Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (2 page)

I’m shaking my head while acknowledging Jon is right. I thought I’d left violence like that behind when I’d left active service. I know I should have handled myself better. And I’m not going to admit I might have killed him, had others not stopped it going too far. The sight of that woman’s flayed back, well, I just couldn’t help myself; it was as if a devil had got inside me. And I don’t want to be reminded of my father’s reaction when he was drawn into the legal battle. He didn’t try to hide his disappointment in his youngest son, clearly thinking the fruit of his loins should have shown more restraint. That the echoes of the incident still reverberated within the palace walls was just one more reason I wanted to get back to Europe.

“St John-Davies was banned from the club, though. Permanently,” I tell Jon, conversationally. “He tried to make trouble for Jasim, but was slapped down.”

“Not surprised. Jasim’s got some pretty powerful friends.” There’s a pause before he continues. “I hear he’s suspended your membership too?”

“Aren’t bodyguards supposed to be deaf?” For fuck’s sake, now Jon’s annoyed me. It wasn’t something I was particularly proud of.

He gives an unrepentant shrug. “I was in the room when he told you.” His mouth twists into a half-smile. “I assure you, we aren’t hard of hearing, Nijad. But I can promise you we are discreet.”

He’s right, and it’s not a secret in any event. “Jasim’s worried about my lack of control. And, of course, lack of judgement where Chantelle is concerned.”

“Not good traits in a Dom!”

I lean forwards, elbows on my knees, my hands grasped in front of me. “I wouldn’t hurt a woman, Jon. You know that! Fuck, I’ve been banned for trying to protect a sub! Sure, I should have pulled some of those punches, but what that bugger had done was beyond belief!” I still believed he deserved everything he’d got.

“It’s only a temporary ban, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, until the St John-Davies thing blows over.” What Jon hadn’t heard was Jasim giving me a very stern talk about what it meant to be a Dominant, and how very far away from that he thinks I am. The conversation was painful and caused me to do some deep-felt heart-searching. Do I just want control? Do I truthfully believe in the power exchange? Do I want to give pleasure, or just take it? Could I ever really commit to a D/s relationship? Or is it just a game? My brother has given me a month to try to sort out my head.

Realising I’m finished with conversation for a while, Jon relaxes and starts reading something on his tablet. We continue the journey in a comfortable silence and it’s not that long before the plane lands. Having disembarked, we go through the requisite customs procedures which, thankfully, are fairly innocuous, one of the benefits of diplomatic status and private jets. Finally finished with the formalities, Jon, assuming his bodyguard role, accompanies me vigilantly, always on the lookout for trouble as we make our way through the busy airport and outside to the storage unit where I keep my motorbike. I grin at his unmistakable sigh of envy and acknowledge his nod of jealousy as I pull on my black leathers and helmet. Then I throw my leg across the seat and sit astride my MV Agusta F4CC, one of the rarest and fastest bikes in the world. He opens his mouth but rapidly closes it without saying anything, settling for a dismissive shake of his head. It’s been a long time now since he last tried to argue against me going off alone. It’s palace protocol that all royals of Amahad have a personal guard. However, my high disregard for convention means unless I’m going somewhere in my official role his services are not required.

“Take care,” he says unnecessarily, narrowing his eyes. “Call me, Nijad. Keep me in the loop.”

I reach out and grasp his arm, shaking his hand, letting him know without words how much I appreciate his friendship and discretion, enabling me to live my life almost like a normal man.

Although I’m not too enamoured of Chantelle as a companion, thoughts of her hot body and the fact that she’s only a few miles away make me impatient to get going. I’m too wired to waste any time dawdling; my cock is starting to throb uncomfortably in my tight leathers and I need to deal with that problem before I can concentrate on anything else. Two weeks of celibacy is more than enough for me. Throwing a comment over my shoulder to let Jon know I’ll be in touch, I start the engine, rev the throttle and take off. I know it’s childish, but I’m unable to resist the wheelie I wickedly know will give him palpitations. But once I’m out of sight I slow right down. I’m not a maniac, nor stupid, and a death wish is far from my mind.

