Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) by Manda Mellett Page B

further punishment? Is marriage to me sufficient?”
    He nods, slowly. “I have their word on that. But,” – a pregnant pause follows, drawing emphasis to his next words, and his voice drops to an almost menacing level – “you must control her, Nijad. She must not disrespect the country, the Crown or the tribespeople. They’ll be looking for signs, and the first would be for her to disrespect you. There could be danger for her, for us , if you cannot control your wife. Your violent reputation, of course, gives the tribes the confidence that you will have no difficulty with this task.” He pauses again, and then continues. “Her life, or death, is in your hands, Nijad. The tribes will be satisfied either way. They expect you to discipline her. You can be your true self with her.”
    Again he makes to leave, and this time, I don’t stop him. He turns quickly, but not fast enough to hide the wave of sadness that crosses his face, and at that moment I get a rare glimpse of the man behind the throne.
    Bile rises in my throat. My true self? And what’s that exactly? The fucking tribespeople expect me to hurt this woman? She’s being forced to marry me because of my reputation, not in spite of it? But I have no choice in this matter. No damn choice at all.
    I’m only vaguely aware of the conversation still going on around me as I consider my options. Shit, I’m to be an instrument of retribution. I’m going to be married, and to someone who’s unlikely to come to my bed willingly. I’ll be expected to force her – there’s another word for it, but I can’t stomach even thinking it. If she doesn’t comply she will pay the ultimate price. I take a deep breath. The last three years have changed me, have stripped away my civilised veneer. If it weren't for my reputation, her sentence would have been death. How benevolent of the tribes to accept the penance of a life with the savage sheikh as an alternative to public execution. Punishment on the dead man is to be the mating of his daughter to a known vicious and violent man. I can’t refuse, even if the thought of taking a wife for the archaic reason of revenge makes me feel sick to my stomach. Like it or not I’m Amahadian, and what the emir says carries weight. We must preserve peace at all costs. The woman and I are simply pawns. Putting my head in my hands, I breathe deeply.
    Kadar’s watching me carefully, shaking his head, obviously unhappy. “We have to plan carefully to avoid causing an international outcry. That’s the part that worries me most.” He’s moved on to the practicality of how to achieve the ruler’s aims. Reaching for a cup of coffee, as if it could perhaps help calm him, he turns to my brother.
    “I’m sorry, Jasim.” At last, he allows his sympathy to show. “The emir will not listen to any other solution.”
    Finally, he addresses me. “Nijad …” he starts.
    I hold my hand up to stop him. “I don’t fucking like it, Kadar, but what can I do? I hate to say it, but it will satisfy the tribes and the alternative, bringing her here to carry out a death sentence, is unthinkable.”
    “But that may still be the ultimate end. The marriage is simply a reprieve, giving her a chance.” My eldest brother looks at me pointedly.
    I stare down at my hands, imagining them red with her blood, and my stomach rolls in revolt. I see them holding her down, forcing her to accept my attentions, compelling her to submit to my dominance as the only way to keep her alive . How the hell has it come to this? I close my eyes briefly as I answer my own question. The tribal leaders see me as the only man violent enough to control her, to subdue her so that her subjugation by this marriage satisfies the desire for vengeance. If she fights me, will it bring out my inner beast? Is she destined to be hurt by my vicious hand in a repeat of Paris? If I’m provoked and black out again, what am I capable off? My hands clench tightly into fists. When I relax