If Merc hadn’t been so quick on his feet, they wouldn’t have made it out alive. Her father had told her Merc was the deadliest, most skilled operative he’d ever trained, even above Nightshade herself.
That had stung.
But, now that she'd witnessed his skill firsthand, she understood why her father didn't hesitate to put her life in his hands.
But had it cost Merc his own life?
The tent flap snapped open, yanking her morbid thoughts. Three women wearing the traditional hijab, covered from head to toe except for their faces, rushed inside, twittering and chattering in the local Farsi language. Though their thick and guttural accents made it difficult, Nightshade understood every word. The women were the Sheik's wives, and they were absolutely ecstatic over catching a glimpse of the other prisoner, the man they’d dubbed ‘the giant’ tied up in a tent not far from here.
So Merc was alive and being held prisoner.
She’d have to bide her time and wait on him to rescue her, then rely on him to take care of her. Ugh. As if she weren’t fully capable of incapacitating half this little village on her own. But Caroline Cotter, her twin sister, wouldn’t be that capable. Her sister had never been trained on evasion and defense tactics. She wouldn't know what pressure points would render a man completely unconscious. In this situation, she would be utterly panicked and scared.
“Did you see how big his arms are? Nearly as big around as Amir’s fat leg!” a shrill voice tittered. Nightshade pegged the high-pitched voice to an equally sharp face.
“Rose, lower your voice. If he finds out we snuck a peek at the prisoner, he'll have us all stoned to death,” another wife said, this one as filled out as Rose was narrow.
“If only our Amir looked like that,” a third voice sighed. “I wouldn't mind warming his bed in the least.”
All three of them sighed.
“What are you griping about, Sarah? Amir doesn't call you to his bed nearly as much as he used to.” This wife was older, more mature, if you could call late twenties mature compared to the near teen-like appearance of the other two.
“It's been many moons since he summoned you, you should be thankful,” she continued, “I was his only wife for many years, I’ve put in my time and I'm not the least bit sorry for you. Besides, once she heals enough, you two won't have anything to worry about.”
Another giggle. “Mary, I like what you’re thinking. Not to have that fat pig writhing between my thighs, Allah will have answered our prayers!”
Anger burned through Nightshade, but she kept her mouth shut as the women continued to go on about how the Sheik would take her as his fourth wife. Over her dead body. Pretense or no pretense, she’d slit the Sheik's throat before she let him near her.
Finally, Mary broke into the conversation, taking charge. “Rose, bring fresh water. We need to clean her back and get her healthy quickly. Sarah, fetch some bandages. Her arm seems to be healing well, but I'm not taking any chances.”
Nightshade pretended to sleep and listened to their rushed footsteps around the tent as Mary began removing the bandages on her back. Nightshade tried to stay still and quiet as long as she could, but around the tenth time Mary jabbed a fingernail into a sore, Nightshade hissed. “Watch it.”
Mary screamed and fell back on her bony hands. Nightshade glared at the trio.
“What did she say?” The shrill one, Rose, asked.
Mary, who was just now recovering from her shock, climbed to her feet and dusted her hands. “I have no idea.”
“What are we supposed to do now?” Sarah asked. The small, quiet girl reminded Nightshade of a child, and she had to fight a sudden rush of sympathy.
Mary slowly approached, gesturing to Nightshade’s back and then the bowl of water on the floor. “Clean?” She gestured again, dipping a cloth into the water, then holding it aloft.
Nightshade was in no mood to play nice. As Mary eased closer, she snapped, and Mary immediately yanked her hand away.
“What's wrong with her? Do you think she's addled?” Rose whispered.
“Could be. I overheard the men saying they found them outside the big palace explosion.”
Nightshade rolled her eyes. Forcing herself to remember her mission. Her team, her sister, her entire world was on the line. And this place had become a barrier to her plans. If she didn't make it back to the United States soon, there was a very real chance her team would be tortured by Cotter and die.
