Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1)

by Manda Mellett

  The last thing I expected to be on my wedding night is nervous, but to my surprise I most definitely am. As she stands at the entrance to the tent, unmoving, staring like a fucking rabbit trapped in the headlights, I realise this is different from all my previous dealings with women. She’s not here by choice, and neither am I. Tonight will be a mating just because the emir demands it. A coupling to satisfy the requirement for revenge.

  Can I do this? I’m not a barbarian; I’m a modern man, educated in the West. Can I take a reluctant and scared woman to bed under these circumstances? Force her to accept my semen, and as a consequence make her belly swell with my child? Can I really do that?

  But while my brain tells me I’m a civilised man, my body is stirring at the sight in front of me. Her clothes fully cover her, but there are sufficient hints of what lies beneath to tempt me, to be curious to see what she’ll look like unclothed. The fitted thobe shows a shapely enough figure, and my hardening cock twitches in eagerness. The primitive music playing outside stirs something deep inside me. The primeval drum beats rouse me on a very basic level and I realise that the thought of this woman, any woman being in my bed tonight after three years’ abstinence has made my dick as hard as iron. My civilised veneer slips away from me, transforming me into a man of the desert with the hot blood of my ancestors flowing through my veins.

  I notice exactly when she sees the hard evidence of the direction my thoughts are taking, my loose trousers tenting over an erection I have no fucking hope of hiding. Abruptly, her eyes flick away and down, and rather than continuing her visual assessment of me, she is now rather avidly studying the carpet at her feet. I’m still trying to get my thoughts straight in my head when she breaks the silence.

  “I can’t do this.” Her voice comes out as an anxious whisper and is accompanied by a small shake of her head. She keeps her gaze on the floor.

  She’s trembling, but I resist any show of sympathy. I frown as I shrug; neither she nor I have any alternative. Our fate has been ordained by a piece of paper and, before that, the actions of a criminal. One thing is for certain: she’ll be in my bed, under me, tonight. She’s here to pay the price of her father’s crimes. “You signed the contract.”

  “Yes.” She’s tense, her voice shaking along with her body. “It was either that or death. What choice is that? Please, please don’t make me do this.” She looks at me just long enough for me to see a tear fall from her blue eyes, the only visible part of her. I watch as she wipes it away impatiently, impressed to see she’s trying not to cry, pleased she’s not resorting to tears to sway me, acknowledging her inner strength. Then my eyes narrow; I don’t want a strong woman. If she fights me, I’ll have to fight back.

  My hand slashes through the air. “Neither of us had a choice. We both set our signatures to signify our acceptance of the contract terms.”

  She glances up at me quickly. “But this …” She waves her hand towards me, and then her eyes drop to the carpet again, as she adds quietly: “I didn’t expect …”

  I know what she means without waiting for her to finish her sentence. “You read the contract? It was obvious this wasn’t to be a platonic marriage,” I tell her dismissively.

  She wraps her hands around her body as if trying to protect herself.

  “I know. I just thought we’d get to know each other first. But it’s obvious what you expect of me. And I can’t do it.” Once more she gathers her nerves and looks at me.

  I bark a short laugh. “You needn’t worry on that score. We’ll certainly be getting to know each other very well tonight.” I take it from the way she’s speaking that she’s probably never had a one-night stand, never recklessly fallen into bed with a man simply for sex. Getting to know someone first is having a relationship, and I’ve never wanted, nor had, to wait that long. I’ve never felt the need to know all that much at all about a person before fucking them. All I need to know about is their body, how it attracts me and how it responds to mine. After my self-imposed drought, I long to touch a woman’s breasts again, to feel their weight in my hands and to suck on the nipples. As I watch her, my wife, standing in front of me, my mouth waters as I imagine exploring her body, tasting her. I’ll make it good for her; I’ve the talent to do that. Fuck, I want to be inside her, and as quickly as I can. I’ll take her fast the first time, I won’t be able to hold myself back. Already I’m throbbing just from the thought of it. I might be unable to see what she looks like, but my cock doesn’t seem to care. She’s a woman, a receptacle waiting to be filled. I can hardly wait another fucking moment. My body tenses. I’m about to rise to my feet. Then, I frown, watching the way she’s struggling to speak, her mouth opening and closing until eventually she rasps out what is clearly her deepest fear.

