“Not by blood,” spat the Sheikh. “Just by lust, betrayal, and humiliation. And that is what will define the rest of your life, little girl. Just like it did for my father in his last days. Just like it did for me when I was a young Sheikh finding his way in the world. I thought I had forgotten it all, buried it so deep it didn’t exist. But seeing you has opened something up in me, brought back memories I didn’t know existed.” He shook his head. “Lust. Betrayal. Humiliation. The legacy of my family.” His twisted smile widened, and though his teeth were perfectly aligned and white as snow, Maddy felt a chill run through her as she stared upon the face of her captor, her owner . . . and her stepbrother. “And so welcome to the family, Maddy. Welcome to your family.”
6
Sheikh Imraan watched the capital city of Wahaad expand beneath him as his private plane descended toward the perfectly straight main runway of the small airport. There were plans to expand the runways, build a new terminal, add a dozen new international flights a week. Wahaad was on the rise, an old kingdom moving into the new world. But none of it made the Sheikh happy. Not today. Today he was thinking about the girl in a cage. And that made him happy.
Ya Allah, am I a madman? A psychopath? A twisted caricature of a human being? I have my stepsister locked in a cage, stripped from the waist down like some whore, deprived of food and water for the past eighteen hours at least, if not more. And I am happy? Happy?
He forced a smile as he brushed aside those memories that were creating a strange restlessness behind the sickening happiness he felt. Memories of that little girl on the grounds of the Royal Palace of Wahaad. A part of him knew he was missing something, missing a part of the story, perhaps the most important part of the story. After all, Maddy must have been at least five years old in those memories. Old enough to walk. Old enough to talk. Old enough to bare her little fists and fight as they trained near the fountains of the East Wing of the Royal Palace. If everything Imraan believed were true, how could that scene fit in? How could there be memories of all of them in the Royal Banquet Hall, the old Sheikh and his two wives, each of them with their child by their side, all of them laughing and joking as smiling attendants served them steaming dishes fresh from the kitchens of the palace?
For a moment he thought of calling old man Morris and simply asking him. The old bastard was the only one alive who would know the true story, the full story, yes? After all, Imraan’s father was killed in a plane crash. And both Sheikhas—Imraan’s mother as well as Maddy’s mother—died by their own hand: a suicide pact that was supposedly to save face but instead had broken the spirit of the Wahaadi people, broken the spirit of the young son they left behind.
But what about the daughter, the Sheikh thought as his mind drifted back to the woman in a cage. Clearly her father had told her very little, if anything about her background. And clearly there was a fight going on inside her, just like that battle raged on inside him.
A flash of pity, a splinter of remorse, a hint of guilt. But the Sheikh was an expert at brushing aside any emotions that weakened his resolve, and he closed his eyes and tightened his jaw and suddenly those thoughts were gone like smoke on a cold desert night. This was fate, and nothing was going to stop him. Not those brown eyes of hers that did something to him even though he hated to admit it. Not those curves of hers that made him hate himself for wanting her. Not that feminine scent that had invaded his senses when he pushed his face between her thighs . . . his stepsister’s thighs . . . and inhaled deep of her musk.
Ya Allah, I am a monster, he thought as the plane landed with a bump that he knew would jolt the woman in the cage. But so is she. An abomination created by illegitimate lust. Yes, she is a monster just like I am. And since it is her existence, her birth, her entry into this world that twisted me into this monster, it is only right that I repay the favor by twisting her into what she truly is, was destined to be.
The Sheikh unbuckled his seatbelt and strode to the plane’s holding area as the jet slowly taxied to the private terminal, where three silver Range Rovers were waiting patiently on the tarmac for the king’s arrival. He’d planned to humiliate her by having her carried out in the cage, half naked like some beast he’d captured. But when he entered her presence and looked into her eyes—brown eyes that were alert and defiant, alive and unbroken—he knew he could not do it. She was his. His alone. This was between the two of them. It was no one else’s goddamn business.
