Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3) Read online

  After one final circuit and now decidedly feeling the burn, I finish off and take a much-needed shower. Energised to start my day, I turn my mind to the first item on today’s agenda, an important meeting, but this one at least with a man I can call a friend.

  An hour later, I’m ready and waiting as Sheikh Rais enters my office. Before seating himself across the desk from me, he performs a deep bow that I return in deference to his status and reputation, earned by his prowess on the battlefield and renowned sharp intelligence. He’s one of the most powerful and influential of the desert sheikhs, the leaders of the tribes in the southern desert. Rais is a man just a couple of years older than myself, and, like me, educated for the most part in the west. Unlike me he seems better able to marry his staunch traditional background and upbringing with the values learned during his years in England and more able to stomach the atrocities he sees almost on a daily basis.

  If his scarred face wasn’t enough to show he’s no stranger to the harsher side of life his bearing—shoulders up and back, chin raised in ever ready challenge and piercing eyes— would indicate this is a man to be reckoned with. A good friend to have on your side, but a man no one would relish as an enemy. When Rais speaks, even an emir would do well to listen.

  “Thank you for staying on in Al Qur’ah after the funeral.” Well aware the desert sheikhs are often a law unto themselves it’s wise for me to request their presence, not demand, so I voice my appreciation that he accepted my invitation to this meeting.

  “My pleasure, Emir Kadar.”

  “No formalities between us, Rais. I wanted to talk with you as a friend.”

  He breathes in deeply, and then sighs, “And you need those, Kadar.”

  “It’s bad then?” I don’t need to explain I want to sound him out on how much truth there is in the rumours that have reached the palace. It would be useful to get the gist of how the leaders of the other nine tribes are positioning themselves in relation to my succession to the throne. He’ll be well aware why I wanted to see him today.

  Creasing his eyes, Rais seems to be pulling his thoughts together, “No one likes change, Kadar. An old shoe might be more comfortable than a new one, at least until it starts to let in the dust. There’s always comfort in the devil you know.”

  I huff a laugh, “Devil’s probably the right word.”

  “You see that. I see that. Doesn’t mean others do,” he frowns.

  Wiping my hand over my face, I park it briefly on my chin. I find it difficult to believe that the previous emir had so much support in his manner of leadership, which to put it simply, was to rule with an iron fist. “My father never gave an inch. His way was always the right one.”

  “But one which my fellow sheikhs were comfortable with,” Rais pauses before adding, “Myself, not so much. But at least we all knew exactly where we were.”

  “Which was where he told you to be. He’d allow no questioning of his decisions or policies.”

  Rais laughs, “His advisors had an easy job of it, they just said yes to whatever he proposed or waited until he told them what advice to give.”

  He’s hit the nail on the head. But enough about the old emir and the way things used to be done. Today it’s more important to discover what’s happening now and the reliability of the gossip that’s been reaching the palace, “What’s the view of the Haimi?” I ask him about his tribe, “How are your people on the ground feeling about the change in ruler?”

  He shrugs, “Take Muzaffar, for example, his methods would probably not be condoned by any international court of human rights. But they work.” Rais says, referring to the man who’s responsible for interrogating any jihadists captured while crossing our southern borders. “Your father celebrated his skills in extracting information, and there’s no doubt the intelligence he’s obtained over the years has saved lives. No one likes using torture, but you try to restrict that…” He breaks off and shrugs.

  Leaning back in my chair, I fold my arms and bow my head. I want to improve our international reputation but as my father refused to censure the practices of people like Muzaffar, we’ve already got committees of the United Nations making noises. Even though there haven’t been outright complaints—to be frank, anyone who would have raised such a grievance would no longer be breathing. I receive reports to the palace, of course, but we don’t make them public record. Nevertheless, wind of how we operate has reached prying ears. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the UN, but on the other hand, I know where Rais is coming from. The desert’s a brutal place, and desperate measures are necessary to protect the tribes and their way of life.

