Escape to Morning by Susan May Warren Page B

ability at hand-to-hand combat against the Russians, and knew that he could snap her neck without blinking. In the pale moonlight, his dark eyes sorted out her vulnerabilities, and her throat dried up.
    Bakym smiled, glanced at his cohorts. “We have two rules.” He held up his fingers, as if she might need a visual reminder. “Number one, I am the Kaya . You do as I say. You may be a princess in Tazar, but here you will obey me as your king. Especially after we are married.” He chuckled then, and it felt like a dagger to her chest. “Number two, if you forget rule number one, you will be executed.”
    She opened her mouth but caught the outtake of breath before it left her lips. She nodded.
    Bakym reached out and cupped her face in his hand. It was cold and large, and she closed her mouth and tried not to flinch.
    â€œI have waited for you, princess,” he said, and there was nothing soft about his voice. He moved his hand around to the back of her neck, tightened his grip. He took a step closer, forced her eyes to his.
    Amina . She spoke the word in her head as he stared down at her, ice in his gaze.
    â€œYour father made a wise choice for you.” Then he kissed her hard, with anger and power in his touch.
    She stiffened, closed her eyes. For you, Father .
    Bakym stepped back, released her, wiped his mouth.
    Her lips throbbed, bruised from his touch. Bile pooled in the back of her throat.
    He looked at the two men standing in the shadows. “Hafiz is dead. We caught him today sending a message to someone on a cell phone.” Bakym raised one dark eyebrow, glanced at Fadima. “Odd, don’t you think, that the very day our little present arrives, we’d find a traitor in our midst?” He ran the backs of his fingers over her cheek. She tried not to shudder as she read meaning in his eyes.
    â€œDon’t disappoint me, Fadima,” he said softly. “We have much to accomplish for Hayata, and you’re just in time for your first lesson.” He leaned close, his breath on her face. “Come with me, my new bride.”
    Fadima felt a hand on her arm, felt her legs move, but her brain had frozen on “Hafiz is dead.”
    Dead . Fear welled in her throat, tasting acrid, and she fought tears. Amina . Only her protector was dead. So much for truth, for freedom. She gulped in quick, calming breaths, then blinked back tears as Bakym yanked her down the hall, opened the door to a room.
    Her heart stopped, a heavy stone in her chest when he shoved her inside and followed her, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
    But her father had said—
    Fadima nearly crumpled in relief as two women sat up, eyes on the newest member of their group.
    Bakym pointed to a mat next to the wall. A blanket lay bunched on the top. Fadima climbed onto it and watched as Bakym walked over to one of the women, grabbed her by the arm, and forced her to her feet. Dark hair tumbled down over her face, but it couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes. She whimpered as Bakym pushed her out of the room.
    The other woman said nothing as she turned back to the wall. But Fadima heard quiet sobs punctuate the darkness.
    What kind of nightmare had she entered? Father, I can’t do this . Fadima pulled the blanket up over her, her head on her backpack, her eyes to the wall. She missed the smell of the campfire, of lamb’s meat cooking, the arid breeze on her face, even the barks of the village dogs as they roamed the night streets. She missed the sound of Emine’s breathing on the other side of the room. Emine had been her nanny, her mother, after Saiba had left … or rather, been executed, as Fadima had discovered later.
    Most of all, she missed her father. His gentle smiles, the way he enfolded her in his massive arms. He said he trusted these Americans, these people whom, outwardly, he pledged to destroy. He told her to trust his plan, but what had her father been thinking to