With Jasim not trusting himself to fly, a pilot unknown to me takes the controls, and Jasim sits beside me in the rear. He puts his arm around me, hugging me to him, showing me he shares my fear and concern. Trying to reassure me, Jasim tells me the Z̧almā’ hospital, being so close to the border hostilities, is used to dealing with trauma injuries and is one of the best equipped in the region. What other conversation there is between us consists solely of asking each other questions to which we have no answers. How badly is he hurt? How did it happen? When we realise that speculation is getting us nowhere we both become silent and, as we near our destination, I take his hand, needing the contact.
We land at the palace of the desert city of Z̧almā’. A car is waiting to take us the rest of the way. I absorb almost nothing of my surroundings as the limousine drives through the city and out towards the hospital on the outskirts. I note with some relief that it’s housed in a modern building, clean and, as Jasim had told me, well equipped. But my real focus is on getting to Nijad as quickly as possible.
“Your Excellencies..”
A doctor is waiting for us on our arrival and whisks us up in the lift to the third floor where he takes us into a private room equipped with sofas and chairs, obviously for waiting relatives. It’s empty now, and I assume reserved for our use. He offers us refreshment. We both refuse.
“My brother: how is he?” Jasim is as impatient as I am, expecting to hear the worst.
The doctor shakes his head, and in deference to me gives us an update in carefully spoken English.
“You are already aware that the helicopter he was flying crashed and rolled. His leg trapped him under the wreckage for two days so, as you can imagine, he’s extremely dehydrated. He also has a severe head injury and has not yet regained consciousness. We suspect he may have been unconscious since the crash itself. There’s no way of knowing. And it’s the head injury that’s what’s causing us the most concern at the moment. There’s swelling to the brain, which we’ve been trying to reduce by putting him in an induced coma.” He continues to list the other injuries, telling us that Nijad’s leg was badly broken and, while it has already been reset, will probably leave him with a permanent limp. Other bumps, cuts, bruises, a torn ligament and dislocated shoulder have all been seen to, fixed and dressed as appropriate.
Jasim gets right to the point while I’m still trying to take in the catalogue of Nijad’s suffering.
“What’s the prognosis?”
The doctor chooses his words carefully. “Sheikh Nijad is young, fit and healthy, and his vital signs are good, but the head injury … we need to wait, and if, when,” he quickly revises his words with a glance at me, “When the swelling goes down, we’ll bring him out of the coma and hope he regains consciousness. Then we’ll be able to assess whether there is any permanent damage.”
He gives us time to absorb the information, and then invites us to follow him. “Come, I’ll take you to him now.” Having prepared us as best he can, the doctor leads us to the private room where Nijad is receiving his care.
No amount of pre-warning from the physician would have been sufficient for my first sight of Nijad lying there, sleeping so silently and still, his face far too pale, his right arm bandaged, his eyes blackened, stitches holding together a new gash across his left cheek, and the bedclothes tented to keep the weight off his broken leg. As I stand watching Nijad’s chest rise and fall, thanks only to a ventilator, and hearing the incessant beeping of the monitors, which are the only signs he is still alive, I suddenly feel very light-headed. My strength fails me and I collapse to the floor.
The stress and anxiety of the preceding weeks, combined with the shock of seeing Nijad looking so close to death, caused me pass out long enough to be assigned my own room. When I come to and open my eyes, everything that’s happened comes back in a flood. I pull myself up, wanting to return to Nijad’s side, but I sit up too fast and immediately feel dizzy again. A young female doctor is taking my pulse, and I try to shake her off.
“How long have I been here? I’ve got to get back to Nijad.”
The doctor regards me with sympathy. “You fainted for about ten minutes. I’m certain it was just the shock, Sheikha, but I’d like to take some blood and run some checks just to make sure. It will only take a moment.”
I can’t spare the time. “My husband…”
“There’s been no change,” the doctor assures me in a calming voice, her bedside manner impeccable. “I’ve made sure someone will let you know the instant there is any news. Now this will only take a second.” Even as she is speaking to me, she is making her preparations. To be honest, I still feel a little woozy, so I lie back and let her draw blood and take my blood pressure.
