Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (8 page)

I’m taken aback at his thoughtfulness. I close my eyes briefly and nod in thanks. The gesture shows me my brother still spares some consideration for me. Although I can’t take it into the desert, I’m glad he didn’t sell the bike.

“How can you stand to stay trapped in the forsaken desert, Ni? Why don’t you just leave? Father couldn’t prevent you. Obviously, there’d be financial repercussions, but surely you’d be happier?”

I don’t know what to tell him. If I left I’d be disinherited, but my personal fortune from my wise investments would be more than sufficient to support me for life. The reasons I accept my sentence are complicated, but I try to find the words to describe how I feel.

“If I knew what’d happened, Jas, I could do something about it. But I don’t. And until I can trust myself again I just don’t see any way of moving forwards. If I left, what would I do? Would you have me back at Club Tiacapan?”

Although I already know the answer, I still feel gutted as my brother shakes his head. “As you say, Ni, if you don’t know your trigger how can I risk something setting you off in a BDSM club? It’s a safe place where a sub can trust their Dominant enough to cede their control to them. How could you even consider taking that gift when you can’t control yourself? So no, you’re not a Club Tiacapan Master any more
,
or entitled to call yourself a Dom. Not until you find yourself again.”

I stand and sweep my robes around me. It hurts, but he’s right.

“At least, in the desert, I can’t hurt anyone.”

His eyes narrow. “Except your wife.”

I clasp my hands behind my neck, leaning my head back as a wave of despair rushes over me.

After examining my face Jasim nods, satisfied I know the risks. He turns away and I hear the door close behind him.

I raise my eyes up as if in prayer.
Allah give me strength
. Then, probably destroying any chance of divine intervention, I remember the well-stocked bar in my room at the palace. I plan to get completely and utterly hammered tonight and maybe, for a short time, I’ll be able to forget the demons of hell that plague me.

Cara

Leaning back in my chair I rest my head, pleased with the progress I’ve made this morning. I’ve got to grips with my latest project and allow myself the sense of achievement I get when I manage to trace through years of accounts, finding all the ploys that have been used to leak money from a company. It just takes that one little breakthrough then everything else falls into place. I’m grinning at my success when I hear the knock on the door. Deep in thought, I’m startled, but I check my watch and realise just exactly how much time has passed. The interruption has come at the appointed time – I must’ve lost an hour or so, being so taken up with my investigation. It’ll be the parcel I’m expecting. I’m not surprised at their punctuality. I’ve had couriers before who’ve been sitting outside my house waiting to enter the exact time slot when they’re scheduled to make the delivery. Expecting the package, I’ve already disengaged the alarm system so I just turn the latch to open my front door to find, exactly as expected, a man standing outside wearing the jacket emblazoned with the DHL emblem and carrying a large box.

“Name?”

The courier holding the box is tall, and I have to crane my neck up to look into his face.

“Cara Carson,” I confirm.

“Er …” He smiles apologetically, looking a bit embarrassed, and waves a handheld computer at me. “Sorry. The battery has died. Could you sign my paperwork instead, please?” His voice is rich, and I notice he has a slight accent. He hands over the box.

It feels very light as I take it, almost as if it’s empty. Typical of Amazon, using an oversized box to send one printer cartridge!

“Yes, of course.” I wait for him to hand the paper receipt over.

He looks sheepish. “I haven’t a pen …”

“Ah, right.” I glance around the hallway as if a convenient writing implement would be lurking there on the hall table. It isn’t, of course. “Hold on a minute. Sorry, I’ll have to find one.”

Leaving the door ajar, I carry the box in and put it down. I move through to the sitting room to get a pen from my desk. Picking one up, I turn round.

“Oh!” I gulp. The delivery man is standing right behind me. Stunned, I stupidly do nothing but stand and gape, too shocked to move, and then I hear my front door firmly slamming shut, and another man appears.

