Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1)

by Manda Mellett

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Her voice has a tremble to it. The strong, confident woman I’ve become used to seeing has disappeared. I’ve taken that from her, and I hate it, even though she’s brought it on herself.

  Jasim looks at me, waiting for my lead, and takes a steer from me when I remain silent. She’ll find out soon enough. She has to accept that her fate is in our hands. In my hands. I have the power of life or death over her. It’s written in the fucking marriage contract.

  “Just come with us.” Jasim’s voice holds no sympathy.

  “I need to talk; I need to explain. I need a laptop …”

  I growl. “You need nothing! I’m done with your lies and your deception!”

  The force of my anger makes her step back, bringing her up against Jasim, but her eyes remain firmly fixed on me.

  “I’ve never lied to you!” she says to defend herself, her desperation showing.

  I feel nothing but disgust. “Perhaps so, but you didn’t tell me the truth, either.” I’ve had enough of this. Before she can grasp what is about to happen, I grab hold of her and, hauling her up into a fireman’s lift, sling her over my shoulder. Jasim doesn’t bother following us; he’s abandoned her to me, to her husband. I can almost smell her fear as she feels the tension within me, and the fact that I, the Savage Sheikh, am very, very angry.

  I barely feel her weight as I carry her through into the most ancient part of the palace. My rage is building steadily. I can’t remember ever feeling this furious in all my life, even in Paris. I felt closer to this woman than I ever have to anyone else in my whole life, and I feel the lack of trust like a fucking betrayal. I’ve been hurt in battle before, taken a sniper’s bullet, been cut by the blade of a scimitar, and even blasted by shrapnel from an IED that I’d got too close to, but I have never felt pain like I am feeling now. I don’t trust myself to speak. Wisely, she is keeping silent, apart from the sobs that she seems powerless to prevent, wracking through the slender frame I’m carrying over my shoulder. I harden my heart, ignoring her tears.

  Eventually, I come to the impressive and mighty golden doors, tarnished now with neglect, showing only a glimpse of their former glory. Holding her with one arm, I lift the heavy bolt and push them open. I slide her off my shoulder and push her inside, just roughly enough so she stumbles a few steps forwards, out of the way of the doors.

  “Welcome to your new home,” I say sardonically, and then immediately shut the doors behind her, the sound of them banging closed reverberating around the empty hallway and the clank of the bolt shooting home echoing like a death knell. Outside the doors, I sink to the floor on my knees and put my head in my hands. How the fuck has it come to this?

  My face wet with falling tears, I think about this morning’s events. Jasim had rung me early, his shattering news sweeping in with the dawn. If he hadn’t warned me before arriving in person, my brother would have risked serious injury. As it is, even now, a few hours on in which to digest the information, I’m only just holding myself together, hanging on to my control by a thread. That the woman I’d married could have so deceived me, the woman I’m only just admitting I’ve fallen in love with. As the news and the depth of her deceit had sunk in and I’d grasped the truth about who she really is, I’d felt myself losing my grip, and I’d had no other option but to get her away from me. How could she have kept this from me? I thought I knew her, understood her, and know now she’s been hiding her real self. The news infuriates me to such an extent that for the first time in my life I know what it’s like to be scared. I can’t risk losing control. It could be fucking Paris all over again. And this time, it would be the woman I love who I’ll hurt. I can’t risk it.

  So here I am, on one side of the goddamn golden doors, and she will stay on the other. It will be her sentence, her penance. Brushing my hand across my eyes, I know I need to stand up, to pull myself together. I need to find the strength to go to a meeting that’s already been arranged with the emir and my brothers, the discussion to decide how to sort this mess out. But for a long moment, I’m unable to move from the doors holding her prisoner, as if subconsciously I’m trying to retain some contact with the woman who brought such warmth and life to my cold, dead heart. The woman I now have to leave here, all alone.

