Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1)

by Manda Mellett

  With so much to do, time starts going faster and faster as the wedding approaches, and the actual day dawns almost before I realise it. And most definitely before I feel ready. Although we’ve been technically married for weeks, we observe Western tradition and spend the night before the formal ceremony apart.

  I wake feeling nervous, and preparations for the day start early. I’m bathed, washed, oiled, massaged and pampered. As I try to relax, I think back to the first time I had been prepared for my sheikh, and how different things are now. Every oil rubbed in, every potion applied, makes me think of how Nijad will appreciate my soft skin. My only apprehension about this day relates to my anxiety about being in front of strangers. There’ll be bloody hundreds of people there today. I fight to regain my confidence and try to concentrate not on the day, but on the night ahead. Successful, I find my fear receding as anticipation runs like heat through my veins.

  The wedding itself is a combination of East and West. I’ve chosen a cream wedding dress. My expanding figure means the sheath style I would have preferred has been rejected in favour of one with an empire waistline: a full satin skirt, hiding a multitude of sins, cascades from under my breasts. I have a long train made of silk and lace, and real Amahadian diamonds have been sewn in patterns on to the bodice and hem of the dress, and around the cuffs of the sleeves as well as dotted all over the gown. I’m literally wearing a king’s ransom which perhaps, on its own, justifies the extra guards who’ve been employed to provide protection today.

  On a sombre note, there are rumours that Abdul-Muhsi is trying to unite dissidents against the Crown in the southern desert, which provides the primary reason for the increased security. To bolster Amahad’s own security staff, some people are also in attendance from Grade A Security. The senior partners will attend as guests and others will be patrolling the banqueting hall when the reception gets going later on. Another is taking up a sniper position outside. One person hasn’t responded to our invitation: we are still waiting to see whether Jon Tharpe, Nijad’s best friend and former bodyguard, will attend.

  Walking towards the room which has been prepared for the ceremony, I feel butterflies in my stomach. The closer I draw to the state rooms the more nervous I become. I just wish this wedding could have been as simple as my first! As I hang on to Hunter’s arm, he covers my hand with his in a gesture of support. I don’t need to explain to him how I’m feeling. But I know he’ll be proud of me today; only a few months ago I wouldn’t have been able to enter an English pub!

  Shit! I wait for the signal, suddenly understanding I’m about to walk down the aisle in full sight of strangers, and will be expected to speak my vows in front of them. Hunter encourages me as if feeling the hesitancy in my steps, instructing me to focus on Nijad, who’s waiting for me at the altar. And when I do, I have eyes for nothing else. He’s wearing a traditional short tunic and trousers, a ceremonial, but nevertheless wicked-looking, scimitar in his belt, all enveloped by a deep maroon outer robe embroidered in gold thread. His headdress is white, showing off his olive skin to perfection, and around it is a golden agal. But it’s the look of amazement and disbelief on his face, together with the sincere, warm smile of approval that reaches from his mouth to his eyes, that keeps me moving towards him.

  When I reach him, his breath touches my ear as he whispers, “You’re absolutely fucking beautiful. I’m the luckiest man in the world.” Then, even more softly and irreverently, he adds, “And I can’t fucking wait to get you out of that dress, however lovely you look in it.”

  His impudence relaxes me, and to my great relief the ceremony passes without mishap, my voice sounding clear and loud despite my body shaking with nerves.

  The receiving line is long; so many people offering congratulations on this, our formal marriage celebration. As I recognise heads of state, prime ministers and film stars standing waiting to shake our hands, I’m overcome with anxiety. I hadn’t realised there would be so many people here. To my absolute horror, I recognise the signs of an impending panic attack: my palms become sweaty, my breathing fast and erratic, and my head starts to swim. It is too much, it’s crushing me. I have to get away, I have to run…

  Squeezing my hand tightly, Nijad bends his head to mine. “You know, I’m trying to decide whether to take your pussy or try your arse tonight.”