  “Are you going to rape me?” The words are spoken quietly, but in a voice full of dread. She lifts her face until her worried eyes briefly meet mine, and I see her take in a deep breath as she waits anxiously for my reply.

  Fuck it! I’d thought this was going to be easy; women have fallen into my arms eagerly enough before. I’m a sheikh, a prince, for fuck’s sake. I’m handsome and I take care of my body. I used to attract women like bees to a honeypot. Is this woman completely immune to my charms? Am I going to have to force her? The consummation must go ahead. If necessary, I’ll have to take her even if she’s unwilling. But can I actually do that? She’s no longer a name thrown about in conversation. Now this scared woman is a reality standing in front of me; I know I will be unable to compel her to submit to me. I’m just not that kind of man. My automatic response to her question is to recoil enraged, and I give her the only answer I can.

  “I’ve never had to coerce a woman into my bed, and I’m not going to start tonight,” I hiss. “You’ll be willing when I take you!” I’m incensed by the idea that she thought I would use force, and I’ll call on all the weapons in my armoury to do what I’ve never had to do before. Seduce a woman. But her next words fill me with horror.

  “I’m supposed to please you, but I don’t know how. I’ve never … How am I expected to know what to do?” It comes out almost like a shout. She covers her mouth, trying to smother a gasp as if she hadn’t meant to let the words escape.

  I shake my head sadly. What ploy is this? She’s twenty-five years old for fuck’s sake, and a Westerner. She might not be very experienced, but her innocence must have been lost long ago. Does she think trying to protect her non-existent virtue would save her? Or does she think that, being Arab, I would be impressed by her pretence of virginity? I don’t want to bed an innocent. I close my eyes, considering. If she’s telling the truth, she will be paying the ultimate price for her father’s sins in giving me that precious gift women hold sacred, giving it to a man who’s not of her choosing. Fuck it! I want an experienced woman, one who knows what to expect, one who can take the pleasure I can give her and, hopefully, who’ll want to pleasure me in return. But the chances of her being a virgin must be slight. Indolently, my gaze takes her in from head to toe. And then I start to feel my anger rise, her delaying tactics annoying me. There’s no way out of this for her. She’ll end this night in my fucking bed with my cock deep inside her.

  Even at a distance, her eyes are very expressive and hide nothing from me. I can see emotions flitting across them – her confusion, and her fear. What if she’s telling the truth? If so, she’s got to be feeling terrified, being asked to perform an unknown act with a complete stranger. And it’s not as if I’m the gentlest lover in the world. I have my moments, of course, but down to the very depths of my soul I’m a sexual Dominant I can’t change that; it’s in my psyche. A virgin? Untouched? Given to a man like me? I look at her again, shaking my head. It can’t be true. It has to be a ploy designed to arouse my pity. But it won’t influence me; nothing she can say will discourage me. I have my duty to perform tonight. A duty, my cock throbs to remind me, I need to fucking get on with. She’s annoyed me with her assuredly pretentious statement.

  I rise to my
feet, my movements swift and fluid. Irritated that she’s delaying the inevitable, but also feeling curious in case she might be telling the truth, I continue to move towards her; my face is so intent, she starts to take a step back, making me stop, just before I invade her personal space.

  “Look at me.” I use a rich, dominant voice. She’s instinctively lowered her eyes to the floor again, but at my instruction she raises them. Again my cock twitches at the way she responds to me. I can’t tell if she’s truly innocent just by looking at her, but her behaviour suggests she’s a submissive. I can work with that.