  It could have been minutes, or even hours, that I sat here. I’ve lost all sense of time. Eventually, I realise how futile just waiting here is; nothing is going to change. So, after taking a deep breath to compose myself, I rise to my feet and drag myself away. It is time to meet the ruler.

  Taking the long route through the palace I use the time to compose myself. My unusual attire attracts attention from the servants and guards I pass, but I ignore them; I make no apology for leaving my traditional robes behind today. By the time I reach my destination my body and mind feel completely numb. She’s lost to me now.

  The emir’s throne room is the most opulent chamber in the palace, built and decorated to impress as well as to cause trepidation in those brought before the absolute monarch. The throne itself is sited on a raised dais, surrounded by low stools for the princes. Supplicants would stand or kneel, depending on their status or reasons for attendance. It is not the usual place for the emir and his sons to meet; the fact we are meeting here today acknowledges the seriousness of the situation. Surprisingly, I attract no censure for my tardy arrival as I enter and take my seat alongside my brothers and in front of the emir, which indicates the level of empathy they have for my feelings.

  Sheikh Rushdi looks down at me from his elevated position. The last time I was in this room was when I received my sentence of banishment to the desert. Today I come before him a whole different person, my head bowed, my heart aching. My father reaches forwards and lays his hand on my head. I glance up; I can’t remember receiving such an intimate gesture before. I see in his eyes a level of compassion I have never seen and, in that instant, I remember the love he shared with my mother, her loss making him the stern, cold man he is today. Could it be he understands the depth of my feelings for Cara? When he speaks, it’s clear he’s forgiven me.

  “When I banished you to the desert, Nijad, I had low expectations of how you would take to your task. But I’ve heard good things of you how you have performed your role. The borders are better protected than they have ever been. And the tribes are united. Your marriage satisfied them and your wife impressed them. You have done well, my son.”

  I bow my head in silent acknowledgement of the unusual praise, more used to receiving disapproval from the man who sired me. The reference to Cara, though, cuts through me.

  I’m even more surprised when he adds, “You now have my blessing to leave the desert if you so wish.” I look up again. He is looking at me with sad, tired eyes that seem to mirror my distress. An unexpected wave of paternal feeling must be sweeping through him.

  “Thank you, Father,” I say after a moment’s consideration of his offer. “But I think I will return.”

  “While your marriage ensures peace in the desert, we now have to decide how to proceed in light of this revelation.” The emir puts his head to the side, as if ready to listen.

  A short silence follows.

  “I’m sorry, brother.” Kadar, next in line to the throne, speaks softly. “But there is no doubt of her guilt. Basheer brought me the evidence last night.”

  I think back to what I had been doing when my brother had been examining the damning documents. I’d had my wife bound in front of me, intent on bringing her pleasure before taking my own. Fuck it, I have to stop thinking about her. There is no reason to doubt Basheer; he is a fully trusted employee as well as our father’s cousin and, therefore, a member of the royal family. He’s worked for us all his life, working his way up to the post of minister in charge of Amahad’s finances over a decade ago. I’ve seen the proof, too. She is guilty, I have no option other than to believe him. Basheer has nothing to gain by lying.

  “We need to discuss the marriage contract.” The emir
starts and pauses until I nod slowly in response. “It’s a legal document, and there is no exit clause that caters for a situation like this.”

  “So I remain married to her for five years?” I’m not sure I can stand it. “Can you not annul the marriage?” I don’t voice the other option: that I use the total ownership of her life clause included in the contract. But whatever she’s done, she doesn’t deserve to die. And it couldn’t be by my hand. I wait for someone else to bring up that suggestion, and let out a deep breath when no one mentions it.

  The emir shakes his head sadly. “The marriage cannot be annulled because it was obviously consummated. I doubt there’s anyone in the land who doesn’t know that.”

  I close my eyes in pain. Fuck Lamis and her gossip about those damn bloody sheets. I should have ensured her silence.

  “You could take another wife,” Jasim chimes in. “It’s not been done in the royal family recently, but there is a precedent. One of our great-uncles did that, as I recall.”