  Already I’ve started to make changes. Only yesterday I signed the dictate outlawing death by public execution when I found out two of our tribes, the Qaiquw and the Khabi, still continue the practice which has received condemnation and has been prohibited throughout the world. I’d been horrified to find it still regularly carried out in some parts of my country. Luckily, as the custom was limited to just the two tribes, it hadn’t come to the notice of Amnesty International for which I could only be grateful. But I’ve yet to face the fallout from my decree against carrying out the death sentence in the presence of spectators, and putting an end to that barbaric tradition might require subtle negotiation. I also reduced the number of crimes punishable by the death penalty, revising the ancient list and removing, amongst others, burglary, blasphemy and theft from the list. Which means we need new prisons built… My work is never ending.

  “Anything else?” I ask him.

  “I know the men of Ghalib’s tribe, the Hagra, are worried about some of your proposed changes to the justice system.” Rais continues his precis of the current situation.

  Although we’d long since giving up the practice of amputating the hand of a thief, and no one has been stoned in Amahad for decades, lashing is currently still permitted for some crimes. It’s well known I’m planning incarceration, imposing fines or, in some cases, community service as the only available punishments for all crimes, except the most severe. So along with the gaols we’ll need courts and jury system in place to administer it all. The northern cities already function this way, in the desert, though; the decision of the appropriate sentence is at the discretion of the tribal leader. They’ve worked that way for centuries.

  “And your view, Rais?”

  “It’s something we need to do.”

  I’m glad he’s on my side; having led his tribe for ten years now he’s had the time to demonstrate his strength as leader and garners a lot of respect from the other sheikhs. Something I’ve yet to do. “What else should I be aware of?”

  Now he laughs, “I heard the tribes are terrified of women learning to drive.”

  I give him a weak smile, it’s a trite example, but behind it lies a myriad of issues. In the northern cities, Amahadian women can wear what they like, drive and work. But in the desert, though such matters are not prohibited by custom they’re not encouraged either. And it’s well known I want to unite the country, so there is consistency across the nation. My father declined to impose equal rights on the desert tribes, turning a blind eye to their refusal to come into the twenty-first century.

  “There’s concern about how far your reforms are going to go, Kadar, and how fast and how much it will affect them.”

  “Amahad needs to change if we are to establish our position in the international arena. We must improve our reputation to take our place in the world marketplace. If sanctions are raised against us our country could be ruined financially.”

  “I can’t argue with you about that. But you’re treading a thin line, and must proceed carefully to avoid revolt.”

  I know how everything hangs in the balance. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since my father died. My choices are to continue to ignore the outmoded practices by the desert tribes, or do something about them. Part of the problem is that our largest military base is located in the southern half of the country, with most of the soldiers drawn from
the desert people. The possibility of a coup is therefore not an idle threat.

  “Are any of the sheikhs voicing support for me?” I hardly dare vocalise the question and dislike the hesitation before Rais responds, as it douses any lingering hopes of an easy transition to the throne.

  “Sofian, Wahid, and Ghalib are pushing for time to let you prove yourself, and are wary of any attempt to depose you. What viable alternative is there? No one else has been groomed to lead Amahad. And you’re best placed in the international arena.”

  Nodding, I know that’s probably as much as I could hope for. But there’s something I have to ask, “What about you, Rais? Would you want my position?”

  Tilting his head to the side, he looks me in the eye, deep lines appearing on his forehead. He’s garnering his words, letting me know I’ll hear an honest answer, “There’s talk, of course. I’ve been tentatively approached, but my relative youth,” he pauses to point his finger at himself and then towards me, “Is an issue, same as with you.”

  At thirty-four I don’t feel particularly youthful, but it’s not my view that counts. Again I dip my head up and down in agreement, then jerk my chin towards him, “Who’s the most opposed to me?”

  He snorts, “You really need me to tell you that?”