  I choke and splutter, and then glance up to find him grinning at his joke. Worried, I quickly turn back to make sure the British prime minister, who happens to be next in line to offer his congratulations, hasn’t heard what my husband just said to me. As Nijad pats me on the back to relieve my apparent coughing fit, I find my stress has miraculously disappeared, and I’ve managed to get sufficient grip on myself to speak to the leader of my own country without making an ass of myself. The next time I shiver, it’s in anticipation of the wedding night ahead. What has my husband, my Dom, my Master, got planned? He knows I’m not ready for that yet, doesn’t he?

  Food and drink flow freely, but I know I’m not going to be able to remember anything that’s served. In fact, I barely eat anything at all. Nijad never leaves my side, and I’m grateful for his support and encouragement as I hold conversations with people, some of whom I’ve only ever seen on television before. It’s hard not to get star-struck. I also make sure I give equal time to the tribal leaders who have attended, trying hard not to remember that not so long ago they would have been pleased to see my head separated from my body! I please Sheikh Rais by addressing him and holding a short conversation in Arabic, and am happy to overhear his comment to Nijad that I will make a great ambassador for Amahad. How things have changed for me. I’ve certainly come a long way from my reclusive former lifestyle!

  The party seems to go on for hours, but while I’m chafing at the bit to be alone with my husband, I recognise there are traditions and protocols to follow. At long last I find myself beside the emir.

  “You have done well, Princess. I had concerns you would not cope.”

  I can’t quite understand whether the emir is praising me, or telling me of his relief that I hadn’t embarrassed him, but I decide to take it as a positive remark, so bow my head gratefully.

  He’s looking at me carefully. “I never thought we’d have a hacker in the family, but Kadar tells me we should be grateful you are on our side.”

  The emir unnerves me. I never know what to make of him, and am overawed by the amount of power he holds. I don’t know how to treat his remark. I think he was trying to make a joke but don’t laugh in case I’ve read it wrong. So I simply nod in acknowledgement, and then manage to catch Nijad’s eye. He grins and comes to my rescue, excusing us from his father.

  We make a circuit of the room and pause to talk to Aiza. Her attention is distracted as she watches the dancers on the floor pairing up. The reason for her lack of attention becomes evident when a handsome-looking man comes over to us. He nods politely but addresses Nijad’s sister. Bowing extra low, he holds out his hand.

  “Princess, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Prince Rami of Alair. Would you give me the great pleasure of allowing me this dance?”

  It makes me smile when she accepts. I wonder whether this is a set-up by the emir but, either way, she’s been ensconced with family most of the night and she deserves to have some fun. And Rami is certainly a good-looking man. I watch as he takes her hand and leads her to the dance floor, quickly sweeping her up into his arms, and they start to sway to the music.

  Observing them, I happen to catch a glimpse of Hunter across the room. I raise my hand to wave at him when I realise his attention isn’t on me at all. With narrowed eyes he’s closely watching Aiza and Prince Rami dance. What the heck is that about? Then I have to smother a laugh as I see Sheikh Rais also glaring at the dancing couple. Hmm, something to watch, methinks. Prince Rami is going to have a run for his money. This could be interesting to watch pan out.

  As I’m wondering whether it’s time to make our escape, not least because the close presence of Nijad is having a
decided effect on my nether, Kadar comes up to us, and shakes his brother’s hand.

  “She’s well liked. She’ll be an asset to the family.” There’s no need to explain who he is discussing. I want to shout, Hello-ooo, I’m right here! Sometimes it sucks to be so short.

  The emir has also joined us. Unfortunately even my high heels can’t compensate sufficiently for my lack of height while standing between three such tall men, and they have a personal conversation above my head, ignoring me entirely.

  “Cara works a room well.” This from the emir. “Everyone I’ve spoken to likes her.”

  “Just what I was saying,” Kadar agrees.

  “And you told me kidnapping a British citizen was a mistake!”