She had to figure out how long she'd been here, and then she needed to stock up on some supplies like food and water and clothing.
The trio gasped as she pushed herself to a sitting position, wrapping the sheet around her chest. She fought off a fresh wave of dizziness, holding silent and steady until she was able to sit upright without passing out.
“Water?” She gestured, making a drinking motion with her hand.
Sarah rushed to the sideboard to pour water into a gold cup before passing it to her. Nightshade took the glass and tipped it up, keeping one eye on the women at all times.
“What do you think she'll do next?” Rose whispered.
It was all Nightshade could do not to roll her eyes again. I’ll chop off your ears…
What she wouldn’t give for her Baretta right now. And her own space. Not that she minded changing in front of other women, she’d done it her whole life. But her teammates had never ordered her to strip for inspection as the virgin sacrifice.
Looks like she’d have to go straight up old school biblical on their asses. Eye for an eye. They wanted to use her as a sex slave? She’d use them to get what she needed.
She finished the water and placed her cup on the ground. This tribe possessed obvious wealth and privilege based on the expensive rugs and goblets and trunks scattered about the tent, so she knew they would have supplies on hand. Nightshade made a gesture for food, and once more, Rose snapped to attention and rushed out of the tent.
“What is your name, child?” Mary asked in Farsi.
Nightshade tipped her head to the side, pretending not to understand.
Mary sighed and turned to Rose. “It will go much harder for her not speaking our language.”
“Should we help her?”
“We will wait and see.”
“Should I go tell the Sheik that she's awakened?”
Mary snorted. “Not yet. Even if the girl is an adult, she needs more time to recover. He will not wait to take her if he sees she's conscious, and I don't want him to kill her.” Mary faced Sarah, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Because then he would return to your bed.”
Sarah slapped a hand to her throat. “You're right. He’ll make her his wife as soon as he can. What do we do?”
“We get her healthy and then turn her over to him. She’ll keep him occupied for a very long time.”
It took all of Nightshade's control not to react to their plot. Too bad she didn’t plan on getting ‘better’ any time soon. She’d play sick and buy more time for Merc to play savior.
For a few more days anyway.
First things first, she needed clothes. Caroline wouldn't know to steal clothes and blend in with the locals, and if Nightshade were to keep up the pretense, neither could she.
She stood, clutching the sheet to her chest, and gestured at her body.
As a collective unit, Mary and Sarah stepped back, holding each other like she had the plague. “What now?” Sarah whispered.
Nightshade gestured to her sheet and then their robes, praying the women had enough sense to realize she wasn’t about to lie around the tent naked waiting on a fat Sheik to come and ravish her.
“I think she wants clothing.” Mary, the only one who seemed to have an ounce of sense, approached with tentative steps, as if she’d take off running if Nightshade made a move. When she stood a foot away, she pointed at her own back then Nightshade’s and shook her head. “No. Your back is too injured.”
Nightshade glanced at her back to see the partially removed patchwork of banda
ges. She’d had worse. Much worse. Clothing would irritate the superficial wounds, but that was a sacrifice she could handle. She’d need clothes to escape.
Mary wagged a finger in her face, and Nightshade, tired of playing charades, twisted a knot in the top of the sheet and strode to the first chest, flipping the lid open. Gold and jewel encrusted knives and swords sparkled, mesmerizing her with their beauty. Reverently, she touched the hilt of a ten-inch knife laden with rubies and sapphires. Next to that, a short sword, its golden blade engraved and ribbed near the hilt, so as to rip the flesh of the person impaled.
Beautiful. A weapon cache at her disposal, if she didn’t start drooling over them first.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to close the lid, flipping up her nose as if she couldn’t care less about the treasure trove of death dealers. The next chest revealed goblets and plates and silverware, enough to buy a truckload of rifles and grenades and ammo.
“What is she doing?” Sarah whispered behind her.
“Looking for clothes. The girl is stubborn. Amir will gladly beat it out of her.”
“Can’t we just give her something, then? Make her lay down before someone else realizes she's awake.”
