Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1)

by Manda Mellett

  “We need information about that rumour,” I remind him, referring to the reports of a terrorist training camp being set up in Ezirad. That would surely be too close for comfort.

  “Muzaffar will get it,” Rais says, confidently. He sits on his horse, upright, his head cocked to one side as if listening to the perfect silence. There’s no sound except the occasional jingle of the bridles as the horses shake their heads to disperse annoying flies. “But for now, it’s quiet, Nijad. There’s no work for us to do this morning.”

  After staring into the distance for a while, I nod in agreement while deep down I’d been hoping for a skirmish to relieve some of my tension, my thoughts of the day ahead. But there’s nothing here to take the edge off. I squeeze with my legs and subtly loosen my grip on the reins to signal Amal to wheel round. The urgency gone, we start on our way at walking pace, towards what counts for civilisation in these parts.

  “So, it’s today that the daughter of the thief is arriving?” Rais asks after a few minutes have passed.

  Glancing sideways at him, I reply simply, “Yes.”

  We continue to ride in silence for some time. I realise that by now my new bride will have woken in Amahad, and I find myself pitying her. What will be her reaction? Will she be scared? Angry? Both, probably. One thing’s for certain: she’ll have absolutely no idea of the fucking nightmare she’s about to enter. Marriage to the savage sheikh! I know my brothers have plans to soften her up, to start to break her before they bring her to me. I’m disgusted with myself for having to take part in this fiasco.

  Then Rais speaks again. “You’ll bring her to meet us, Nijad?”

  His suggestion surprises me, and I’m not unconcerned. An involuntary movement makes my body tense and almost causes the well-trained Amal to halt. I frown. “Her punishment is being married to me, Rais. Let that be enough.”

  A quick smile appears on my companion’s face, and he shakes his head before correcting my assumption. “Seeing her married to you is our revenge, Nijad. I have confidence that you’ll be able to keep her in line. But the other leaders will need convincing by seeing evidence of that.”

  At the last his face twists and he leaves me in no doubt as to his meaning. Distaste floods through me at the thought that my desert brother recognises what I can be. Do they want to see her damaged, her spirit broken?

  Rais pulls his horse up and I halt alongside him. “I’ll try to set the example with the other tribes. The money will be paid back, and the savage sheikh has a wife. There is no need to seek further retribution.”

  “What about Abdul-Muhsi?” I cover my eyes from the glare of the sun and turn to look at my friend.

  Rais dips his head thoughtfully. “Always out to start trouble, that one.”

  We’re both silent for a few seconds, thinking about the older leader of one of the larger tribes. He’s a distant cousin of my father’s, and as entrenched in the old ways as it’s possible to be. It’s well known that he has a dislike for the ruling Kassis family, although currently he doesn’t have enough support behind him to make a serious challenge for the throne. That could change at any minute, a fact that’s a concern for us all. It’s a fragile balance among the volatile tribes of the desert, and so my forthcoming marriage is crucial to keep them united.

  “As long as she behaves suitably and doesn’t make waves, I should be able to ensure the support of the other tribes,” Rais continues. “Abdul-Muhsi will be on his own. I’ll let them know that the bride price will be forfeit, should anything happen to her without good reason. You” – he pauses, and stares at me – “you, my friend, hold her life in your hands. No one else.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m grateful, Sheikh Rais.” I show my respect with the honorific term, not often used between us. Rais is one of the younger tribal leaders but well respected. While Abdul-Muhsi might not follow his lead, the majority of the other desert sheikhs probably would. It’s a chilling fact that some of them would have preferred to see the bloodline of their enemy erased completely. Although the morning is warm, a cold shiver runs down my back at the thought that an innocent life, to the Western mind at least, could be extinguished so readily.