The doctor is as quick as she promised. The needle is removed, a plaster put on and I am taken back to Nijad within minutes. I sit in the chair that’s been provided for me beside his bed and take his limp hand in mine, taking comfort in the fact it is warm. Gently, I run my fingers over his calluses. No idle prince, this husband of mine.
After a few more hours the doctors decide to remove the ventilator and Nijad is successfully breathing on his own. An excellent sign, I’m told, but on the other side of the coin, he’s still showing no signs of waking. Jasim and the nursing staff try to get me to take breaks, to eat or sleep, but I’m determined I won’t be leaving him again. I keep to my resolve, despite Jasim’s best attempts to make me go and rest after I’ve sat, unmoving, for the first twelve hours. Jasim tells me he wouldn’t leave Nijad on his own, he’d stay with him, but I’m his wife and I need to stay by his side. So I refuse to budge. I refuse to let go of his hand, the hand which had brought me so much pleasure as he introduced me to the sensuality that lay hidden inside me, waiting for him to awaken it. The hand which held me, to comfort and reassure me. The hand that led and guided me into this new life. Unable to let go of him, I trace the fingers of my other hand over his face, lingering on the scar running from the corner of his eye to the edge of his mouth, the one I’d noticed when he visited me in the harem. It’s not as angry-looking as it was, but still red and evident. There’s now another, almost matching, on the other side. Why were you so reckless, Nijad? Why did you put yourself in danger? Was it because of me?
My hand gently follows the path of the healing scar, my fingers resting lightly on his lips. Please wake up, Nijad. Please come back to me. In vain I watch for his long eyelashes to flutter, for his eyes to open, yearning to see them darken in passion once again. Will I ever feel your touch again?
When exhaustion overcomes me I lean forward, resting my head against his unmoving hand, and drift into a light, restless doze.
I sit in that hard, uncomfortable chair for twenty-six hours, never letting go of his hand, except for essential visits to the en-suite bathroom; comforted only by his warmth. As long as the blood flows through his veins I know he’s still alive, and as long as I’m touching him he hasn’t left me. Twenty-six hours. I know exactly how long it is by the annoying tick-tocking of the clock on the opposite wall. Each minute passes so slowly; each hour crawls by. Please wake up, I pray time after time. I talk to Nijad constantly, about how much I love him, how much I’ve enjoyed our time together, riding with him, meeting the tribes. How much I loved touching and being touched by him. How much I long to return to the dungeon with him. I don’t worry him with explanations of my behaviour, just remind him of our time together. He needs no more stress now, only the strength to heal.
Kadar and the emir visit, but there’s nothing to say, nothing to discuss. It’s up to Nijad now to fight his way back to us. All that can be done medically has been done. Nijad has to take on the battle for his life. Before he leaves, Kadar takes a moment to rest his hand on my head and encourages me to take a break, but I won’t leave. I have to be here when Nijad wakes up. The doctors and nurses visit regularly to check him. My hope is plummeting when they shake their heads sadly, seeing no improvement.
For twenty-six hours and thirty-three
minutes, there is no change. The thirty-fourth minute after I’d taken up my vigil starts like all the others, with each second ticking away like a whole day. Then I feel a twitch under my hand. I think it must be my imagination, but surely I actually felt it?
“Nijad,” I whisper hesitantly, hardly daring to hope. I examine his face, willing him to respond to me, looking for any slight movement at all, the flicker of an eyelid, anything. “Nijad.” I speak a little louder and squeeze his hand.
Time seems to stand still. I don’t even dare to breathe. And then his eyes flick open. He blinks, as though trying to focus.
“Nijad! Oh, Nijad!” Tears of relief start streaming down my face. I realise he probably doesn’t know what’s happening, so I try to explain.