Nightshade purposefully rattled a stack of plates. Mary was on her in an instant, her bony hand wrapped around Nightshade’s wrist, tugging her back. Sarah swooped around and slammed the lid shut.
“Foolish girl. I don’t pity you your fate. Go. Sit.” Mary pointed at the bed. Nightshade lifted her chin and gestured to her clothes once more.
She gave a regal nod. “Yes, yes. Go.”
Nightshade crossed the wide tent, savoring the plush rugs beneath her bare feet, and stood next to the bed. Mary went to a trunk on the opposite wall and lifted out a sleeveless white linen nightgown that tied on the sides.
“Let me help you so you don't hurt yourself.” Mary held the gown in front of her.
Nightshade cocked her head to the side, keeping up the pretense of not understanding, until Mary got close enough for Nightshade to snatch the dress from her grip. The sudden movement sent a slash of pain deep in her shoulder and she couldn’t help but waver on her feet. Idiot. She knew better.
“Stupid girl, you’ve reopened your wound.” Mary crowded her, forcing Nightshade to shove the woman back or sink onto the bed. She chose the bed.
Normally, she’d fight her way out, but not today. Not as Caroline. And not injured.
Obedient, she lay back, allowing Mary and her sharp fingers to cleanse and re-bandage her shoulder. When she finished, Nightshade tried to pull on the gown only to have Mary extract it from her grip and untie the right side. Then she helped Nightshade slip it over her head and re-tie most of the strings. “Rest, now.”
“Thank Allah, Amir was asleep.” Rose rushed into the room carrying a covered tray. “I grabbed what I could.”
Sarah took the tray from her and placed it on the mattress beside Nightshade, taking the lid off to reveal fresh cheeses, smoked meats, and hard bread. Enough calories to last her two days.
She leaned up on her good arm, careful this time not to re-injure her shoulder, and devoured what she could. Unfortunately, her strength sapped quickly, leaving her unable to finish half the serving.
“We have a plan then. Neither of us will tell anyone she is awake. She needs at least a few more days to recover,” Sarah said.
Rose gasped as if the world had ended. “What if Amir finds out? He will have us stoned to death.”
“And if he takes her too soon? Don’t tell me Amir has suddenly turned into a kind and gentle lover?” Mary replied.
“But...but...” Rose stuttered.
Mary grabbed the younger wife’s arm in a tight grip. “Yes, you will see to his needs tonight. And Sarah tomorrow. And then, when his pale beauty is ready, she will see to his needs for a very, very long time.”
Chapter 4
Three days. Three days Nightshade had to endure pretending to be weak and hurt and helpless until she was ready to yank out her hair and scream with frustration. She was skating a thinning line of tolerance, nearly unable to keep up the pretense of pain in the wives’ presence. Weakness was a flaw. A failure. It was something she abhorred and now she’d immersed herself in the act of frailty.
And as if that weren’t enough, Merc had failed to show. So much for him being the deadliest, most skilled soldier on Earth. Good thing she wasn't Sleeping Beauty because by now the dragon would have eaten her whole. She was going to escape tonight, with or without the man.
But her dragon wasn't a monster – not in the fairytale sense – it was Sheik Amir.
Nightshade kicked an empty bowl across the floor, savoring the loud thud as it slammed into a leather trunk. She’d spent her meager free time going through the trunk of weapons, stashing a few here and there in strategic locations. She'd even managed to get a decent change of clothes, not that she had been allowed to leave the tent to scope out the tribe.
Sarah rushed in with a bundle of clothes in her arms, Mary right on her heels, the tent flap snapping shut behind her, moving faster than Nightshade had seen her move in her entire stay. Rose came in right behind her, clutching a folded privacy screen, which she quickly set up in the corner.
Sarah tossed her bundle on the mattress and then shooed Nightshade behind the hastily erected screen. Curious, she obliged.