  It’s my responsibility to keep her alive and, if I need to harm her to do that, I will. I remain mindful of my father’s comments. The desert sheikhs will want to see the daughter of their enemy enduring the retribution agreed for her. Her introduction to the tribes will be problematic if I end up with a feisty wench protesting about her treatment and resenting the marriage. They will expect her to accept her punishment, submitting to her new husband. And that would take a very special woman. Will I be able to make her understand the politics of a way of life so far removed from what she’s accustomed to? Will she accept my protection? Or will force be necessary? I frown. I’ve been given permission, no, more than that, there’s the expectation that I will hurt her. And what sickens me down to my very soul is the thought that I might enjoy it. Fuck that blackout! Did I enjoy beating Chantelle? I can’t imagine there’s anything inside me that would take pleasure from injuring a woman, but while I can’t remember, I don’t know how deep the darkness inside me goes. Jasim was right to ban me from his club. No one, least of all I, can know what might happen if I lose hold of my, usually, tight control. He couldn’t take the risk and, up to now, neither could I. Is Cara Benting to be my next victim? Fuck, I could never lose control, never raise my hand to a woman. But I did.

  Rais glances across at me. “The blood of that bastard might flow through her, Nijad, but she, herself, carries no burden of guilt. We must all remember that.” I throw him a quick look and nod, again grateful to my friend. Then he loosens his reins and lets his horse lower his head for a while.

  “Do you miss it?” he asks me, curiously, a little while later. At my puzzled glance, he clarifies his question. “The jet-setting, the lifestyle you used to lead?”

  I breathe in deeply and then exhale. “In truth? I’m not that person any more. Even if I miss it, I could never go back.” I’m no longer the carefree playboy sheikh. I’ve seen too much … done too much. I’ve turned into a savage, a barbarian, as I’ve adapted to the harsh desert life. Been in too many situations where the choice is simply to kill or be killed ever to be able to relax at the tables of a casino again. I’ve taken lives with my bare hands, seen my men, my friends, fall around me. And I condone extreme methods of torture in an attempt to lessen the loss of life on our side. I’ve got blood on my hands, my mind always plotting death. I’m no longer a man fit for polite and civilised company. Here in the desert is where I belong now.

  Throwing me a serious look, Rais murmurs, “I think you punish yourself too much, Nijad. The woman didn’t die; none of those injuries were life-changing. She’ll have gone on with her life. But you? You act as if yours is over.”

  “But what about the next time, Rais? I don’t know what I could do if angered again. That’s the point. That it could happen again.” I can’t hide my exasperation, not with my friend, but with myself. “I don’t remember.” I shake my head. “I just don’t fucking remember. What was the trigger? Why did I black out?”

  Gazing ahead but not actually taking in anything I’m seeing, I remind him what happened. “She had to hit me to stop me, Rais. I’ve tried for so long to reach those parts of my brain, the part which holds my secrets so securely even I can’t access them. I remember packing her bag. I was angry, but in control. I just wanted her gone. But after that? It’s just a blank. Something must have happened to enrage me to the extent that I attacked her. But what the fuck was it? What made me almost fucking kill her?” I voice the question, knowing he can’t reply.

  Rais dips his head in agreement, acknowledging the truth. There is nothing to say that could help.

  I grow quiet, lost in my thoughts. In just a few hours I will be trapped in a marriage to a woman who’s been kidnapped to become my bride. I shudder as the horses walk on. Seeming to understand my desire for contemplation, Rais maintains the
silence until an hour later when we part company, the sheikh taking his men off to the current location of the nomadic Haimi tribe. He leaves me with the invitation to visit them when my bride has settled in. Fuck knows when that will be. I watch as he rides off. A stunning sight: lively Arab horses still prancing even after the long journey, armed warriors sitting tight in their saddles. It makes me wonder how long we’ll be patrolling like this. Already we’re using drones, planes and helicopters, but nothing feels more right than getting our feet on the sand. But as in everything, traditional ways are dying.

  My moment of reflection over, I indicate to my own exhausted followers that it’s time to move on, and then turn, and start to lead the way to my desert camp. Looking at the position of the sun in the sky I can see it’s just approaching noon; we’d left for the border long before dawn and are now returning in the heat of the day. I won’t be the only one glad to be back at what I currently call my home.