Satisfied at the explanation he’d given himself, telling himself he wasn’t conceding to those eyes that seemed to look so deep into him, the Sheikh tossed Maddy’s faded black jeans to her through the bars of the cage. Then he glanced at her underwear, crumpled and still damp, and he shook his head as he felt his cock move, his mind swirl, that strange feeling of being a monster somehow making him perversely happy.
“These I will keep,” said the Sheikh, grinning as he held her black panties up.
Maddy snorted, those eyes of hers never leaving his. “I figured. You’re just a sick little pervert in a muscle-bound body, aren’t you? You know what, keep these too.” She grabbed her jeans and tossed them back out through the bars, pulling her legs up against her body so her crotch was covered. She smiled, and the Sheikh could see the challenge in her eyes. “Now what, my sick little stepbrother? You’re going to parade your sister naked through the streets of your kingdom? Show the people who you really are?”
Imraan took a breath as he stared at the panties in his hands, her crumpled jeans on the floor. He glanced at her, feeling himself harden again when he saw her thick thighs pulled up against her body, her feet tight together, ankles perfectly covering the dark space between her legs. It was somehow both obscene and elegant at the same time, and the Sheikh had to swallow hard to hold back from ripping open that cage door and spreading those legs, pushing his face back in there, showing her that he did own her, that he was in charge.
But he held back, taking another deep breath and then smiling. “First of all, I am your big brother, little girl. And secondly, do not underestimate who I really am. I can have you strung up naked in front of the Grand Mosque and flogged if I so desire.”
Maddy shrieked in laughter, bending forward, her heavy cleavage trembling as she giggled almost uncontrollably. The Sheikh could tell she was at the edge of her sanity—after all, she’d been kidnapped, starved, and almost raped over the past three days—but yet she was standing eye to eye with him in this strange battle, challenging him as he stood there with her panties in his hand while she sat on her bottom, naked and vulnerable but still in the game, still fighting, still unbroken.
“Go ahead,” she whispered through her manic laughter, looking up at him from the floor of her cage. “Do it. I dare you. I fucking dare you!”
The Sheikh clenched his fist as a twisted rage surged inside his hard body. He wanted to hurt her. Slap her across the face. Turn her over and spank her so hard she cried like the little girl she was. Fuck her until she screamed for mercy. But he also knew she’d won this round. He wasn’t going to let anyone else see her naked. She was his, and somehow, someway, though perhaps she didn’t even consciously realize it, this woman knew she was his and his alone.
He stood there in silence, knowing that if he turned and walked away it would mean he’d conceded, given in, been broken by her will. That wasn’t going to happen.
I can cover this cage with a tarpaulin and have it carried out like she is some exotic beast of mystery, he thought as that twisted smile contorted his face once again. But a quick glance around the holding area made it clear that there wasn’t anything large enough to work.
And then Imraan got it. He smiled and nodded, glancing down at the panties in his hand, the crumpled jeans on the floor. “All right, my stubborn little stepsister,” he whispered, his smile growing as he picked up her jeans and slowly walked towards her cage. “If you will not dress yourself, then I will do it for you.”
7
Maddy pulled her legs closer against her body as she watched the Sheikh tower above her outside the cage. He looked tall and broad, powerful and majestic, the bulge at the front of his brown silk trousers making her wet in the most sickening, beautiful way. She had very few memories of him, of that time twenty years ago—but there were memories buried in there somewhere. She could feel it. She could taste it. She could smell it.
She inhaled deep of his scent as she watched him pace around her cage slowly, like a predator waiting to pounce. But somehow she didn’t feel like prey. She didn’t feel like a victim. And although there was fear, it was the kind that Maddy relished somehow. Why was that? What kind of a twisted woman was she to be sitting here half-naked, aroused and wet while a man who was in total control of the situation had her in a goddamn cage?
“How’s that broken lip feeling?” she asked as she heard him stop behind her outside the bars of the cage. “You ready for another round? Maybe I’ll break your perfectly shaped nose this time.”
