Prologue

Three years ago

Oh shit! Not again, please. Rubbing my hand across my face, I notice she must have undone the top two buttons of her uniform blouse before leaving the galley. I’m left in no doubt about her intentions as she approaches me with a seductive smile, and that gleam in her eyes I can’t fail to recognise. Being no stranger to such situations, I rapidly assess her predictable proposal in the time it takes for her to reach me and have my well-rehearsed response ready, but I wait and let the scene play out before speaking. As she leans forward, making sure she’s providing me with an eyeful of her artificially enlarged breasts, I smell her freshly applied perfume. Whispering the expected words discreetly into my ear, she confirms her intentions by waving toward the bedroom at the far end of the plane. Suppressing my exasperated sigh, I take her hand and plant a kiss on the back, letting her down gently with a smile.

“Thank you, sweetheart, but I’m just fine here.”

My rejection wasn’t unexpected and she takes it in her stride tossing me a cheeky smile as she walks away.

Lifting an eyebrow, I smirk at Jon Tharpe, who’s seated further down the aisle of the Kassis family jet. He grins back, raising his glass in acknowledgement of the blatant offer that I’d just turned down. I’m not tempted. I don’t, as they say, shit on my own doorstep, and fucking an employee would certainly fall into that category. As she walks away, presumably to get on with her flight attendant stuff, I tilt my head and nod, indicating the seat opposite me. Jon accepts the invitation.

“Not in the mood, Nijad?” Jon chuckles as he sits down.

He’s as much friend as bodyguard—no, more than that, he’s another brother to me. A blood brother. We may not share the same heritage, but I owe him my life, and he owes me his fortune. There’s little formality between us.

Wryly I remind him, “It’s the family jet. She probably thinks fucking her employers is a clause in her job description.”

He grimaces, and then sniggers. “So you’re worried you might not measure up to your brothers?”

My expression gives his comment the contempt it deserves, and then I add dryly, “My father uses the plane the most.”

Jon snorts, not at the best of times as he has just taken a mouthful of beer. I bark a laugh at his predicament then relax back, enjoying the luxury of the private jet. I’m the spare part of the triumvirate of sons whose father is Emir Rushdi, the absolute ruler of the small Arab state of Amahad. My status, being akin to a prince, makes me one of the richest men in the world, with more money than I can spend in one lifetime, and little to do but play the role of a typical playboy sheikh with no real purpose in life. Oh, of course, I don’t get away with it that easily; I have to fight for my independence. The family keeps dragging me back, trying to involve me in the business of running the country. But I am not the heir designate nor the second option, unless my eldest brother gets himself assassinated or run over by the proverbial bus, so my opinion counts for little, and they give me nothing tangible by way of responsibility. Two weeks in Amahad were enough for me. Just like my brother Jasim, I find the country stifling, with its outdated traditions and laws, and live for the moment I can escape. Though right at this moment I’m not particularly looking forward to landing in Paris either.

“So, Ni, Chantelle. What the fuck are you going to do about her?”

Was it the sudden scowl on my face that alerted him to the direction of my thoughts, or is Jon so attuned to me that he can read my mind? Whatever, he’d hit the nail right on the head with his question. Turning my head I gaze out of the window, taking a moment to gather my thoughts before formulating a response.

At the bottom of it, of course, is the big question of how I’d come to lose my bloody mind just before I left for Amahad two weeks ago. I pride myself on my control, so what on earth had compelled me, the very epitome of a fuck-’em-and-leave-’em guy, to suggest to a woman that she could stay at my apartment? At the time it seemed simpler than arguing. Her case that she needed a place to stay while seeking a new home I found less persuasive than the fact that she literally had me by the balls at that moment. Hmm. I had most definitely been thinking with the wrong part of my body, the one her mouth was hovering over and then swallowing deep into her throat. She’s certainly got some skill in that area, there’s no denying that. But being three thousand miles away has helped me realise that being able to give good head isn’t a good enough reason for me to give her house room, nor have I any desire to be with her twenty-four seven. So here I am, heading back to Paris with mixed feelings about arriving. This time, there would be someone waiting for me. Shit!

“Fuck knows why I agreed to her staying.” I’m shaking my head in sheer bewilderment as I give my belated reply.

Jon’s brow creases. “I’ve done some security checks. She’s not got a criminal record and there’s not much substance in her background. I couldn’t find anything of immediate concern.”

“Huh! There’s not much substance to her at all!”

I know that’s a bit cruel, but Jon’s met her, so the fact I’ve elicited yet another snort from him doesn’t surprise me.

“Jasim didn’t seem too impressed with the idea?”

I’m well aware Jon had been party to the conversation, and though posed as a question it’s really an observation. And he’s absolutely right; my brother had flown off the handle when he heard about Chantelle, and he had every right to do so. Although, as the co-owner of an exclusive BDSM club in London, Jasim lives mainly in England, we share the apartment in Paris, making it our joint French base. I’d left Amahad having promised she’d be on her way pretty damn quick. I’d not appreciated the accusation I’d been led around by my dick, especially as I couldn’t deny that’s exactly what happened. Jasim also queried why, recently, I’ve been acting impulsively, making bad decisions, and exhibiting a lack of control. I’d been subjected to a right ear-bashing from him, pointing out the shortcomings of my behaviour. Sometimes it sucks being the youngest brother; your elders, even if only by eighteen months, automatically tend to think they’re your betters.