  After dismounting and ensuring Amal will be taken care of, I enter my tent, folding myself down to relax against the plush cushions in front of the small table, laden with food left by my servants, ready for my return. I pour a cup of the thick sweet coffee, but as I think about the day ahead my appetite leaves me, the portion of bread turning to cardboard in my mouth. And when the satellite phone starts ringing I ignore it for as long as I can, wanting to pick it up about as much as I would a poisonous snake. My head drops down into my hands, and impatiently I brush back the strands of my long hair, which have escaped from the tie holding it back. I know who is calling me, and the reason for it. But that doesn’t mean I’m prepared.

  The call will be to confirm that my bride has arrived in Amahad, and to settle the arrangements for when I can expect her. Knowing it isn’t possible to put off the inevitable I sigh deeply, accepting my fate and answer the phone. As expected, the call is from Jasim, but I pay scant attention to what my brother is telling me. Instead, I reflect on how it’s come to this.

  I’d given up my right to select a bride as part of the terms of my banishment three years ago – or indeed to retain any choice even as to whether I marry or not. In truth, I’d have expected the emir to have selected a wife for me long before this; by now I should have been wed to a woman from my own culture, someone who would have few expectations and demands from an arranged marriage, content to manage the home and children. But the most trusted tribal leaders had been reluctant to hand over their precious daughters into the bed of the savage sheikh, and those that were willing to sacrifice their offspring only wanted to do so to get closer to the throne. The emir was disappointed that nothing came from approaches to the former, and dismissed the advances of the latter. So it’s come to this, for me to be wed to a woman from the West. A woman who will have her own view of marriage. An intelligent woman at the top of her profession. A woman from a different culture, and with expectations unlike those of an Amahadian. A woman I’m marrying solely to avenge the wrong committed against the southern tribes. It’s undoubtedly not a recipe for a perfect union.

  What kind of husband can I be? What if the events of three years ago repeat themselves? I shudder, as always unable to believe myself capable of my crime. If it hadn’t been for the emir, stepping in with a financial inducement of such a large amount that Chantelle had agreed to drop the charges, I’d now be languishing in a fucking Parisian gaol, rather than living a life of solitude in the desert. For three years I’ve avoided getting close to a woman. It’s safer that way. But now my self-imposed seclusion is to end.

  Only half listening as my brother talks, I feel a shiver of repulsion running down my spine. What would it take to provoke me? And would I be able to stop?

  “… So Kadar will bring her out this afternoon.” Jasim concludes the conversation. That’s all the information I need to hear, and it’s as much as I can take in at this moment.

  After agreeing the time of arrival I mutter a goodbye and disconnect the call. There’s only one way to handle this. I’ll do my duty and fulfil the terms of the contract, but not get close to her. Distance is the only way to guarantee her safety. I’ll try to make her understand the role she needs to play to keep her safe. The marriage won’t be real: the only reason we’re going to be joined is to satisfy the need for desert tribes’ desire for vengeance on the man who stole their money.

  I think back to the easy companionship of the tribal leader, Sheikh Rais, this morning. The last thing that I fucking want is a wife. At least here in the desert I can feel I’m playing my part to keep Amahad safe and, up to now, I could do it with no fear of the monster inside of me coming to the fore, except when an enemy crosses the border. But to trust me again with a woman? Am I ready to do that? That fucking black hole in my memory continues to hide the answer from me.

  Chapter 5

  Cara

  Engrossed in my thoughts, still running through any and every conceivable explanation for my presence here, and the likely scenarios that might ensue, I fail to notice that Tahirah has halted in front of an ornate doorway and I almost walk straight into her. I steady myself, automatically smoothing down my clothes to give my hands something to do as the maid knocks and pushes the heavy doors open. She steps back, waving her hand to indicate that I’m to enter the room. Closing my eyes briefly, in an attempt to compose myself, and drawing in a deep breath, I step through. Tahirah closes the doors behind me; they shut with an ominous clang. I have to resist the urge to swing around and open them again, to call the maidservant back, to beg her not to leave me alone. But when I see the sight in front of me, I freeze.