“Perfectly shaped? So then you noticed,” he whispered from behind, and she could hear the amusement in his voice. He was close, very close, and Maddy wanted to turn but she stayed firm, not giving in to the urge to whip around and either strike at him through the bars or crawl to the other side of the cage. “That is not the only perfectly shaped part of my body,” he growled from behind her, his face so close she felt his warm breath on her bare neck. “Though you will not get the pleasure of that quite yet, little girl.”
Maddy snorted, resisting the urge to jump away from him as the fear rose up in her to where she was almost wild with anticipation. God, she was a sick creature, wasn’t she. Maybe she deserved to be here with this beast who said he was her stepbrother. This animal of a man who was—
And then she felt him grab her shoulders from behind, twist her around until she faced him, and as she gasped for breath she saw that he’d silently taken off his thick leather belt and looped it around the cold steel bars of her cage.
“What the fu—” she screamed as he pushed her face down and grabbed her arms through the bars, pulling her wrists together and tying that belt tight before she realized what was happening. “I’m going to—”
“You’re going to do nothing but obey,” he said, pulling the belt tight until she was flat on her stomach, facing the bars of the cage. “Also, you are correct. I do not want to take a punch to my perfectly shaped nose. So please sit still while I dress you.”
Maddy blinked as the Sheikh stood and walked around to the front of the cage, unlocking it and stepping in. She heard him behind her, and then there was silence. Somehow she knew he was standing there and staring down at her naked bottom spread before him, and although the thought was sickening, she could feel the wetness ooze out of her and onto the cold floor of her prison. What was he going to do?
“I will give you one chance,” he said quietly. “Nod your head and say you will dress yourself, and I will untie you and step outside the cage. Go ahead. All you have to do is nod your head. Give in. Submit.”
She could hear the challenge in his voice, the way he’d said the last three words. “Give in.” “Submit.” He was responding to her dare with his own, wasn’t he? He knew she wasn’t going to submit. He was taunting her, playing her, forcing her to make the choice that unleashed whatever he was going to do next.
And what was he going to do next? Dress her like she was a doll? Spank her bottom and make her beg for mercy? Drop those silk trousers of his and show her that other “perfectly shaped” part of his body?
Maddy knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, but she couldn’t deny that the mixture of fear and arousal was making her breathe heavy, making her heart race, making her eyelids flutter. Images from two decades ago were pulling at the fringes of her swirling mind, memories that were faint but somehow tied to emotions that she knew ran deep. There was a reason this was happening, it suddenly occurred to her. She couldn’t understand why, but she somehow knew she had to play this sick game through to the end. More importantly, she had to win.
She had to win.
And so when he asked her again to submit, she spat onto the floor and cursed him, called him a pervert and a psycho, kicked out her legs wildly when she felt him grab her from behind and try to pull her panties up over her rear globes. She screamed like a madwoman, realizing how insane it was that she was fighting off his attempts to put her clothes back on, the realization making her arousal spiral upwards to where she wanted to raise her ass and spread for him.
Still she kicked and fought, and then she felt his palm come down on her ass, the first slap sending a vibration through her body that rattled her teeth and made her eyes roll up in her head. And then he was spanking her again, left cheek and right cheek, his heavy open palms coming down clean on the meaty part of her buttocks. The slaps rung out like gunshots as she screamed, but even through the pain she somehow understood that he was being careful to spank her just right, to make sure he was angling his slaps so he wouldn’t put any pressure on her hips or get her on her tight thigh muscles where the pain would be too much. She was tied and caged, but somehow she felt safe with him, and she screamed again and raised her bum for him as he spanked her.
“There we go,” he gasped from behind her, and she could hear the arousal making his voice thick, like he was choking from desire. He spanked her one last time, and then he placed his hands on her raw, stinging buttocks and massaged her carefully and slowly, his strong palms kneading her ass until she hung her head down and lay flat, exhausted, with tears streaking down her face but for some insane reason smiling.