Taken aback, I gasp in surprise and say indignantly, “Will you get out of my house, please?”

But they ignore me. The one who’d entered first shrugs off the courier jacket, revealing a smart, expensive-looking business suit underneath. My outrage at having my home invaded becomes tinged with nervousness, and then promptly progresses to outright fear. I haven’t a clue why these men have forced themselves into my house, and any satisfactory reason evades me. This can’t be good. In fact, it’s damn terrifying.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” I start trembling. My home’s my safe place, my refuge, and now it’s being violated. I open my mouth to scream, but the first man quickly covers it with his hand, cutting off any sound. His hand is warm, his touch firm, the scent of sandalwood wafts to my nostrils. I recoil from the stranger’s touch but his free arm snakes out around me, pulling me back.

“Just do as we say, Miss Carson. Don’t make a sound, and you won’t get hurt.” Logically I know that screaming won’t help much as my neighbour on one side is deaf and the house on the other side is empty. No one could hear me so, reluctantly, I nod, and he removes his hand. I’m relieved I no longer have physical contact with the man. I note that while he takes a small step back, he keeps his eyes fixed on me as if trying to read my face. I swallow.

“What … what do you want?” I’m visibly shaking now. “Please tell me what you want!” Trapped in my house with two unknown men, both tall and imposing, towering over my small five-foot-four frame, I’m terrified. Hunter’s warnings come back to me.
This time, I might have gone too far!

“Be quiet,” the second man commands. I shudder at the harsh order and look up at the man who’s spoken. Dark eyes give nothing away, but he regards me as intently as the one who pretended to be a courier. I watch as he looks around the room until his eyes alight on my desk chair. He wheels it over.

“Sit.”

Frozen, unable to move of my own volition, I stay standing. Though I try to shake off his hold, the pseudo-courier takes my arms and manoeuvres me gently until I’m sitting down. Something in his eyes changes, and I see a glint of compassion there. The features of this man’s face are softer than those of his companion. I force myself to take in as much detail as I can. If this is a robbery, I’ll need to describe them to the police. If I survive, of course. As I take in their appearance, I can’t prevent a whimper escaping.

Their slight accents, together with olive skin and dark eyes, show they are not English. They look perhaps Mediterranean or, and I can’t avoid the obvious truth, Arab. I swallow, thinking fast, as they offer no clue as to why they are here. Amahad. It’s something to do with Amahad. A cold shiver runs down my spine, at odds with the sweat on my palms. My heart starts racing as I panic, with the realisation that my chess pieces have come to life.

“I would say fifty, sixty kilos at most.”

I hear the voice from behind me. What the heck are they doing? It sounds like they’re discussing my weight now? If so, they’re obviously grossly underestimating, but I’m certainly not going to enlighten them. There’s no way I’m only nine stone – are they blind? Unbidden words from my memory sweep into my mind, the words my father had so caringly spoken seven years ago at that one and only meeting I’d ever had with him.
You’re an utter waste of space. You’re disgusting. Fat, ugly and utterly useless to me.

“I agree.” The man in front of me is speaking to his companion but, for a second, I think he can hear the echo of the words that just ran through my head. He reaches out his hand and I unsuccessfully try to pull away as he grips my chin firmly.

“Look at me!”

His voice carries such authority that I automatically follow his instruction. My eyes lock with his. I start to struggle harder to get away from his touch, pulling back to remove myself from his reach.

“If you stay still we won’t hurt you.”

My eyes widen. What are they going to do? For the first time, the thought of rape enters my head. God, please no. I can’t do that. Why aren’t I screaming? I have to fight; I have to get to the front door. But somehow his dark eyes compel me to remain where I am.

My sleeve is pulled up, there’s a firm grip on my arm and then the sharp prick of a needle, almost immediately followed by a cold feeling running through my veins. They’re drugging me! My brain kicks up a gear, but too late.
Now
my synapses start firing and I try to struggle to my feet, but whatever he’s given me is already making my limbs feel like lead. I look, my eyes pleading with the man.