  Blinking slowly, my eyes open wide. Rising to his feet in front of me is the man who entered my house, dressed as a courier, just a day before. He’s holding a phone to his ear and, apart from his action in standing, ignores me as he finishes his call and puts the phone back in his pocket. Only then does he turn to face me, now giving me his full attention. This man isn’t a prince; he’s just the hired thug who was sent to collect me. A sense of relief that I’ve got a moment’s reprieve sparks something inside me, but something keeps me silent even though I want to express my disgust at what he’s done. The words catch in my throat. I watch him move towards me. As he gets close enough to loom over me I find him menacing and, unable to stand my ground, I take a step back.

  Swallowing rapidly, I notice he’s just as tall as I remember. I have to tilt my head up to see his chiselled, handsome face, dark eyes, shapely nose and a mouth currently compressed, looking almost cruel. He’s frowning. Realising I too am being assessed, I lower my gaze to the floor, knowing he will find my appearance wanting.

  Staring at the luxurious woven carpet underfoot, I try to reignite my flash of anger. What does it matter what a kidnapper thinks of me? The man who forced his way into my house? When at last I find my voice I decide to take the initiative.

  “Your name’s not Bob, I take it?”

  He starts as if he didn’t expect me to be the one to break the silence. Then he nods slowly. “I’m Sheikh Jasim Rushdi Sadiq al Kassis, Prince of Amahad,” he replies haughtily, in a way that suggests he isn’t used to introducing himself. But manners apparently require that he inclines his head, in a small polite bow, as he clarifies his name and status for me. He gives me a second to get over my evident surprise and then continues. “You are rested and well?”

  Wrapping my fury around myself like a shield, I answer his question with the disdain I feel it deserves. “I’m rested as a result of the drugs you gave me, and despite the accommodation you provided me with. But I suppose I’m as well as a kidnap victim can be.” I shudder as I recall that dark cell, and hope I won’t be going back there. But what the heck is going on? My kidnapper and a prince are one and the same. A prince abducted me? I raise my eyes to meet his and give a little shake of my head, feeling like I’ve fallen down the fabled rabbit hole.

  His gaze steadies on mine, and a flicker of something that could be disgust moves across his face. Repugnance at the kidnapping? No, that’s wishful thinking.
It has to be the way I look. I should be used to that. As my face reddens in embarrassment, I comfort myself that at least that’s something familiar in this alien land. Either way, he recovers quickly and his face becomes impassive once more as he gets down to business.

  “You will no doubt be anxious to know why we have brought you here. Come, I will take you to my brother.”

  He gestures to me to accompany him and, with perfect manners, holds the door, indicating that I should precede him. As we step out into the hallway again, the guard takes his place behind us. I’m getting used to this. The prince’s words and actions may have been polite, but there’s no doubt I’m a prisoner, not a guest.

  I become increasingly intimidated as he leads me through the vast palace. The fact that he’s so serious and makes no small talk intensifies the gravity of the situation. Oh God! They must know I abused the trust they put in me when they gave me access to their systems. So how do I exonerate myself? I know I can if they give me the chance to explain. I try to hold my head up, letting no sign of guilt show. Apart from the illegal hacking, I’ve not done anything wrong. But that’s serious enough! Trying to ignore the voice in my head, I attempt to instil confidence in myself, I follow the prince through the older parts of the palace finding, on the whole, it’s relatively unoccupied. Any servants or guards we pass pause to give a deep bow to Prince Jasim, and then continue going about their duties in silence. But as we enter a more modern area it becomes a hive of activity – the sort of environment I recognise well. Phones are ringing, people moving around with a sense of urgency. Here, Jasim is met with friendly greetings of ‘Good Morning’, and even a back slap and half hug from one guy whom he evidently hadn’t seen for a while. He doesn’t act like a prince and I wonder what his position is. I quickly realise I’m the centre of attention, some people even rising to their feet from their desks to get a better look at me. I keep my head down, avoiding the curious glances that the workers are sending my way. If only I’d been in my trustworthy black trouser suit I could have held my own in this setting, but instead I’m swishing past dressed in silk, the soft feel that I found comfortable earlier now mocking me with each step. Inwardly I cringe. Yeah, folks, get a good look at the freak. I wish the floor would open up to swallow me.