“Bring it in. Quickly.” Mary clapped her hands and two men dressed in typical Middle Eastern garb labored inside, each clutching the handle of a heavy copper tub.
They dropped it in the middle of the room and left. Next, a row of men entered, carrying buckets of steaming hot water and pouring them into the tub. The procession took nearly ten minutes, after which Nightshade was left alone with the wives once more.
Sarah gestured for her to come out from behind the screen as Rose uncorked a dark green bottle and poured a sweet-smelling liquid into the water. Mary made a grab for the ties on her gown, but Nightshade easily ripped out of the older woman's grasp.
“Don't be silly, girl. He's tired of waiting for you. We must bathe and prepare you.”
Nightshade stared the older woman down. Mary gestured to the bathtub, but Nightshade slowly shook her head and pointed to the door. “Privacy.”
Mary kept gesturing like she hadn't spoken, not that she could understand Nightshade anyway. Nightshade gestured for the women to leave, and after another silent war, Mary threw up her hands with a disgusted sigh and stormed out of the tent. All it took was a glare, and the other two wives scuttled out behind her.
The steaming bathwater called out her name. The tepid bowl baths she’d had during her stay were just enough to knock the smell off, but left her feeling dirty. Nightshade quickly shucked her nightdress and eased into the tub. The hot water stung her back at first, but she quickly adjusted, reveling in the sweet scent of flowers.
Although she wanted nothing more than to stay there until the water turned cold, she didn’t want to be caught vulnerable. She forced herself to soap and wash her hair and body and get out, quickly drying off and wrapping the large bath towel around her.
Mary must have been listening just outside the tent because she rushed in a second later, Sarah and Rose right behind her, each carrying satchels.
“Definitely smells better.” Mary sniffed the air.
Rose dropped her satchel on the ground. “Yes, the Sheik will definitely be pleased.”
“She's so pale,” Sarah said.
“Like a ghost. Men, Allah forbid I ever understand them,” Mary said.
“But if it means we're not in his bed anymore, I'll make her the most beautiful ghost on the planet.” Rose reached into her bag and pulled out cases of cosmetics.
Nightshade scowled at the girls. Number one, she didn't wear makeup. Number two, they were talking about her like she was a slab of meat as opposed to a human being. Well, they had another thing coming. She’d be gone by nightfall, even if she had to slit the Sheik's throat and rescue Merc herself.
She yanked the garment from the bed and held it up for inspection, surprised at the silky texture of the sapphire blue material. The first piece she tilted right, then left, looking for the missing material.
Mary took the garment, held it over her generous bosom, and Nightshade realized it was a top of some sort. A top that would only cover her boobs.
The pants she lifted next, holding them high to peer through the matching transparent material. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What did she say?”
Nightshade tossed the pants on the floor, toeing them across the room. Rose gasped and dove for them as if they were precious jewels. “Those are silk!”
“I can’t believe she doesn’t like them,” Sarah said.
Mary snatched the pants from Rose. “She might not like them, but if she doesn’t put them on, I’ll call in Muhammad to hold her down while I dress her myself.”
* * *
Merc shook his head, trying to clear it of the thick fog of pain and disorientation. The days melded together in one long never-ending train of torture. He’d lost his ability to distinguish what was real and what was a figment of his imagination.
He could count one blessing, though: his arms had finally gone numb.
He’d come to days ago, at least he thought it was days, dangling from the ceiling. They’d placed a thick rough-cut log across his shoulders, draped his arms over it and tied his wrists to the ends. From the log, another rope stretched to the ceiling, pulled tight, so that he had to balance on the balls of his feet. But those weak moments when his legs gave out and his shoulders and arms took his full weight – excruciating agony stole his ability to think. To focus. To do anything but grit his teeth to keep from screaming.
Merc shifted his weight to his right foot, that small movement enough to send a spike of pain across his body. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew he’d taken the brunt of the explosion on his back. He could feel the dried caked sores all over. But worse than that were the newer cuts, the ones imposed by his captor, Salaam.
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