Tempt
Inescapable, Book 1
He's willing to lose everything. She's afraid of losing herself.
Nassir Al-Qadir has spent his entire life calculating risk. Every move orchestrated. Every emotion controlled. Every relationship a transaction—until Trina Davis taught him what it meant to truly want something.
For five years, he kept her hidden, convinced himself it was temporary, that duty would eventually override desire. He was wrong.
Now, with nothing left to lose but everything to gain, Nassir is ready to burn it all down. His crown. His family's legacy. His carefully constructed empire. All of it, for one chance to make Trina his.
But Trina has already been burned once. She’s already watched her mother destroy her family for love. She’s already given five years to a man who couldn't choose her. And she’s finally—finally—building something that feels like survival.
When Nassir crashes her wedding, demanding she choose him, Trina realizes the real battle isn’t between two men—it’s between the woman she was and the woman she’s become. Can she risk everything she’s rebuilt for a second chance that might destroy her?
“Thank you, Miss, for helping my sister.” He placed his hand over his heart. “My family and I are truly grateful.”
Turning on his charm, Nassir gave her a calculated smile that worked wonders with staff, waitresses and the like. But the woman wasn’t affected by it. Her lips barely quirked, and her eyes held his, unswerving. She said nothing.
Trying again, Nassir held out his hand. “I am Nassir Al-Qadir. I’m Fassima’s older brother.”
“So I gathered.” After only a second of hesitation, she shook his hand. Hers was smooth and cool, and he noticed that her fingernails were expertly manicured with the tip of each having tiny gold butterflies embedded in the lacquer. “Trina Davis.”
Trina Davis released his hand before he had the chance to let go, and still her face was serious, almost disdainful. “Sooo, are you going to apologize?”
Nassir was shocked into motionlessness. He couldn’t remember a time when anyone had ever spoken to him like this. “Pardon?” he asked, his voice dropping half an octave, a warning in his tone.
“You were rude and dismissive.” As she folded her arms, the material of her sweatshirt tautened against her breasts, and he was distracted for a second. She dragged him back into his head with,
“Well?”
Apologize? Didn’t she know who he was? Al-Quadirs didn’t apologize, especially not to pretty young women who weren’t even aware that they were outranked. But he liked her sass. Most women, in his experience, were so blinded by his wealth and visions of how they could get their hands on some of it that they fawned over him.
They’d let him get away with murder if it suited their goals. It got annoying. But here was this stranger in her sweaty jogging gear, mud on her shoes, hair in disarray, speaking to him like this.
Hilarious.
With a deep, formal bow, he said, “My apologies, Miss Trina Davis. Please forgive my abrupt manner. I assure you it will not happen again.”
One side of her plump mouth quirked. “You’re right. There won’t be another opportunity for this to happen. I doubt you and I will meet again.”