  The emir’s statement amuses me, but it doesn’t detract from my desire to sink my stiletto heel into his foot. I’m here!

  “This time.” Kadar doesn’t seem to like his father being smug. “It’s not something I’d ever like to attempt again.”

  Relegated to the role of eavesdropper, I can only listen as they continue to speak. “And you, my son … I’d like to see you married and settled.”

  Glancing up, I see the gleam that appears in his father’s eyes. He looks like he’s plotting.

  “Leave me alone,” Kadar growls. “I’ll find my own wife in my own time.”

  The emir merely stares at him. At that moment Jasim walks past us, lost in his thoughts, disinterested in the revels still going on around. Rushdi eyes him thoughtfully. “And what about Jasim?” he asks his oldest son.

  “Jasim is restless,” Kadar agrees. “He needs some time in Europe.”

  The emir inclines his head in agreement.

  Nijad pulls me away to an alcove where we are out of sight. He gazes at me intently. “What do you want, Cara?”

  I put my head on one side, unsure what he’s asking me. For him to take me to bed is currently top of my list.

  “We can live in London – or New York, perhaps. Anywhere you want. But perhaps not Paris.”

  “I thought you were needed here?”

  He shrugs. “I am, but I want you to be happy.”

  “I’m happy here. I’m happy where you are.” To emphasise my words I give him a kiss. His sigh of relief tells me it was the right answer.

  “Jon is here. I spoke to him while you were with my father.”

  I smile, pleased that his friend has come after all. “Did it go well?”

  Nijad looks around, gathering his thoughts.

  “He’s weighed down with guilt that he let me down. That he believed the worst of me. He still can’t forgive himself for making that error of judgement.”

  I touch his face, letting my compassion and sympathy transmit itself through my touch. “He’ll come round, Nijad. He just needs time.”

  “I hope so. I need my blood brother.” He makes a rapid change of subject and seems to snap out of the black mood he’d momentarily dropped into. “We can escape now.” He sniggers. “Now I get you all to myself, to do with you exactly what I want. Are you ready to take all of me, Princess?”

  I giggle, not afraid at all. I don’t hesitate in taking his hand and fleeing our wedding reception. We head through the palace, laughing like kids, neither of us quite sure what we’re laughing at. We are spending our wedding night in the ancient harem: my suggestion. It’s the place where our baby was conceived, and where Nijad proposed. A very special place for us.

  As we race through the corridors, impatient to get to our destination, I’m amused the guards don’t try to keep up with us. Instead, they seem to be in radio communication with each other, and as we pass they step out of their vestibules to bow to us, making their presence known to assure us we are under their protection. Although I don’t want to think any bleak thoughts today, I know there’s been a worry Abdul-Mushi might have tried to upset our wedding day. But in the event, it’s all gone smoothly. I smile at the guards. Most of them are stoic, but a few crack grins at our undisguised rush, and a couple, brought in to help from the palace at Z̧almā, even throw ribald comments at Nijad, making him laugh.

  But finally, we reach our destination and we’re through the golden doors, shutting them behind us with their characteristic clang as we enter into our own private nirvana. Nijad stops and turns to me.

  “Strip.”

  Every. Bloody. Time. This time, I’m not giving in.

  “No.”

  “No?” he growls questioningly, his eyebrow raised in shock.

  “No.”

  “You’re refusing your husband?”

  At my nod, his mouth drops open and he prowls closer. I take a step back, holding up my hands as though to fend him off. He’s half-glaring, half-laughing, apparently not sure how to read my rebuttal. I decide to put him at ease.

  “Look, it took three bloody women to get me into this dress. I can’t take it off without help even if I wanted to!”

  He draws nearer, reaching into his belt and withdrawing his scimitar. It’s long, curved and scary-looking. I back away.

  “I have a knife.” He smirks. “A bit over the top, but it will do.”

  “You’re not coming near me with that!” I put my hands protectively over my dress. “Knickers are one thing, but this dress is worth a bloody fortune.”

