Dark Horses: (Blood Brothers #5)

by Manda Mellett

  Gentle fingers take my wrist. He’s feeling my pulse. Suddenly I want his hand to touch more of me. He could trace my arm, up to my shoulder and down to my…

  Moving his hand to my face, he lifts my eyelids and stares into my eyes, pulling away when I blink to avoid the harsh light.

  “Go back to sleep now.” At his quiet instruction I gather he’s just doing what he’d said, waking me to check I’m alright. But the command in his voice has me obeying. Turning on my side, I close my eyes as he switches off the light.

  And this time the nightmare hits. I’m back in the alleyway, fighting my assailant off. The difference, this time, is I can’t get free. I scream for help, but it’s futile. In the cacophony of the London evening there’ll be no one able to hear me. I punch out with my arms, only to have them held firmly…

  “Hush. You’re having a nightmare. It’s to be expected, pet. You’ve been through a lot tonight.” He holds my hands in one of his, the other he smooths across my forehead, in the same way my mother used to when I was a child. He’s sitting next to me, the warmth of his body coming to me through my bedclothes and the shirt that I’m wearing. Brazenly, I snuggle into his side, and now it’s my hand that imprisons his.

  “Stay with me?”

  “I’m here, pet. I’m sleeping on the chair. I’m not far away.”

  I want him to be closer, need the comfort he gives me. “No, please. Hold me.”

  I feel him tense with reluctance, “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Please.” I inject unashamed begging into my voice, as I’m scared at the thought of the dream returning. “I don’t want to feel alone.”

  At last he relaxes, his release of tension suggesting he’s going to give in. “Shift over a bit then.” I move, and he settles beside me. “Turn over.” Again, I obey, and he pulls me toward his firm and muscular chest. We’re spooning, but I’m under the covers and he’s on top. “Try and go back to sleep. I’ll keep the monsters at bay.”

  I close my eyes, but sleep evades me. The truth is, I’ve never slept in a man’s arms before. Rather than relaxing me, his closeness excites me, sending sensations to parts of me that have been dormant before.

  “Child, don’t move like that.” His amused voice rumbles in my ear.

  Embarrassed, I find I’ve pushed my bum into him, and even through the bedclothes I can feel something hard pushing against me. He’s aroused.

  As I still, he continues, “Sorry, pet, but a beautiful girl in my bed will do that to me. To any man. Now go to sleep, child.”

  Child? Why does he keep calling me that? Despite his compliment, there’s no way I want him to see me as someone too young, too innocent for him. I protest, “I’m not a child, Jasim.”

  “You’re not quite a woman yet, though, are you?”

  My body floods with embarrassment as there can only be one meaning. How does he know? Is it stamped on my forehead? I have no rebuttal. I’m got all the right womanly parts, as he must be able to see. Is this where I should flirt with him? Show my attraction? I’ve watched others do it enough before. From observing, I know all the right moves. It’s just that I lack the confidence to pull it off, and would probably make a fool of myself. He’s a sheikh for God’s sake. He could have any woman he wants.

  As I try to convince myself of the reasons he wouldn’t want me, I notice his breathing has slowed, the measured rise and fall of his chest against my back telling me he has gone to sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Jasim

  I leave her sleeping in my bed. After the shock of the attack the night before, and the resultant head injury, what rest she can get will do her the world of good. As I recall her description of the mugging, I grasp my mug of tea a little too hard. If her attacker hadn’t been left holding an armful of coat, giving her that momentary window of escape, she could have been raped. There’s not much to her, it wouldn’t have taken much of a man to overpower a girl of her slender build. I put down my drink before it breaks, my hand shaking with barely concealed rage. To even call her assailant a man is doing a disservice to the male half of the human race. No woman should ever be forced. It would have destroyed her.

  I don’t need to be a Dom to recognise her innocence, it’s written all over her face. And I certainly shouldn’t have to remind myself how young she is. Fuck, if someone of my age came on to my baby sister I’d be talking to him with my fists. But hell, when she’d pushed against me last night, it was all I could do to resist taking her into my arms and divesting her of her purity once and for all. Thank Allah she’s going to be out of my apartment and out of my life as soon as she awakes. She’s woken a beast inside me, and I’d be lying to myself if I tried to pretend it’s only a protective instinct that she’s aroused.