  “I don’t want another wife!” I slap the small table beside me. What a damned fucked-up situation this is. I put my head in my hands, trying to think through the cotton wool that seems to be stuffed in my brain, limiting my thought processes. They give me time, and when I raise my head, I have a plan.

  “She’s in the ancient harem now, and there she can stay. She can fulfil the terms of the contract there.”

  Glancing round I see them all regarding me with surprised expressions. “Well, that was what the harem was used for,” I tell them with a mirthless laugh.

  “She should be in prison!” Kadar commands.

  “She might just as well be,” Jasim counters. “Incarceration in the harem considering the state it’s in, would probably not be very much of an improvement.”

  I’m surprised when the emir nods slowly, seeing the merit in the proposal.

  “Technically the harem and any women in it belong to the emir and no other man may step inside. I’ll decree that the harem is for the sole use of Sheikh Nijad.” He thinks for a moment, and then gives a cruel smile. “I’ll assign Maysa to look after her.”

  I grimace, and then my mouth cruelly twists as I recall the elderly and crotchety, but surprisingly still active, woman who is probably old enough to remember concubines in the harem before it was closed down some sixty years ago. “I can’t think of a better warder.”

  “And we tell the tribespeople what exactly?” Kadar wants to know.

  “That the terms of the contract are being fulfilled under the watchful eye of the Crown.”

  One by one we incline our heads in agreement. It was true: nothing had changed except for the fact she was no longer living with me: no longer would I sleep with her warm body curled up by my side. Fuck, I need to get her out of my mind.

  “It is agreed, then.” The emir indicates the audience is over.

  Chapter 20

  Cara

  As soon as the massive golden doors clang shut behind me I swing around knocking on them, hitting and thumping, getting more and more desperate until my hands become bruised and raw, and my screams and shouts make my throat sore. When I realise the doors are so thick that no one will be able to hear me from outside, and that my feeble attempts to gain attention are futile, I let myself slide to the floor, burying my head in my battered hands, and cry. Cry as I’ve never done before, until I’m howling and wailing like a banshee. I’m in shock. Once again, in less than a twenty-four-hour period, my life has taken a complete U-turn, and this time I think it might finish me.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, letting my emotions flood out of me in torrents of tears but finally reaching a point where I’m all cried out. Leaning my back against the doors, which remain firmly shut, I look up and take in my surroundings. It doesn’t take long to realise Nijad brought me to what must be a harem. At first glance it’s a desolate, forgotten place, unoccupied for decades, smelling of dust and neglect. The harem of the Palace of Amahad hasn’t undergone the transformation into a modern dungeon like that of the desert city but, instead, it resembles an elaborate gaol from the Middle Ages. Except for the one chamber, which has apparently been prepared especially for me, the rooms and open areas are unfurnished and visibly decaying.

  My body is still shaking from my emotional outburst as I try to work through the ramifications of why he left me in this place. Tears threaten once more, but I don’t let them fall, fighting hard to stop them. I learned early on that crying never helps; crying never stopped my mother wrenching me from my childhood companions to move somewhere new. Tears never stopped the bullying. In fact, they made it worse. Tears didn’t bring my mother back when she died. Tears weren’t going to help me now, but I have never felt such desolation as I do at this moment. It seems one minute I was basking in the afterglow of the most incredible experience of my life, and the next the man who’d loved me so amazingly the previous night turned on me. My stomach clenches. Nijad, oh Nijad. Why didn’t you let me explain? Curled into a ball in front of the golden doors I hiccup for air, the aftermath of crying so hard. My whole body throbs with pain, as if a broken heart is a physical ailment. Even that night when my father destroyed me with his words doesn’t compare to Nijad’s rejection. I can’t understand why he didn’t give me a chance to explain. Why did he want to put me away from him so quickly, without listening? Why did he want me out of his sight?