  I look deeper into her eyes, holding her gaze. I can see the steel-blue irises, almost hidden by the dilated pupil. It’s plain she’s afraid, and suddenly I want to see the same dilation reflecting a state of arousal, not fear. Carrying on with my examination, I see the tribal women have applied her make-up a little too thickly for my liking, but the effect is not unpleasing. Her eyes heavily outlined with kohl and her lashes thick with mascara. The women prepared her to tempt me. I breathe in deeply as I realise I could drown in her gaze.

  “There’s no need for any pretence,” I tell her. “I do not need, nor want, a virgin wife.” As she goes to speak, I put my hand up to stop her, and continue, “I’ll know if you’re lying.” My anger’s dissipating, but I need to make one thing clear. “Never lie to me, Cara. Always tell me the truth. Starting now.” My voice and close proximity make her shiver.

  “I’m telling you the truth.” She tries to convince me, continuing quickly, “But you might not be able to tell. I used to ride a lot when I was younger. I’ve heard that …” Her voice trails off. Her nerves seemed to be making words come out of her mouth without her being able to apply a filter.

  “You’re saying that your hymen might already be broken?” Even though she’s hidden by the veil, I know she’s flushing red in front of me. I look at her intently. “I’ll still know. If you’re a virgin, you’ll be tight as hell.”

  Fuck! I hope it wasn’t true. I’m not the man to handle someone’s first time. I’m not boasting when I say I’m well endowed, larger than average. I wouldn’t want to hurt her. That’s what my mind is thinking, but my body is telling me something else. I harden to the point where I think I might explode, suddenly realising that mine might be the first fucking cock inside her! An unexpected wave of possessiveness floods through me and I become impatient to discover the truth for myself. It’s time for my bride to reveal herself.

  “Take off the veil.” I lower my voice so it is at a level that I know will resonate within her, demanding she obeys. She hesitates, and I wait. I’m not a patient man, but something tells me this is a significant moment for her. I’m slightly taken aback when I see her shoulders slump in a gesture full of defeat, and her hands hesitantly rise to remove her veil. I can’t prevent drawing in a sharp breath as she is, at last, revealed to me. I examine her carefully. Now I can see the oval shape of her face perfectly framing her delicate features, her gentle sloping cheekbones and perky nose. Even though her full lips are pursed with fear, her mouth looks like it was made for passion. Under my intense scrutiny, she turns her head away. I bring my hand up, gently grasping her chin to move it back. I continue to hold her gently, facing me. “Look at me.” I use the same dominant tone.

  Surrendering, she looks into my dark eyes, such a contrast to hers. I narrow mine, and can’t begin to comprehend what she means, when she tells me self-depreciatingly, “You got the wrong end of this bargain. I’m sorry.” Again the slight tug to escape my touch.

  My grip tightens a little. “What the hell do you mean?” There’s a touch of anger in my voice which I can’t control. The bite in my voice increases her nervousness; I feel her tension through my fingers. She tries to pull against me, so I release my hold, not wanting to scare her more that she already is.

  “What do I mean? Just look at me?” Her voice is sharp. Free, she takes a step aside, moving away from me. “This marriage is a joke.” Her eyes flicker around the room as though she looking anywhere but me. “It’s beauty and the beast, but I’m certainly not the beauty.” The final words come out as a whisper, and a tear drops from her eye.

  She might not have meant it as an admission, but I have a sudden surge of relief as I realise that, in a roundabout way, she’s just admitted she finds me attractive. Maybe tonight has possibilities after all. But referring to herself as a beast? My hands pull her back to the position she’d been standing in before. This time, I use a rougher, stronger grip as I take hold of her chin, and force her head up. Once more I command so she cannot disobey. “Eyes on me!” I speak sharply.

  “Should I put my veil back on?” She spits the words out.

  I study her, seeing unshed tears in her eyes. For some reason she thinks she’s a disappointment to me, but that assumption couldn’t be further from the truth. Her reaction arouses some long-forgotten caring instinct. I thought such feelings were dead but, instead, they must have been buried, lying dormant, deep inside of me.

  “You’re beautiful,” I tell her.

  “Beautiful?” She pulls her body up straight and snaps. “I don’t need your pity or your lies.” Taking me by surprise with her vigour, she shrugs away from my touch.