  He continues to stalk me. I hold up my hands again to stop him. “And hang on a minute, what about the bride price?”

  He stops; his expression is unreadable.

  “I paid back the bride price to get out of the original marriage contract. Now I’m married to you again, so what do I get out of it?” I pretend to be affronted. “Shouldn’t there be another bride price paid to me? Isn’t that the way things work here? That the bride is given money on her wedding day?”

  Putting my hands on my hips, I give the impression I’m not going to give in to any demands until we get this matter sorted.

  I’m not going to keep him waiting long; I’m too aroused myself for that, but I’m surprised when he puts his head back and gives a belly laugh, almost doubling over in his amusement. He covers the distance between us, and rests his hands on my shoulders.

  “How much do you think those diamonds in your dress are worth, Cara, sweetheart?”

  I look down at myself and shake my head. “A lot?”

  He inches closer until he’s within touching distance, and runs his fingers across the neckline of my sparkly dress. “Have a guess.”

  I draw in a breath. He can’t mean…

  He nods, his mouth open in a wry smile. “I think you’re getting there. Come on, take a guess.”

  My mouth is dry. “Ten million pounds?”

  He nods slowly. “Ten million and five to be exact. I had to overspend.” At my look of consternation, he nods again. “That’s your bride price, Cara. And it’s all yours.”

  I’m speechless, and unable to make any further protest as he walks behind me. I feel cold steel against my back and freeze as I feel it move down, a faint snip audible while my dress slowly loosens as he cuts through each of the ties holding it together. As the final one breaks, the dress pools at my feet. I look down at the fortune lying discarded on the floor. Ten million pounds!

  He moves to the front and I realise the fancy bra and pants combination I’d purposely chosen, and spent a fortune on, is not going to last long. I breathe in deeply as the sharp blade makes short work of the bra, and step back as the scimitar travels down my stomach. He advances again, his face expressionless as he lowers it to the elastic of my knickers. I can’t let out my breath, not wanting to disturb his concentration, but he proves he is just as expert with this steel as he is with his other tool, the one I can see straining at his trousers.

  “I think we’ll leave these on.” He indicates my suspenders and stockings. “And those.” He points to my high-heeled shoes. To my relief, he puts his blade away. Crowding me, he pats me down, his hands going inside my knickers.

  “You’ve brought no knife to our wedding today, sweetheart?” He grins.

/>   I shiver, unable to form words to answer him as his fingers move against my very wet and ready pussy, flicking against my clit.

  “I need you. I need you now, hard and fast.”

  “Yes.” It’s all I can do to manage a gasp. Almost since the women prepared me this morning, I’ve been wet and needy for him. I want him now at least as much as he needs me.

  He pushes me across the room until I’m standing with my back against the cold stone of the harem wall. “I’ve been fucking rock-hard all day, sweetheart. I need to be inside you now; I can’t be gentle.”

  “Don’t be.”

  It’s the answer he wants. His arms hold me to him, my back pressed against the wall. “Put your legs around me.”

  I do as he says, and it puts his cock exactly in the right place. He’s so hard, all he has to do is push forward and, like a homing missile, I feel the head at my entrance. He takes a deep breath as if trying to control himself. I wriggle my hips in encouragement.

  “Fuck, Cara. I can’t hold on.”

  He plunges inside, his thick, wide girth stretching me, his full length touching my cervix. It’s rough; it’s exactly how I need it. I feel so full it’s on the verge of painful. Suddenly it hits me: this is my husband. The man who married me of his own free will, the man I would have chosen over all others in the world. The man of my dreams and the father of my unborn child. As he starts to move, pounding in and out, his urgency matching mine, I feel an orgasm building and building. I can’t hold back; I shatter with a piercing scream, the pulsation and contractions of my muscles pushing him to his release. I can feel him spurting inside me, jet after jet of hot cum filling me. The tears come to my eyes and I start to cry.