  “Abdul-Muhsi,” I answer for him, giving an exasperated sigh and letting my head fall into my hands.

  “He’s the only one who believes himself a contender for the throne.” The look of disgust on Rais’s face shows exactly what he thinks about that.

  “Has he much support?”

  Rais narrows his eyes, “Only from his own tribe, as I understand it. Though I don’t doubt, he’ll be canvassing others.”

  “I already know I’ll need to keep a close eye on him.”

  “Yes, you will.” If I hadn’t already been aware of my number one enemy, the sheikh who claims his right to the throne on account of his distant relationship to the royal family, the force in his reply would have convinced me.

  There’s a moment of silence between us; Rais hasn’t told me anything I don’t already know. But neither has he brought me much comfort.

  Standing, Rais walks over to the window, gazes out into the gardens, and then returns to my desk. I glance up at him, knowing he’s not finished with our conversation. I raise my eyebrow.

  “The monarchy needs constancy, Kadar. I know your brothers stand next in line should anything happen to you, but if you provide an acceptable heir, then I believe you’d have more backing behind you. Much of our country is very traditional, as you are aware.”

  Leaning forwards, I steeple my hands and rest my chin on my fingertips. “The proposal was voiced at the funeral, and I have agreed to it.” I reply bluntly. To be honest, I’d consent to almost anything that would provide some stability for myself and for Amahad. This particular issue hadn’t been a price I’d factored in to have to pay, but in the scheme of things, what’s the loss of my personal choice and freedom if it buys peace?

  Rais rearranges his fierce features into an approximation of a smile; it does little to gentle his expression, “Following the custom of marrying a woman acceptable to the sheikhs, or at least the majority of them, would cement your allegiance to Amahad in their eyes. The ultimate personal sacrifice, so to speak.”

  I know. My father had followed the same path, the one I’d always hoped to be able to avoid. While Rushdi and my mother Hafsa seemed happy enough until her death at my sister Aiza’s birth, it was still an arranged marriage. It’s archaic, in this day and age, to be forced into an intimate relationship for political reasons, but at this point, if it avoids upheaval in Amahad, I’ll go along with it.

  I know I’m the only person who can lead my country, none of the sheikhs have the experience, knowledge or connections to do so, whatever they might believe. Putting any one of them in my position would return Amahad to the medieval times, and place the development of the oil field—on which our continued financial health depends—in jeopardy. I’m not naïve enough not to acknowledge the sheikhs wish to have some control on their ruler through the wife I take to my bed, but if martyring myself on the matrimonial altar is what is needed to keep Amahad from descending into civil war, that’s what I’ll do.

  In truth, I’ve no real feeling about it either way. I’ve never had a woman as a permanent fixture in my life, there’s no one I’ve yet met who’d I’ve seen myself wanting to spend a lifetime with. I’ve been too wedded to my country to have time to play the field. Like most men, my cock’s not too fussy about which particular hole it sinks into, so I’ve no real concerns about my ability to impregnate the woman of their choice.

  Rais takes his seat again. He himself is a widower with a seventeen year old son so has no personal interest in who might become my wife.

  I frown at him as he smirks, “Jibran’s eldest daughter is quite attractive. I could do that easily. I’d avoid Tamir’s —she’s a bit of a shrew. And Nazmi’s? I doubt you’d be the first to plough that.”

  His comments break the tension and make me laugh. “It’s been suggested I marry King Asad of Alair’s daughter, to unite our countries.”

  “Fuck!” the expletive is drawn out of him as he splutters, “She’s hardly out of nappies.”

  “She’s sixteen,” I correct him, a wry grin on my face.

  The corners of his mouth turn up as he studies me, as though wondering whether I’d stoop so low. I leave him guessing, but the answer is a definite no. While some women might not see marriage to a wealthy ruling sheikh as a punishment, I’d never put someone so young or presumably innocent in that position. No one will be forced into my bed; the woman I wed will come willingly or not at all. And I don’t worry there won’t be plenty of eager contenders for the position. I can only hope to find someone to my taste.