  Eventually exhausted, I stagger across to the only point of colour in the large open area, the fancy bed encircled by sheer drapes, at this point not caring about the furnishings. Swiping my hand across my raw, red eyes, I think about the man who’s abandoned me here. How can he do this to me? Why wouldn’t he listen? Has he ever really cared about me at all, or was it all lies? Have I just been used? I smooth my palm over my stomach and the familiar ache down below tells me I’ll soon have definite proof I didn’t get pregnant on our wedding night, which is a source of both relief and sadness. What I wouldn’t give to have something of Nijad to keep if I have lost him, but at least a child won’t have to suffer whatever is in store for me.

  Will they execute me now? I just feel numb at the thought. Losing Nijad is killing me all by itself.

  Traumatised by the dramatic turn in my fortunes, I do nothing but lie on the bed, staring up blankly at the vaulted ceiling. I’m so shocked; I can’t summon up any thoughts on how to fight my fate. Why am I being treated like this?

  Hours later, as the skies darken, a dour old woman enters the harem. I don’t see her arrive, but she brings me a meal that I know I won’t be able to eat. I plead with her to take me to Nijad. I beg, but she’s short and rude, saying just enough to show me she does understand some English, although it is difficult to ascertain the extent of her vocabulary because she refuses to enter into conversation. She frightens me a little, giving me the impression she likes neither me nor the job she’s been tasked with. When she leaves me alone to eat I look at the food she’s left and push it away untouched. Someone must come for me soon. Hopefully, Nijad will come back for me. He won’t simply leave me here. He can’t. I sit and wait, but no one comes. Eventually, exhaustion and an emotional shutdown induce an unconsciousness that acts as sleep.

  When I wake the next day, my eyes feel gritty and swollen, my hands still bruised. Ignoring my physical discomfort, I try to be optimistic. Today I’ll find out where exactly they are keeping me, and get out of here. If Nijad doesn't appear, I’ll find some way to go to him and force him to listen, to hear my side of the story. With determination, I get out of bed. I’m still fully dressed in the clothes I wore the day before, so I’m ready to start my exploration of the harem, the place where, historically, women were forced to live against their will. Am I destined to become another such victim?

  I’m in a sort of chamber with an arched entrance with no door. There were several other cubicles, all opening out on to a vast communal area that must have once been quite beautiful. Although the rooms offer some privacy, the partition walls do not ascend to the high ceiling
. I try to estimate how many women the harem would have housed and think it’s probably only about fifty; a small harem, as I understand it. I’m pleased to find that there is, at least, some rudimentary plumbing; there are several Victorian-style bathrooms. Checking the water supply, I discover it still works in at least one of them.

  My exploration shows me the central area is laid out around what was once a beautiful pool, whether for bathing or where ornamental fish swam I can’t tell, and a crack in the base means any water has long since soaked away. Large arches beyond the pool area lead out into an extensive garden, surrounded in its entirety by walls which must be at least twenty feet high. There is the shape of a gateway in the wall, but it’s long been sealed up with stone. I search every inch, looking for a way to gain my freedom. Back to examining the interior of my prison, I see any flowers or shrubbery have long since died. Raised flower beds, which were probably once beautiful, are enclosed now by crumbling brick walls and hold only dead, rotten, twisted branches. A few palm trees still struggle to survive, but even they look likely to submit shortly to the inevitable and die. I think the current state of the landscape suits my mood far better than if it was well maintained and filled with blossoming, scented blooms. Like the garden, I feel something has died inside me. Why doesn’t Nijad come for me?

  I try to shake off my depression, knowing I have to stay determined and fight. And finding a way out of here is imperative. I can’t just wait for my sentence, whatever that may be, to be carried out. Yesterday’s tears are gone; today I’ll fight to live. Fight to prove my innocence. How dare they just shut me up in here without giving me a chance to explain? As my sadness morphs into anger, I continue my exploration. The main doors are bolted and shut, so where did the old servant woman come from? I search the walls of the harem, looking behind the tapestries that decay and fall to dust when I touch them, but so far any ingress remains hidden.