Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (17 page)

This, this is the man I’ll be married to for five years? Perhaps the gods have smiled kindly on me for once in my life. What have I ever done to deserve such a reward? For a short while, I allow myself to daydream, to think he’ll see beyond my scars. And then I swiftly bring myself back down to earth. As I recognise my visceral attraction to the man in front of me I swallow hard, tears prickling at my eyes, knowing there’s no way the appeal will be reciprocated. What’s going to happen when he sees he’s married a monster? Oh God, please don’t let him be cruel. When my veil is off and I’ve nowhere to hide, please don’t let him show the disgust he will surely feel.

I want the earth to open up and swallow me. The night ahead will hold nothing but humiliation, and I’m fearful when he sees the hand he’s been dealt he will be angry. Perhaps he’ll even reject me, unable to force himself to ravish a body like mine.

I risk another glance at the man sprawled comfortably in front of me, not knowing which will be worse: him taking me, or him not being able to bring himself to touch me. Oh God, he’s looking at me intently. I’m sure he’s missing nothing. He’s studying me with a lazy stare, like a cat looking at a cornered mouse.

Nijad

Lamis has brought my wife to me. The woman I will bed tonight and, by order of the emir, in whom I’ll plant my seed. Could it get any fucking colder than that? I hadn’t actually considered what I’d feel at this moment other than physical relief. I’d thought I’d approach it in the same way I’d follow any other royal instruction, perhaps more pleasurable than some of the things I’ve been ordered to do. In theory it sounds simple: be intimate with the woman and impregnate her; well within my area of expertise, even allowing for my recent lack of practice. But now, looking at her, seeing her standing before me, her nervousness so fucking obvious, her fear palpable, I realise she’s flesh and blood, she’s real, with her own wants and feelings. Not just a name on a piece of paper, on that fucking contract I had to sign. I’d heard the screams as the women prepared her – fuck knows what they were doing to upset her – but it cut me to the quick. That was no sound of a wife looking forward to her wedding night. I falter. Before Paris I enjoyed the company of women both in and out of bed. I didn’t have a preference for any particular shape or form; I was happy to sample them all. And women found me attractive, so much so I couldn’t think of a time where I’d had to put in any effort and make the running. A tilt of my head, a raised eyebrow, and the woman of my choice would come swiftly to me, pushing competition aside if she had to. I know I’ve been called arrogant, and I accept the indictment with equanimity. I’ve never had to make any effort to get a woman into my bed before now.

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.