like they had just come off the battlefield.
The headline on the article simply read, "Qumari Forces Serve With Distinction Against Jihadists in Afghanistan."
Most likely the photographer had taken a picture that exemplified the forces of Qumar but had never bothered to find out whose picture they were taking. I read the article.
"Royal forces today began a massive strike against Taliban strongholds in Kandahar as the main wing of the Allied forces closed in towards the Afghan city. Taliban forces have increasingly adopted insurgent like tactics, increasing the need for Allied special units to be sent in advance of the main force to clear deadly traps and bottlenecks in an effort to prevent major casualties..."
I didn't understand at all. This article was written before the country was pacified. How and where did Aziz fit into it. That was his picture for sure. I'd recognize Sheikh Passion's strong jawline and piercing eyes anytime. Hell, I'd never forget them. According to everything I had ever read about, he shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be on the front lines, and certainly not in layers of forces sent before the main unit was sent.
"Had a good read, love?" a voice called out from the doorway.
Startled, I dropped the binder and turned to see Aziz standing there, in his jeans and leather jacket. A tingle went through my loins as I looked at him, even as I knew I'd been caught red-handed snooping.
"I see we're curious in the mornings, aren't we?" he asked giving me his trademark smirk.
Was it wrong that all I wanted to do was jump his bones at that point?
11
Aziz
A fter my phone called home , I
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