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one-year-old on her way down.
    “Give her to me,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “Do you want to try and negotiate those with her in your arms? If so, by all means.” His discomfort with the situation, with the prospect of holding the child again, made his voice harder than he intended.
    “And what makes you think you’ll do better? You aren’t experienced with babies. What if you drop her?”
    “I have carried full-grown men down mountainsides when they were unable to walk for themselves. I think I can carry a baby down a flight of stairs. Give her to me.”
    Jada complied, but her expression remained mutinous.
    “After you,” he said.
    She started down the steps and into the car, and he followed after her. There was a car seat ready in this vehicle, his orders followed down to the letter. There should also be supplies for a baby back at his home. Money didn’t buy happiness—he knew that to be true. He doubted he’d felt a moment of true happiness in his life. But money bought a lot of conveniences, and a lot of things that felt close enough to that elusive emotion.
    He much preferred having it to not having it. And a good thing, too, as he’d sold his soul to get it.
    “Where are we headed?” she asked when the car started moving.
    “To my palace.” He looked out the window at the wide, flat expanse of desert, and the walls of the city beyond it. This was the first place he had ever felt at home. The desert showed a man where he was at, challenged him on a fundamental level. The desert didn’t care for good or evil. Only strength. Survival.
    It had been a rescue mission in this very desert that had nearly claimed his life. And now it was in his blood.
    “You have a palace?”
    “A gift from the sheikh.”
    “Extravagant gift.”
    “Not so much, all things considered.”
    “What things?” she asked.
    He didn’t know what made him do it, but he unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt and pulled the collar to the side, revealing the dark lines of his most recent tattoo. The one that covered his most recent scar.
    Her eyes widened. She lifted her hand as though she was tempted to touch, to see if the skin beneath the ink was as rough and damaged as it looked. It was. He wanted her to do it. Wanted her to press her fingertips to his flesh, so he couldsee just how soft and delicate she truly was against his hardened, damaged skin.
    She lowered her hand and the spell was broken. “Is that part of that newsworthiness you were talking about?” she asked.
    “Some might say.”
    “It looks like it was painful.”
    “Not especially. I think the one on my wrist hurt worse.”
    “Not the tattoo,” she said.
    He chuckled, feeling a genuine sense of amusement. “I know.”
    They settled into silence for the rest of the drive. Jada stared out the window, her fingers fluffing his daughter’s pale hair. He wondered if she looked like her mother. Her birth mother. He could scarcely remember the woman.
    Based on geography he had a fair idea of who she was, but he ultimately couldn’t be certain. A one-night stand that had occurred nearly two years earlier hardly stuck out in his mind. He’d had a lot of nights like that. A lot of encounters with women he barely exchanged names with before getting down to the business of what they both wanted.
    He wondered if a normal man might feel shame over that. Over the fact that he could scarcely recall the woman who’d given birth to his child. Yes, a normal man would probably be ashamed. But Alik had spent too many years discovering that doing the right thing often meant going hungry, while doing the wrong thing could net you a hotel room and enough food for a week. He’d learned long ago that he would have to define right and wrong in his own way. The best way he’d been able to navigate life had been to chase all of the good feelings he could find.
    Food and shelter made him comfortable, so whatever he’d had to do to get it, he had. Later on he’d discovered