  Didn’t she know how close she’d come to playing with fire as she rubbed that cute arse against my cock? I let out a huff, dismissing the notion she’d intentionally taunted me. Whether consciously or not, the result was the same. But I won’t give in to temptation. No, tonight I’ll go to Club Tiacapan and find an experienced woman to play with, and one who’ll let me fuck all this strange attraction, along with the frustration I can’t do anything about, out of my system.

  “’Morning.”

  Lost in my thoughts I hadn’t heard her get up. As her gentle voice brings me out of my reverie, I turn to see the object of my desire dressed just in my shirt, and a wave of possessiveness floods over me. She looks right in my clothes. And how wrong that thought is. At least she’s decent, my shirt is long and covers her down to her thighs, but I can’t prevent my mind wondering what, if anything, she’s wearing underneath. Quickly I swing back around, leaning with both my palms flat on the worktop, fighting to get myself under control. My very evident hard-on is the last thing she needs to see.

  After clearing my throat, I answer her, “Good afternoon. I let you sleep in, as you seemed to need it. How’s the head feeling today?”

  She puts her hand to her injury, as if only just remembering it’s there, so I guess it can’t be paining her too badly. Then her face falls, as what I’ve said registers. “Oh heck, what time is it now?” Her eyes flick around the kitchen as if seeking out a clock.

  “Half past one. Sorry, did you have somewhere you needed to be?” I feel guilty, I hadn’t given a thought to what she had planned for today.

  She shakes her head and nervously bites her lip, her youth too apparent as she replies, “No, but they’ll be about to send out search parties by now.”

  “They?” Again I wonder whether she’s got family who’d be missing her. But she turns away, clearly not going to expand. She’s fidgeting, making me speculate whether she’s uncomfortable in my presence, and rethinking her agreement to stay with me last night.

  “Want a cup of tea?” I try to inject some normality into the situation that’s probably strange for both of us. Her first time in a stranger’s bed, and mine to sleep with a woman without wetting my dick.

  Another shake, “No, I better get going. I’ll just get dressed and get out of your way.”

  With that, she turns to go back to the bedroom, but before she goes through the door swings back around, “Er, thank you, Jasim. For letting me stay last night. I’m really grateful.”

  “It was no trouble.” I wave my hands, dismissing her gratitude. She nods, her head bobbing awkwardly, and the flush on her face suggests she finds the situation a little embarrassing. I find it bizarre, normally a woman leaves my bed looking satisfied. But then, I’ve never had someone the age of my baby sister in my bed before. As she starts to walk away, I remember she still needs my help and call out after her, “I’ll give you a lift when you’re ready to go.”

  She stills, and then gives another nod, presumably remembering she’s going to have to do the walk of shame in last night’s clothes. Unless she wants to get on the tube with just a torn dress and dirty coat to cover her, she doesn’t have any option but to accept my offer of a ride. A spare toothbrush, I can supply. Replacement women’
s clothing, I can’t. Of course, I could call a taxi and give her the few quid to cover her fare, but I won’t. For more than one reason, which I don’t stop to examine, I want to spend a little longer in her company, and also, to see where she lives. And, perhaps, to discover who the mysterious ‘they’ are.

  She gets ready quickly for a woman, and soon we’re in my car driving across London in an easterly direction, our progress slowed by the heavy traffic that’s always an issue this time of day. She guides me at last to a side road off Hackney’s Mare Street, an area now up and coming, having shrugged off its previously poor reputation. While initially dubious coming to this renowned rough part of town, my mind’s put at ease when I discover the houses are well maintained. Even I wouldn’t mind parking my Tesla here, though perhaps not the Ferrari. She points out a parking space, and I pull the car up.