She was smiling because his voice had brought back a memory—a memory of the two of them, a little girl crying after taking a hit from a swinging punching bag, an older boy comforting her even though he’d been the one egging her on to hit the moving bag that was way too big for her.
“We only get better and stronger if we try to do things we cannot,” the boy was saying to her in that memory. “We have to reach beyond ourselves to grow. The next time you get hit by the bag, you will laugh! And the time after that you will laugh harder! Until finally you will not get hit by the bag at all because you are better, stronger, faster! You see, Maddy?”
The little girl in the dream nodded earnestly, staring up at her tall, strong stepbrother with wide eyes. And the woman on the floor of the cage widened those same eyes, tear-filled and older but still earnest, still looking to grow, to reach beyond herself.
“Why do you hate me?” she asked absentmindedly. “Why do I hate you? What happened? What happened to us, Imraan? What happened?”
She heard his heavy breathing stop for a moment, and then his hands left her body and she felt a chill go through her. Only now did it occur to her that she was naked with her stepbrother, tied to the bars of a cage, her ass stinging from being spanked like a whore. Where was all this emotion coming from? All this hate? All this . . . desire? Who were they, the two of them? Twisted, broken, warped. Were they born this way or did someone turn them into these creatures?
“I told you what happened,” he replied from behind her. “You happened.”
Maddy shook her head, unable to turn and look at him. “But I remember us together. There are memories, Imraan. Hazy, buried, but real. I lived with you at the Palace. I know it. I must have been four or five, so what you’re saying doesn’t make sense.” She paused and took a breath, exhaling slowly. “And if I have memories, then you do as well. Which means you know it doesn’t make sense. Either you’re lying to yourself, lying to me, or we’re both missing part of the story. We’re both missing part of what made us who we are: These angry, violent people who crave pain, relish fear, need it . . . I . . . I don’t know what I’m saying. But I feel . . . I feel like . . . oh, God, I just don’t fucking know!”
And then she was crying, her chest heaving so hard she was gasping against the floor of her cage. And suddenl
y he was on top of her, this stranger who was her stepbrother, her captor, her partner somehow in this twisted tale that was unfolding between them. His heavy body crushed hers like a protective blanket, and somehow she knew he was crying too, though she couldn’t see or hear it. It was messed up.
So messed up.
8
“It was you who messed it up, not I,” said Begum Gaurina, grimacing in the mirror as she dabbed at her blue eyeshadow and then glanced at the reflection of Begum Khalifa in the handmade oval mirror hanging in the main dressing room of their Paris penthouse apartment. “That old fart Morris was not supposed to sell my daughter to your twisted son like she is a piece of meat!”
Khalifa’s jaw tightened as she glared back at Gaurina, the two women framed in the gold-plated mirror like it was a photograph. “It was you who turned your daughter into a piece of meat to be bought and sold the moment you agreed to this scheme, you old cunt,” she replied, raising one perfectly plucked eyebrow as she spoke.
Gaurina froze, holding her brush halfway to her eyelids, her mouth hanging open for a moment. Then she burst out laughing, and Khalifa joined in, the two of them cackling like witches in the woods as they shared the long, velvet-cushioned bench and finished their makeup ritual before their weekly dinner at the restaurant Daniel on the banks of the River Seine. They’d lived here in secret exile almost two decades now, and they rarely left their lavish apartment for anything other than their weekly dinner out and the occasional walk through the fashion district.
Not that they showed off the latest fashions or their expensive makeup when they left the house: The two old queens were always covered in their burkhas and hijabs. Not because they were particularly bound to tradition or religion—they weren’t—but because in this age of cell-phone cameras and digital facial recognition and whatnot, they couldn’t take any chances of being recognized. They were dead. Anonymous. Out of sight, out of mind. That was the price they’d agreed to pay for what they’d done twenty years earlier, for what they’d done to their families, done to their children.
Ransomed for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 13) Page 4