“Why?” I manage to gasp.

Suddenly he becomes loquacious. “Miss Carson, you’re coming with us. The drug will make you feel drowsy, not unlike indulging in too much alcohol. We need you to go with us, but don’t be anxious. We intend you no physical harm.” The last was said forcibly, as though he’s trying to convince and calm me.

I start feeling dizzy; the room is spinning. Calling on all my reserves I try to push out the word again. “Why?”

There is no pity in his voice, or in his eyes. “We’re taking you to Amahad.” He breaks off and gives an exasperated shake of his head. “It is regrettable that you did not accept our invitation. It would have avoided having to do this the hard way.”

Only a few moments later I’m aware of being led out of my front door into a waiting car, but completely unable to protest or put up any resistance. It’s a weird, out-of-body experience, like looking down on someone else. I feel a hand on my head as they push me into the back seat, and then someone sits beside me. I don’t know how long the journey is, as I drift in and out of consciousness. Our initial destination is a huge building with glaring lights, which makes my eyes hurt. I’m being held up by one man as we make our way through. We seem to walk for ever. At one point we pause and I hear voices murmuring. Someone asks me a question that I cannot answer, and then there’s laughter.
I need to speak; I need to attract attention.
But I’m incapable of forming any sound. I’m so scared inside; I can’t prevent what’s happening to me. Soon I’m being led up a strange metal stairway, and though I’ve never been on one before in my life, I realise I’m on a plane.

They sit me down, I try to stand back up, but my head’s too dizzy and I can’t do much more than make a token attempt to rise. One of the men gently pushes me down again, and then firmly fastens a seat belt around me. I try to speak once more, but my throat is too dry, and he hands me a bottle of water, already opened, thank goodness. I don’t think I’ve got the coordination to unscrew the top. As I drink deeply, I hear the engines roar, and the plane takes off into the night sky. I consume almost the whole bottle and then, once lubricated, the first thing out of my mouth surprises even me.

“I don’t have a passport.”

“Yes, you do. You’re travelling on Amahadian papers.”

My drugged brain can’t process that answer, but I don’t have time to ask anything else because once again my sleeve is pulled up. I try to twist my arm away but I’m too weak to get it free.

“This is a just a sedative. You’ll sleep the rest of the way.”

“I …”

I don’t even have time to protest. Almost as soon as the needle pierces my skin everything goes dark.

****

Christ! My bed’s uncomfortable this morning. I try to turn over but there’s hardly any room to move. I’m hot, so I toss off the sheet covering me. Sheet? What the hell happened to my duvet? Shit, I feel ill. How much did I drink last night? Why is my brain so foggy that I can’t remember the evening before at all? Groaning, I massage my temples, hoping to ease the ache there, but it does no good. I need to get up and find some painkillers, but I feel so weak I can’t move. Have I got the flu? Blast it, I’ve got to move.

Pulling myself to a sitting position, I open my eyes. Shit!
This isn’t my bed and this isn’t my room!
Becoming more alert, I take in my surroundings. I’m lying on a cot of some sort, narrow and hard. No wonder I was uncomfortable. The room is dark and dingy; there’s a musky smell which reeks of age and disuse. I look around to see bare stone walls with just one window, so high up it affords me nothing but an expanse of clear blue sky. There are bars across it, but no glass. Warm air is wafting in carrying an unusual perfume, oddly distinguishable from the stale odour of the room itself.
Where the hell am I
?

Dazed and confused, head pounding, I force myself to think. The situation I’m in is no nightmare; this is all too bloody real. The blood is throbbing through my veins and with each beat flashes of the night before come back to me. The men in my house, glimpses of travelling.
A plane?
Did that actually happen? A wave of nausea floods over me as I realise it did. I’m no longer in England, and there’s a very strong chance I’m in Amahad.