It’s late morning and, as normal, the streets are busy with crazy Parisian drivers, all of whom seem hell-bent on cutting me up. The Agusta handles well, though, breezing through the traffic as I travel away from Charles de Gaulle and head for the city centre. In no time at all I’m at my apartment building and securing my precious bike in the basement garage next to my other toy, my Maserati GranTurismo Sport. Knowing that Jon will be dropping off my luggage later, all I have to carry is my helmet as I make my way to the lifts, one of which is conveniently waiting at garage level. I get straight in, pushing hard on the button to the top floor as if that will make the lift move faster. Extracting my door key from my pocket as I travel upwards, I’m ready to open my front door as soon as I arrive at the penthouse level. Thoughts of sex on tap, and the exhilaration of the bike ride home, mean I’m already primed and ready for some action.

Fuck! It’s my lucky day. As I open the front door to find Chantelle standing in front of me, wearing only a flimsy robe which leaves nothing to the imagination, the question of how she knew I was returning this morning is a long way from my mind. There’s no denying she is fucking beautiful, particularly with her assets almost, yet not quite, exposed for my immediate attention. My cock feels like a steel rod in my jeans, even though it astounds me that it’s possible to get any harder than I already am. Two weeks without sex; I’m not going to waste another moment. Kicking the door shut behind me I drop the helmet on the hall table, grab her and swing her around, and now I’m kissing her up against the wall, rubbing my cock against her, leaving her in no doubt of my intentions. This,
this
is the advantage of having a woman living in my home: instant availability, no making arrangements. She’s mine, and she’s here. My cock is pulsing. I want her now. I deepen the kiss, nipping at her lip and then soothing it with my tongue. My mouth firmly attached to hers, my hands rise and push the robe off her shoulders. Just as I expect, she’s completely naked underneath. I break the kiss, pulling away as I need air.

“Chantelle!” I manage to gasp, my hands going to her breasts, feeling the weight of them. My fingers find her nipples and pinch them lightly, knowing it always turns her on.

“Nijad! I didn’t expect you today!” She pushes me back a step and slides away from my grasp.

Something about the tone of her voice doesn’t sound right, but I’m too wound up to stop and consider.

“Come!” Assertively, I take her hand and pull her into the bedroom. It needs a little tug to get her moving, but not enough to suggest she’s making any real protest. I push her down on the bed, falling on top of her. Taking both her hands in one of mine I hold them above her head, imprisoning her. My legs slip between her thighs. I start to kiss her again, and it’s at that point I realise something is decidedly wrong.

Rocking back on my heels, I release her hands and stare down into the face of the unusually unresponsive woman lying beneath me. Only then do I start to notice the signs that I initially missed, now taking in the redness in her eyes and her pale pallor. For the first time, I wonder why she was standing by the front door all but naked when she hadn’t known I was coming back today. Mentally kicking myself, I belatedly realise that stripping off her robe as soon as I entered the apartment and dragging her naked into the bedroom wasn’t one of my finest ideas. The question of why she’s so scantily clad, and why the bed is still rumpled when it’s already past noon, now crosses my mind. Looking into her eyes, I worry she seems almost wary of me. It’s perhaps a bit late, but now I ask, “Chantelle, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“Why are you home so early?” she breathes, her voice sounding strange. I can’t tell what’s wrong, but I realise as she turns her head away that something is way off.

Smiling at her, I slide my finger down the side of her face. “My last meeting was cancelled. I couldn’t wait to get home; I missed you.” Well, that’s true of a certain part of me, for sure. My cock is straining at the fabric of my jeans as if it’s trying to escape by itself, but I’m starting to come to terms with the realisation that I am going to have to remain uncomfortable. Shutting my eyes, I will my erection to subside. I’m twenty-seven years old, for fuck’s sake, not a teenager, and I should be able to control my libido. Her uncharacteristic behaviour triggers my sympathy. “Are you not well?”

She starts at my question, and then sniffs dramatically, “I’m OK, it’s just a cold.”

