Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (16 page)

“Here, Nijad.” Kadar attracts my attention. I’m surprised to find him grinning, and holding the parcel out to me. “It’s a present from Jasim.”

Tilting my head to one side, I’m curious. Jasim doesn’t typically send me gifts. My heart lifts slightly in expectation, hoping it signifies a renewal of our relationship. I take the parcel, strip off the outer wrapping, and cannot contain the hearty laugh that comes out of me. Still chuckling I hold out the contents for Kadar to inspect. It’s a slave chain. Now no one could accuse Jasim of being a cheapskate; it’s one which would encircle a slave’s waist and is made of pure gold, with diamonds dotted around at intervals. Another long gold chain is attached to fasten to a bed, or bolt to the floor. The padlocks are likewise made of gold and studded with rubies. But far from being just decorative, the item is sturdy and practical.

Kadar laughs with me. Trust Jasim. But as I run my hands over the beautifully made chains I wonder whether I could ever use it.
If she doesn’t come to my bed willingly or tries to escape me, could I chain her as a slave?
My mirth disappears as I shudder. Forcing a woman is something I would have to summon my inner beast to be able to do. It’s one thing to use such items in play, quite another in earnest. I feel a heavy weight settling over me as I think of the expectations of the night to come. I’m expected to consummate our marriage tonight. I can have no mercy. The people of my tribe expect it as much as the leaders and peoples of the others, and it’s not possible to keep secrets in a small camp such as this.

Kadar takes his leave as I sit in contemplation. She’s an intelligent woman and she’s signed a contract. Our coupling is not only a certainty but a business arrangement. I just hope she’ll see it that way.

Cara

Prepare me for
my sheikh?
I freeze to the spot. I want to call him back, but my voice doesn’t work. And what the hell could I say, in any event? He seems as determined to take this course of action as his brothers. Shit! That’s my future husband, and he’s done nothing to put me at my ease. But why would he? I watch him stride away, his long legs eating up the sand as he follows the path his brother had taken. He doesn’t give a damn who I am, just the fact I’m a convenient female, an incubator for his child. My eyes continue to track him until he disappears from my sight.

Prepare me?
Prepare me for what, exactly?
I swallow rapidly, and then remember the words he’d said. Are we already married? Or will be as soon as he puts his signature on the bloody document? Does that mean we will be consummating the marriage tonight? That, in only a few hours, I will be forced to be intimate with a man who, quite frankly, terrifies me? Will he hurt me?
The only people who ever caused me physical pain were the school bullies, before Hunter put a stop to it. All I can recall is that I didn’t much like having my hair pulled from my scalp and a fist in my stomach. With a low threshold for pain, I don’t think I’ll be able to cope if he hurts me.

If I’d ever had any thoughts about marrying it would have been to someone I respected, someone I’d felt was a real partner, a man of my choice. A marriage based on love and mutual attraction, not to a complete stranger with whom I have nothing in common. And definitely not this fierce, forbidding sheikh.
How the hell have I ended up here?
I curse the name Joseph Benting under my breath. These circumstances are not my fault. I can’t go through with this. I can’t, can’t! I absolutely can’t!

I look around in a panic, but there’s only endless desert stretching as far as I can see in all directions. I’m hyperventilating as I realise there is nowhere to run. I sink to the ground, putting my head in my hands. All my energy has been sapped out of me. Suddenly it seems too real as, for the first time, I start to accept this is my destiny. I’m in the desert at the total mercy of an unknown man I’m being forced to marry.

I’m vaguely aware of the women who have been watching me from a distance. As I start to have my breakdown, Lamis steps forward. She hesitates before leaning down and gently touching my arm, rubbing it softly to get my attention.

“Sheikha.” Her voice is soft and kind as she lowers herself to her knees beside me. Putting her arms around me, she hugs me to her. “Do not upset yourself.”

The gentle touch of the woman, and her apparent concern, has a calming effect; I allow myself to lean briefly into the comforting embrace. Then the words she has spoken register with me. “Sheikha?” I ask, confused.

Lamis holds me close as she mummurs gently. “Being the wife of the sheikh makes you the sheikha.” While her English is impeccable, I notice she speaks with an unfamiliar accent that I struggle to understand. It emphasises how unfamiliar and real my situation is.