  She’s angry. It’s the first sign of animation she’s displayed since entering the tent. I’d like to see her spirited, but not when it’s at her expense. She’s intimating I’m not telling the truth, and I baulk at the suggestion I’m a liar. But I hold my temper, wondering what’s behind it all, and trying to understand her behaviour. I shake my head slowly; in truthfulness, she’s much more than I had envisaged of my kidnapped bride. But how can she not know how attractive she is? Perhaps not in a classical way; with her small, slender frame and the way her features are put together,she reminds me of a pixie.

  “Haven’t you looked in a mirror?” I ask.

  “I never look in mirrors. I know what I look like,” she barks back, almost baring her teeth, as her eyes challenge me to disagree.

  Staring at her, taking her in, I realise that, despite her apparent anger and the strength she showed in winning the battle over her tears, she’s broken. Broken, just like me. Instead of wanting to break her further, I have the sudden urge to fix her. Realising she has no fucking idea how she appears to me, I close my eyes, gathering the words to convince her. Opening them again, I give her an intense stare, confronting the defiance in her expression. Gentling my voice, I tell her, “Let me be your mirror.”

  Inching closer I push forwards until I’m invading her personal space. I raise my hand, smoothing it over her face. My fingers rest by her right eye. “Your eyes are big, and a beautiful blue.” They were shimmering with tears, but I ignore them. My hand moves down gently, but with enough pressure so she’s aware of my touch. “Your nose is small; it turns up at the end.” I smile. “I like that.” My fingers now move across her mouth. “Your lips are full and round. They’re sexy.”

  Chapter 10

  Cara

  I’ve become angry with the sheikh! I can’t help it; I know what I am, what I look like, and I can’t stand people bloody lying to me. All my life I’ve had it, and I’m sick of false platitudes. I’m overweight and scarred: let’s call it for what it is. My temper burns inside and I can’t control it, even though there’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me this is the one man in the world I seriously can’t afford to anger. I shrug his hand off my face and turn away, embarrassed by his scrutiny. A tear escapes from my eye as I admit to myself how much I want this man to want me, rather than being forced to take me – and how impossible that desire is.

  He doesn’t respond to my flash of anger in any way I expect. He tilts his face to one side, looking serious, and I tense, realising he’s not going to let it drop. He begins caressing my face, speaking to me with a voice that’s mesmerising, the same deep, authoritative tone I noticed his brothers use. I feel hysteria bubble up, fleetingly wondering whether they teach that at sheikh school or something. But as his words
drift over me, repeated so I start to absorb their meaning, he seems to be instilling a sense of calmness in me. Suddenly I begin to comprehend his words. Sexy? He thinks my mouth is sexy? For Christ’s sake, is the man blind?

  My eyes open wide as his examination and verbal descriptions continue in that velvety voice that resonates within me, instigating feelings I’ve never felt before. No one has ever touched me so gently, or even caressed me at all. The only touches I can recall are the ineffective potions and lotions applied to try to counteract the rampant acne that plagued me. The feeling of his hand on my skin is sending messages to other parts of my body, setting off a cascade of tingles reaching right down to the tips of my toes; alien sensations and longings that I’ve read about, imagined, but never experienced before. This handsome man standing before me, his bare chest allowing me to see the rippling of his muscles outlining his graceful movements … I wish he’d stop touching me; no, that’s wrong: I don’t want him to stop. No longer do I want him to walk away from me in disgust. I pray there’s something weird about him and he does find me attractive. I’m still scared, but something stronger than my fear is glueing my feet to the ground encouraging me to stay, to see where this leads. Would I enjoy being bedded by him? My breathing quickens as though my body is out of my control. The drum beats filtering into the tent have speeded up, pounding in my head, controlling the pace of blood flowing through my veins. I’m losing control of my body and my mind, and it scares me stiff.

  As he continues to examine my face, I try to break the mood. “Are you going to check my teeth next? I promise they’re all my own.”

  He laughs softly, shaking his head, and brings up his other hand so both cup and caress my cheeks.