“Just a cold? Can I get you anything?” My fingers move higher and as I begin to gently stroke her forehead she leans in to my touch. “Do you need a doctor?”

She shakes her head, and then winces as if in pain. “I’m sorry, Nijad. My head hurts so bad. We haven’t got any painkillers left in the flat. Could you possibly go out and get me some?”

I hear the nervous catch in her voice and feel a bastard for not realising how poorly she must be feeling. Assuming she thinks she’s asking too much of me, as I’ve only just arrived home, I lean down, reassuring her by gently brushing my lips against hers. “Of course I will. Do you need them now?” I’ve been travelling since well before dawn and, in truth, could kill for a cup of coffee, but I hate seeing my woman, or any woman for that matter, in pain. My own comfort will have to wait. Fuck.

As I start to rise, she shrugs apologetically. “If you could …”

Before she can finish her sentence, I hear the unmistakable sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut loudly. As I hear footsteps coming along the hall and then across the main room I straighten up, immediately on high alert. The only person who would just walk in is Jasim, and I left him in Amahad last night. Jon has a key, but he would always ring or knock first. I start to reach over to the bedside table where I keep my gun, but before I have a chance to grab it a gruff voice calls out.

“
Hey, bébé, Daddy est là, et il a sucre pour vous. Mais avant que vous pouvez avoir toute les trucs sucrés votre Daddy veut quelque chose pour lui-même.”

Daddy’s home and he’s got sugar for her?
I interpret the words faster than their meaning. I fling myself off the bed, swinging round as I see a man walk into the bedroom, his belt already undone, trouser zip half
lowered. There can be no fucking doubt about his intentions.

“What the fuck?” I suddenly know what it means to see red – anger floods through me like a gigantic wave. “Get the fuck out of my apartment!” I roar.

The man just stands insolently in the bedroom doorway. “Is this your rich Arab, Chantelle?” he asks, switching to English, the language I’d used. “Or another of your suitors?” He sounds amused. I don’t see the joke.

“Henri! Just leave!” Chantelle hisses. Her eyes flick warily between the two of us. “Go! Go now!” she cries desperately.

“Are you sure it’s me you want to leave? He can’t give you what I can,” the man suggests nonchalantly, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out.

My eyes narrow as I see the packet of white powder the newcomer holds between his finger and thumb, taunting the woman behind me. With a roar I rush at him, twist his arm behind his back, and propel him down the short hall and out of the front door, not caring that he stumbles and falls. I just need to get him out of my sight before I act on my first impulse to beat the fucking shit out of him.

“Get out, and stay out!” I yell as I slam the door shut, and then lean up against it, taking some deep breaths, trying to process what has just happened. Such rage comes over me that I take the only outlet I can and slam my fist into the wall hard enough to graze my knuckles, breaking the skin. The pain clears the fog, and helps me realise there’s only one interpretation for what’s just transpired, and even my bemused brain quickly comes to the conclusion that there is only one solution.

“Fucking hell.” I shake my head, unable to believe the situation, although the evidence is plain. No wonder she greeted me wearing a flimsy negligee; it wasn’t me she was fucking waiting for! Fortifying myself with a deep breath I spin round to deal with this shit.

“Nijad, let me explain …”

I glare at her as she stands, still naked, at the bedroom door. I don’t want to hear lies or excuses. Clenching my fists to stop me doing something I’ll later regret, I push past her to retrieve her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and then pull open the closet doors and start chucking in her clothes. I don’t bother folding them, nor do I worry about the blood from my injured hand dripping on to the fabric.

“What are you doing? Nijad, wait, we have to talk,” she pleads, stepping towards me, putting her hand on my arm to try to make me stop what I’m doing. I shrug her off, but pause briefly, glowering at her. I cannot remember ever feeling so angry in my life. Trust and honesty. That’s what I expect from people. Is that too much to fucking ask? On current evidence it seems it is.

“There’s nothing to say. I don’t even want to know how long you’ve been making a fool of me. Get dressed and go.” I sling some clothes at her, hoping there’s something there she can put on, but not giving a damn if she has to walk out of here naked. I just need her out of my sight as quickly as possible.