Despair makes me catch back a sob in my throat. “Already?” At her sympathetic nod, I turn away and whisper softly, almost to myself. “But I don’t know him!” Suddenly it feels like the weight of everything that has happened in my life is pressed down on me. I begin to feel numb as I realise I have no choice.
I’ve never had a choice.
My future was preordained by the accident of my birth. The fact that Joseph Benting sired me has brought me to this place and time. This is my punishment solely for being the daughter of that man. All my mother’s plans to protect me have come to nothing. Any fight I might have had, leaves me.

“Come,” Lamis says softly. “Come with us.” She tries to reassure me by adding “
Wanahn sawf yreak
”. At my look of puzzlement she translates. “
We will take care of you.”

As she gently encourages me to stand, I take a deep breath and let her lead me away. A numbness takes over me, spreading throughout my body, carried by the blood in my veins. My mind closes down.

Feeling a sense of detachment, I make no protest as she takes me into a large tent. From the outside it looks a functional structure, the canvas black and austere, but the interior is brightly lit with colourful carpets on the floor, and decorated with silk wall hangings. It’s cooler inside, and I realise just how hot I’ve become standing outside in the heat of the unfamiliar desert sun. I stand, emotionless, letting them take over. Even when the women undress me and I’m naked among strangers I don’t protest, and for once in my life the worry about what they think of me is absent. With only mild interest, I note that of the five women surrounding me only Lamis appears to speak English. Once they have removed my clothes, I’m quickly encouraged to lower myself into a large hip bath. I relax back into the soothing water, my brain blank, anaesthetised, unable to cope with everything that’s happened and the speed with which it’s taken place. I let the women bathe me, not protesting even when they give me more intimate attention and start shaving my body hair. I jerk back to myself when Lamis tells me to stand so they can shave my pubic hair. I cover myself with my hands and refuse.

“No, absolutely not.”

“Yes,” Lamis insists, just as firmly. “It’s unclean. It’s our way, and the sheikh will expect it. If you don’t let us, he will be angry. You do not want to make him angry.” She translates the conversation to her companions who mutter among themselves, looking at me in consternation.

At this moment I don’t care how angry the sheikh will be, they are not touching me there. The thought of
anyone
touching those parts
is utterly humiliating. I struggle, but it’s one against five, and it soon becomes clear they are going to have their way. I’m serious about my resistance, and soon I’m screaming. Water is splashing everywhere. Of everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours, this is the most invasive, the most demeaning.

“Calm yourself, Sheikha! Or I will get guards to help.” Lamis is angry as she threatens me. I try to back away again, but the women hold me tightly. Having women forcing me is one thing, having strange men coming into the tent and seeing me in this position would be even worse. Shuddering, I give in. They shave me completely.

When the women have finished I look down at myself, smooth and devoid of all body hair. It feels weird and seems strange. It brings home the realisation that I have indeed been prepared for my sheikh. Prepared to have sex with him, to be intimate with a man from an entirely different culture and one whose expectations of me I can’t begin to comprehend. I’m so scared, I forget to breathe. I’ve never even been with a man before, so cannot imagine what he’s going to ask of me.

I make no further rebellion, and let the women do as they wish. After they dry me, they massage aromatic oils into my skin. Trays of food are brought in and, although technically I should be starving, when I try to eat I find even the simple acts of chewing and swallowing are impossible. After a short while, I push the food away. Thoughts, worries, regrets go round and round my mind as I try to resign myself to an immediate future I am powerless to prevent. They call it a bride price; I have a different
word for it. I’m being bought and sold like a whore. As evening falls I have to fight down the bile that rises from my stomach, and I’m glad I didn’t manage to get any food down; it wouldn’t have stayed long.

I’m aware that the time has come when the women bring in a pile of clothing. Like a Barbie doll, I let them dress me in pretty underwear, and then in a different pair of loose silk trousers. Lamis presents me with a thigh-length tunic, a thobe, to wear over the top. The tunic has buttons up the front and is pretty and embroidered. It is shaped rather than being completely loose.