“You’re in the hospital,” I tell him gently. “Your helicopter was shot down.” I hold my breath. Can he hear me? Can he understand? I was warned there could be brain damage. He might not remember the crash; he might not remember me. He might not remember anything. My fingers caress the back of his hand.
As I watch him avidly, I see his eyes flick from left to right, and then seem to steady on me. I feel a slight pressure on my hand as his fingers press into mine. And then he closes his eyes again.
As soon as I press the call button doctors and nurses flood the room and embark on a series of seemingly never-ending tests, and there’s an apparently endless waiting game until we find the truth about the extent of his head injury. For another twenty-four torturous hours, Nijad drifts in and out of consciousness; each time he comes round it is for longer periods and with more lucidity. People come and go, but I stay in exactly the same place.
“Cara. Cara, come on. He’s going to be all right; you need to rest now.” Jasim rests his hand on my shoulder. “You heard what the doctors said: the signs are very promising. He’s progressing as well as they could hope. You must take some time for yourself, otherwise you won’t be any help to him at all!”
Shaking my head, I refuse, as I have done the last hundred times he’s made the same suggestion.
“I’m not leaving him, Jasim. I need to be here.”
“He’s on the mend; he just needs time. It may be hours yet before he’s fully conscious. Go, have a shower and freshen up, have something to eat and lie down for a bit. I promise I’ll wake you if anything happens.” Jasim holds out his hand to help me up.
A nurse is taking obs again, and she nods over to me with a smile. “His Excellency is doing well. You need to take care of yourself too.”
In the end it’s the nurse’s confidence that reassures me. As I take Jasim’s hand and realise I need his help to get to my feet, feeling weak and dizzy when I stand from lack of food and proper rest, I know they are right. I’ll be no use to Nijad if I collapse on him. So with one last backward glance at my sleeping husband, comforted by the more natural colour now on his face, and his steady breathing, I let Jasim lead me out of the room and into a private room nearby. I sleep for six hours straight.
Chapter 27
Nijad
I wake from yet another doze. I can’t seem to keep my eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. The nurse has brought me a drink, and gives me a disapproving look when I want to sit up and take it myself, but I’m already sick of being an invalid and drinking through a fucking straw. I glare at her until she relents and raises the bed so I’m upright. After I’ve satisfied my thirst, I glance up to see Jasim hovering in the doorway, watching something out in the corridor. He’s holding the door open for someone. Then he shrugs and comes in. I raise an eyebrow.
“I thought Cara was coming in, but a nurse just called her away. You’ve got a good one there, Nijad. We had to pry her away from you just to get some rest before she collapsed.” He nods towards the door. “She looks better for it, though.”
Now he gives me his full attention, his dark eyes, like mirrors of my own, assessing me intently. At last, he nods.
“And you’ve got a better colour now. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit. My head hurts like fucking hell and I’m fed up with only being able to use one arm. But apart from that...”
“You were lucky. The helicopter is in pieces.” Jasim frowns. “I’ve seen the photos.”
I crease my brow as I try to summon up any memory of what happened. “I don’t remember anything about it.”
“You took a bullet close to the border. It hit the fucking tail rotor. You managed to get out a distress call but landed some way away. You were fucking lucky, Nijad. A sandstorm half covered the wreckage. It took us two days to find you as it was. Any longer… Somehow you managed to fly a few miles into the interior. Lucky, because if you’d crashed closer to the border, they’d have finished you off. You’re not the most popular person with our neighbours at the moment.”
“Yeah, but it’s been effective,” I say, smirking. “They won’t be so eager to try crossing the border now.” My conversation with my brother is gradually helping the fog to clear from my head, and I’m starting to feel more like my old self.
Jasim looks at me sharply. I know he thinks I’ve been acting out of character, but what he doesn’t understand is that this is me. I’ve given in to my inner beast, the man with the potential to be violent. That’s who I am now. And the results are good: the attempted invasion failed due to the military response. It was the first thing I’d asked about when I was lucid enough.
