Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Read Free Page 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