My long hair is brushed out and dries quickly in the warm air. The women leave it down, not allowing me to pull it back in my regular utilitarian ponytail. Kohl is used to outline my eyes, and the women spend time putting other concoctions on my face. I know it’s a waste of time; you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. But the attention has a hypnotic effect, and I find myself reaching an acceptance of the inevitability of it all when Lamis puts her hand on my shoulder.

“You will wait here. The sheikh will summon you soon.”

The sheikh will summon me!
Although just a moment ago I thought I’d accepted my fate those five words make me go cold, and a shiver runs down my spine even in the heat of the air surrounding me. I start to swallow rapidly, and I feel my heartbeat speeding up.
Is this really happening? Am I going to lose my virginity tonight?
My body clenches, my legs squeezing together at the thought of being violated by a man I don’t know, and my instinctive reaction is to promise myself, however futile the action might be, I’ll fight him off. Anything to prevent a mating because of a signature on a piece of paper, like a bitch taken to a stud dog chosen only for his pedigree. My eyes rest on the uneaten food, and home in on the knife lying across the plate. Glancing round I see the women are talking among themselves and paying no attention to me. Could I arm myself? Having no real idea what I’m doing or whether I’d have the guts to use a weapon in any event, I slowly reach out my arm and slide the knife across to me. There’s a cloth napkin I use to bind round my wrist, slipping the knife in so it lies against the inside of my arm. I make sure my sleeve covers it. I’ve never thought about hurting anyone in my life before, but if he tries to hurt me maybe I could make some attempt to protect myself. The cold steel is gradually warming against my wrist, but I remain conscious of its presence. Not entirely sure what the hell I think I could do with a blunt knife I freeze, rethinking the plan. This is ridiculous: I could anger him and
make
him hurt me. Just as I’m deciding to get rid of it Lamis returns, and I lose my chance.

“It’s time,” she says, softly. “Come, Sheikha.”

Rising to my feet and standing I let her place a scarf over my head and a veil over my face. I stumble slightly as she leads me outside into the darkness of the night. My feet falter as I approach the entrance to a much larger tent, situated a little distance away from the rest. Lamis guides me on and, after pulling back the covering over the entrance, ushers me into the tent. I enter. I’m left alone and face-to-face with the man who has become, with a complete lack of pomp or ceremony, my husband.

There’s charcoal burning on a small stove with some incense smouldering on the coals; the aromatic scent of sandalwood and other spices fills the air. Warm light glows from lamps hanging from hooks in the ceiling, illuminating the rich furnishings and tapestries adorning the walls. Music is playing outside the tent, drums beating to a primitive rhythm, but I can hardly hear it over the loud beating of my heart. I try to look anywhere but at the man in front of me, but avoiding looking at him doesn’t offer much comfort because my gaze instead falls on the enormous bed that seems to dominate the interior and my eyes widen at the sight. I look away fast, swallowing hard at the thought of what that item of furniture will be used for. Unable to avoid it any longer, I slowly turn back and, for the first time, dare to look at the man to whom I’m apparently married.

Robes no longer hide him from my view. Naked to the waist, wearing only loose cotton trousers, he’s lounging back on large cushions scattered on the floor in front of the bed. He has removed his headdress, allowing me to see his dark, near-black hair which hangs down to his shoulders. Now able to see his face, I take an indrawn breath, appreciating he’s probably the most strikingly handsome man that I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s more than I expected, more than I hoped, and far more than I can handle. My chest tightens, and I have to make a conscious effort to exhale and then take a breath in again as I make a more detailed study. His face is narrow. Chiselled cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide, generous mouth form an almost fierce, warrior-like expression. He has stubble around his chin, whether because he hasn’t shaved or he’s purposefully left it there, I can’t tell – but it serves to give him a rakish air. His broad, muscular chest is criss-crossed with scars, making me wonder how he came by them. He’s got just a sufficient smattering of hair to enhance his masculinity and, lower on his stomach, the trail arrows down, dipping beneath the cloth that covers him. I swallow compulsively. He is terrifying, scaring me in ways I’ve never been scared before. I’ve never seen a half-naked man up close in the flesh before, so perhaps this tightening of my vaginal muscles is a perfectly natural reaction to any member of the male species. My immediate response to him unnerves me.