“The colonel in charge of the border guard tells me you’ve been all but out of control, Nijad. You go too far. You had no business getting out into the action. Sure, you’ve got results, but at what cost? You’ve been taking far too many risks. And he tells me it wasn’t just this time. It’s Cara, isn’t it?”
The mental anguish, as well as the physical pain, causes me to close my eyes for a second. Then I exhale loudly.
“It’s over, Jasim. She can pay back the bride price and void the contract. I’m going to let her go.”
I’ve stunned him. His gaze is intent as he tells me, “You’ll have a fight on your hands. She doesn’t want to break the contract. That woman has been by your side night and day, not thinking of her comfort for one second. She couldn’t be made to leave you until she all but collapsed. She loves you, Nijad.”
“And that’s the reason.” I know I won’t be able to hide my hurt from him, but I’ve made my decision. “You know why, Jasim. I can’t trust her. She kept secrets from me. I can’t forgive her for that.”
“I don’t think she knew what she was doing, Nijad, or how far she could trust you. Hell, you’d only known her five minutes.” He runs his fingers through his hair, a sign of frustration. “She was a mess when she came here. And the way she was forced into the marriage didn’t help. She’s grown, changed. She’s a different woman now. And you did that to her. You gave her the confidence she needed.”
“Perhaps I don’t want a different Cara.”
“Yes you do,” he snaps back. “She’s just what you need.”
I push my empty cup to the side and turn my head away. Yes, I want Cara with every bone in my body; losing her is like losing a part of myself. If I’d died in that crash it would have been simpler. I take a deep breath, knowing I’m unable to fool my brother.
“You’re right. I do want her. But I can’t have her. I can’t risk it.”
He stares at me for a long time, and then murmurs, “Paris.”
“I blacked out, Jasim.” My voice is croaky with emotion as I confirm he’s right. It all goes back to fucking Paris. “I can’t take the chance of that happening again. I can’t hurt her. I love her too much, and that’s why I have to let her go.” I swallow a couple of times, my throat still sore from the ventilation tube. “She will have to agree our marriage is over. There’s no reason for it now; the tribes will have their money back.”
“I think the tribes will want their sheikha. Word has got around quickly, and they’re treating her like a hero. And Kadar will be disappointed. She’s a financial genius. He wants her to stay in the
country and work for him.”
I just stare at him; what he’s asking me is impossible. When she was just a name on a piece of paper, I didn’t much worry about the risk to her. I wasn’t even going to live with my wife. But now? Now I know the woman, now I love the person she is, it would have to be a real marriage or nothing. And if I stayed close to her…
“I can’t do it.” And then I think about what he’s just told me. Fuck, she can’t stay and work for Kadar. It would tear me apart to be in the same country as her but no longer married, no longer able to touch her, to hold her. To watch her find somebody else in front of my eyes, to think of someone else fucking her. I just couldn’t do it. “She’s got to leave,” I tell him adamantly. “Leave Amahad.”
Behind Jasim, the door opens and closes. My expression tells him who’s just entered the room. He stares at me, shaking his head as if he thinks I’m a fucking idiot, and with a parting shot of “You’d better tell her then”, he turns swiftly and leaves us alone.
I notice Cara’s behaviour is odd as soon as she enters. She seems distracted, but her face is alert, bright. Her eyes are shining. She smiles her sweet smile, shrugs, and then moves quickly over to the side of the bed and takes my hand.
“Nijad...”
She looks tired, but that doesn’t detract from her beauty. She’s lost weight, her face thinner, her features more pronounced, but that only makes me want her more. And I can’t fucking have her! I sit up for the conversation I know has to come, ignoring the discomfort of my body. Taking the seat beside me which she’s apparently been glued to for days, she takes hold of my hand and puts it to her lips. Closing my eyes in pain, I let her fingers linger, relishing the gentle caress for longer than I should. What I’ve got to do now is hurting me far more than any injury I received in the crash. I try to summon up the strength from somewhere, knowing I’ve got to dash her hopes once and for all before I weaken and allow her back into my life.
Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Page 31