  I’ve had enough of this subject, so change it. “You’ll keep me informed of anything you hear, Rais? Your counsel is always welcomed.”

  “Of course I will. I’ll keep my ear to the ground. Any rumours of any substance I’ll be sure to let you know. You have my support, Kadar, you can bank on that.”

  I stand and round the desk to take his hand, drawing him to me, slapping him on the shoulder a couple of times. “Rais, I’m always grateful to you and our friendship.”

  He reciprocates my actions. “Take care, Kadar. And watch your back.”

  As he takes his leave and exits my office, I feel a shiver running down my spine. While normally just a figure of speech, the possibility that one day soon I might find cold steel stabbing between my vertebrae is a very real possibility and not one I should be dismissing lightly.

  Chapter 3

  Zoe

  I come to, finding myself lying on the cold stone floor of the basement playroom realising I must have passed out from the pain, and that Ethan just left me where I’d fallen. Pulling myself up stiffly I wonder how long I’ve been lying here; the house is dark and quiet, suggesting it might have been hours. Without bothering to rescue my ruined underwear, I pull up my trousers, wincing as the material scrapes my tender skin. And then I freeze as I feel wetness trickling down my legs. He didn’t use a condom. No! How could he? Did he forget? Or is this just another way to entrap me? Not being able to tolerate the pill I’m completely unprotected. Shit!

  A violent tremor brings me back to myself, forcing more immediate concerns to the forefront of my mind. Pulling my ruined blouse around me, unable to use the sleeve due to my swollen wrist, shivering with cold and pain wracking my body I shuffle through the eerily still and silent house, making my way through the corridors into the surprisingly modern kitchen at the rear. This part of the property is the domain of Mrs Denton, the cook, who the St John-Davies family have employed for decades. Ethan holds her in high regard due to her long service and how she cared for him when he was a child. Which explains why her realm was completely overhauled and refurbished to restaurant standards just a couple of years ago.

  Switching on the harsh overhead light, I ap
proach a corner cupboard, one I’ve visited far too often. Reaching up with my good hand, I grab the bottle of painkillers, tipping just two into my hand. Ethan will have counted them; I daren’t take more. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the door of the cupboard I falter at the sight; dried blood covers my face, and one of my eyes is already puffed-up and starting to blacken. Gingerly I reach up and touch my swollen nose; if it’s not broken, I’ll be lucky.

  Only once before has he hurt me this badly, and that was the first, last, and only time, I made any real effort to escape. And I was the lucky one; at least I hadn’t ended up in a wheelchair like my dear friend Sophie who’d dared to help me. Oh, the police had it down as a hit and run accident happening just a day after Ethan had brought me back. Only I knew it wasn’t a coincidence; he might not have been the actual driver, but Ethan had been responsible for setting it up. He’d admitted as much. And there wasn’t one darn thing I could do about it. The business he’s in, the influential friends he has make him so untouchable it would have been signing my death warrant were I to report him.

  And that was when he’d told me the same, or worse, would happen to anyone else who dared help me escape. He’d commit murder to keep me with him. It was an effective threat. How could I put anyone else in danger?

  How did I let myself get trapped like this?

  Things weren’t always this way. For the first few weeks, even months, there was no sign of the man he really was. And when the monster did emerge, it started so gradually it took time to notice. First, it was verbal—little put-downs and off-the-cuff remarks that left me uncertain and unsure of myself, aimed to eat away slowly at my confidence. Then it was a slap, as though in play, but soon the teasing disappeared. Of course, he was solicitous and apologetic after he hurt me, and like an idiot, I forgave him. Every single time. Until the day he introduced me to his playroom. I can’t even remember what I did wrong on that occasion, but in that soundproofed room he’d made certain I’d never do it again.