  I go around to open her door, and she places her fingers in mine as I help her out and then glances up at the house we’ve parked outside, as if watching for prying eyes. Then politely she shakes my hand, thanks me again and says goodbye. It’s a dismissal, and a clear indication I’m not going to be invited in to satisfy my curiosity, nor will any plans be made to meet up. The regret I feel is unexpected. Why should I worry whether I’ll see her again? Surely, the affection I feel for her is only that she reminds me of my sister, my concern totally that of a brother? That’s all it should be.

  Getting back into the car, I wait until I see her walk into the large house, the type typically divided into flats, not even knowing which one would be hers. Tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, I delay starting the engine, unable to understand my reluctance to leave this area, and this woman, behind. Glancing up, I notice she hasn’t gone inside yet, she seems to be lingering on the doorstep, key in her hand. Just as I’m wondering whether she’s given me a false address, and am thinking about challenging her, she at last fits the key to the lock and disappears inside.

  Well, that’s it. Ships that pass in the night and all that. I doubt our paths will ever cross again. Why does the thought cause an emptiness inside me? Shaking off the odd feeling, trying to convince myself it’s easier this way, I put the Tesla into gear, and make my way out of the side street, and enter the fray of the London traffic again.

  Avoiding the embassy—I’ve no diplomatic duties today—I make my way across to the modern office area of the rejuvenated Docklands, and to the glass and steel building that houses AmaOil, the headquarters of the company I’m president of, and which I manage on behalf of my homeland. Having at last discovered oil under the sands of the southern desert of Amahad, I have taken on the responsibility for getting contracts set up, so when we finally manage to extract the liquid gold and it starts flowing from the pipeline into the containers housed at the Amahadian port in the north, we have buyers set up to take it and process it for us. It’s a mammoth task, but one with potential multi-billion pound returns for both Amahad, and the neighbouring countries of Alair and Ezirad.

  Thankfully, appointing contractors for all the steps, negotiating with OPEC and deciding whether to throw in with them, or go it alone, can be done remotely, as I have absolutely no desire to ever make my home in Amahad again. My late father, Emir Rushdi, had ruled country and home with an iron rod and outmoded ideas, culminating when I was complicit in kidnapping an innocent business woman for crimes her father committed. While that surprisingly resulted in an incredibly happy marriage between my younger brother and said abductee, the fact such archaic punishment was even considered, let alone followed through, was the final straw which broke this particular camel’s back. I turned away from my country, and made a permanent move to England. Which gave me the opportunity to concentrate on my BDSM club, originally conceived as an outlet for my own preferences for play. Since its inception, the club has become a resounding success and provided a strong return on my investment.

  While my elder brother’s accession to the throne has resulted in much needed reform in Amahad, it’s still not sufficient to call me home. But I haven’t abandoned my country, contributing what I need to from these prestigious offices and working as my country’s ambassador to the UK, as well as heading up our oil operations.

  But today I’m not going to the offices to work. No, I’ve a meeting this afternoon that I’m very much looking forward to. Exiting the lift with a smile on my face, I enter my office to find my younger brother and his wife already waiting for me.

  “Ni!” Walking forward with my hand outstretched, he clasps it in his, and then hugs me to him. It’s been a month since I last saw him, when I made an obligatory brief visit back home just after the birth of the latest addition to our family, my nephew, Ra-id. Son to my older brother, Emir Kadar and his English wife Zoe, he’s well named, Ra-id translating to leader, which he’ll one day become. I’d stayed less than a day before returning to the UK.

  “No hug for me, Jasim?” Cara chuckles softly, and I swing around to greet Nijad’s beautiful wife, letting my brother go and crossing over to her in an instant.

  I kiss both her cheeks, then embrace her tightly, remembering that if it wasn’t for her belief in Nijad, his name would never have been cleared of a heinous crime. Our family has much to be grateful to her for. As well as restoring Nijad’s reputation, she also played a significant role in discovering the oil lying under our sands.

  Releasing her, I take a step back, holding her at arm’s length while I examine her face. Her scars have almost completely disappeared now, her skin all but flawless and smooth. “You’re looking really good.” I speak the truth, she is. And it’s clear to see she’s become comfortable with herself. I can’t help teasing her, “Done any hacking lately?”

  Her face drops as she pretends to scowl, “Ni won’t let me.”

  “I’m surprised he can stop you.” A growl from behind me suggests he’s not always successful. I bark a laugh, and then get down to the hospitality. “Come, sit. Nijad, Cara, what can I get you to drink?”

  “Just something soft, please, Jasim. We’ve got plans to go to the club later.”

  Nodding, I press the intercom and put in a request to my personal assistant, then join my brother and his wife sitting on the comfortable leather couches I use for the more informal meetings. “How’s Zorah?” I enquire, asking about my niece, their young daughter.

  “She’s great. Doing well. I don’t like to be away from her, but now she’s nearly a year old—a year, can you believe that, Jasim?—I felt able to leave her for a few days.”

  “And Cara’s been longing to go to Club Tiacapan.” Nijad’s grin implies she’s not the only one.

  I can understand why. Nijad, like me, is a Dom, and he introduced his wife to the lifestyle when he’d quickly found she was his ideal submissive. Only in the bedroom though, she’s got him twisted around her little finger outside of it. It was I who’d set up their own private dungeon in their palace in Z̧almā, the desert city.

  “Cara’s longing to try the suspension rig. She’s kept on ever since she heard about it,” Nijad continues. He doesn’t sound put out about that.

  “Has Kadar given you any tips?” My older brother might be emir, and as such needs to keep his proclivities quiet, but he’s also a Dom, and a master rigger.

  Nijad jerks his chin, “I’ve been practicing Shibari, and yes, he’s given me some pointers.”

  “Ha! I’m looking forward to seeing you tied up in knots, Cara.”

  Her eyes twinkle mischievously, “And I’m looking forward to seeing you in action, Jas.” I exchange a glance with my brother, and raise my chin at his quick warning frown. I’ll make sure to refrain from my more extreme activities tonight.

  My assistant appears with a tray, I thank him. When he leaves, I lean forward, my hands on my knees, “You’ve never played in public before, Cara. How do you feel about it?”

  Her trusting eyes go to her husband, “Ni will take care of me. And, of course, he’s vetted my clothing.”

  “You won’t be seeing my wife nake
d, if that’s what you’re expecting.”

  Of course, I wasn’t. And I wouldn’t want to. She’s as much as a blood sister to me as Aiza.

  Nijad puts out his hand and picks up his glass, and after taking a sip, he gives me a stern and appraising look. “When are you coming back to Amahad? And I don’t mean just for a flying visit. It doesn’t look good, you know, your staying away. Kadar worries about the impression it gives. He wants you to come back. And for longer than you did last time.”

  “You, of all people, know why I left, Nijad. I vowed never to go back.” I suppress a shudder at the thought of those long gloomy hallways in the palace of Amahad in the country’s capital, Al Qur’ah. The place where I was born and raised, until sent abroad to be educated and had come to understand how outdated my view of the world was. The obeisance and deference shown to me by virtue of my accident of birth, my privileged life, while there was poverty and suffering around me. The extravagant displays of wealth, while in the south of Amahad, my countrymen starved, eking out their meagre living from the parched desert.

  Inhaling sharply, Nijad shakes his head, “Times are changing. Kadar’s plans for an elected government are coming to fruition. A vast proportion of the wealth from the oil fields will go the desert tribes. New hospitals and schools are already in the planning stages…”

  “My home is here, Nijad. I’ve got the club and my work.” As always, I find myself shifting awkwardly at the thought of paying a visit of more than a few hours to the country that stifled my youth. Oh, I spent much of my time away, schooled at Eton and then Oxford. But when I was home… Rushdi had been hard on his sons. Never bending, always controlling. He might be dead, but it’s my fear that his influence lingers on.

  “I’m not asking you to move. Just to show your face.” Nijad shakes his head in frustration.

  “Kadar’s put you up to this?” Nijad gives nothing away, so I continue, “He doesn’t need me now that he’s got an heir.” As second son, I had always been the spare. For years Nijad, neither heir apparent or next in line, had been free to live the life of a playboy until the incident that almost destroyed him. I, on the other hand, wasn’t allowed so much freedom, called back to learn the affairs of state. Until I escaped. And now, even with my father buried, I remain reluctant to be drawn back inside that web.