I stare out of the window again, my mind getting back to the current issue of Chantelle. She knows this is just a temporary arrangement, and while I’m her current fucking partner, nothing serious could come of it, even if I was madly in love with her. The emir envisages me ending up with a wife with blue blood running through her veins and, even if I wanted her to, dear Chantelle really won’t come up to scratch. I have to admit she looks the part and can hang off my arm well enough at the events I’m compelled to attend as an unofficial ambassador for Amahad. But she’s not got a lot going on up top, and while, at first, her ignorance and inability to understand even simple current affairs seemed amusing, it grows old fast. Even the few days we’ve spent living in close proximity have had me tearing my hair out at times. I mean, who lives in Paris without knowing who the fucking president of France is?

I realise my mood has made me nasty. What Chantelle has got going for her is the spectacular body of a catwalk model, a suppleness top gymnasts would envy, and stamina that matches my own—and, of course, not forgetting the aforesaid talent for sucking cock. I shift in my seat, now uncomfortable as my thoughts start descending in the obvious direction. Maybe coming back to Europe isn’t such a bad thing after all. I chuckle, imagining her reaction when I turn up unexpectedly a day early. One thing I can bank on, Chantelle is always ready and willing for, what numerous women have told me, are my talented attentions.

“So he’s not pursuing charges against you?” Jon again breaks the silence, referring to the telephone call I’d received shortly before boarding the plane.

His voice makes me start, and I take a second to come to grips with his sudden change of subject. My brow furrows as I get myself up to speed. “Bastard can’t afford it. He’s got his reputation to think of.”

Jon shakes his head, his expression thoughtful. “I can understand why you reacted that way, Nijad. Fuck, anyone would have done. But you went too far …” His voice trails off.

I have to agree, but there were mitigating circumstances as I now remind him. “He was a wannabe Dom, Jon. He ignored his sub’s safeword – not once, but three times! He was using a fucking whip! One of the lash marks needed fucking stitches, it was so deep. She’ll have the scars for life!”

The incident in Jasim’s club had been shocking. Yes, the culprit had to be pulled away from the woman, but it should have stopped there, with the appropriate punishment of his membership revoked. But I’d been the one first on the scene and I did a lot more than snatch the whip from his hands. His lawyers described it as a vicious attack, and even I had to agree with that description.

“There was no permanent injury.” If I sound like that was something I regretted, it’s just unfortunate.

“You’re lucky St John-Davies cares more for his rep than any revenge.” Jon lifts one leg, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “I thought you had more control than that, Ni. You should have left Jasim to deal with it in the normal way. You’re lucky you got away with it.”

I have to agree. Ethan St John-Davies, the man with the pompous attitude to match his pretentious name, didn’t want either the circumstances or the rationale for my actions to be discussed in open court.

“He’s accepted my apology.” Though the gist of the email I’d received that morning was welcome, because it let me off the hook, I can’t help gritting my teeth, letting Jon know just how much it cost me to make even that small act of contrition. I doubt St John-Davies had apologised to the woman.

“I know it must stick in your gut. I can understand why you got so fucking mad, but you let your fists run away with you. Is anything the matter, Ni? Anything I can help with?”

I’m shaking my head while acknowledging Jon is right. I thought I’d left violence like that behind when I’d left active service. I know I should have handled myself better. And I’m not going to admit I might have killed him, had others not stopped it going too far. The sight of that woman’s flayed back, well, I just couldn’t help myself; it was as if a devil had got inside me. And I don’t want to be reminded of my father’s reaction when he was drawn into the legal battle. He didn’t try to hide his disappointment in his youngest son, clearly thinking the fruit of his loins should have shown more restraint. That the echoes of the incident still reverberated within the palace walls was just one more reason I wanted to get back to Europe.

“St John-Davies was banned from the club, though. Permanently,” I tell Jon, conversationally. “He tried to make trouble for Jasim, but was slapped down.”

“Not surprised. Jasim’s got some pretty powerful friends.” There’s a pause before he continues. “I hear he’s suspended your membership too?”

“Aren’t bodyguards supposed to be deaf?” For fuck’s sake, now Jon’s annoyed me. It wasn’t something I was particularly proud of.

He gives an unrepentant shrug. “I was in the room when he told you.” His mouth twists into a half-smile. “I assure you, we aren’t hard of hearing, Nijad. But I can promise you we are discreet.”

He’s right, and it’s not a secret in any event. “Jasim’s worried about my lack of control. And, of course, lack of judgment where Chantelle is concerned.”

“Not good traits in a Dom.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, my hands grasped in front of me. “I wouldn’t hurt a woman, Jon. You know that. Fuck, I’ve been banned for trying to protect a sub! Sure, I should have pulled some of those punches, but what that bugger had done was beyond belief!” I still believed he deserved everything he’d gotten.

“It’s only a temporary ban, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, until the St John-Davies thing blows over.” What Jon hadn’t heard was Jasim giving me a very stern talk about what it meant to be a Dominant, and how very far away from that he thinks I am. The conversation was painful and caused me to do some deep-felt heart-searching. Do I just want control? Do I truthfully believe in the power exchange? Do I want to give pleasure, or just take it? Could I ever really commit to a D/s relationship? Or is it just a game? My brother has given me a month to try to sort out my head.

Realising I’m finished with conversation for a while, Jon relaxes and starts reading something on his tablet. We continue the journey in a comfortable silence and it’s not that long before the plane lands. Having disembarked, we go through the requisite customs procedures which, thankfully, are fairly innocuous, one of the benefits of diplomatic status and private jets. Finally finished with the formalities, Jon, assuming his bodyguard role, accompanies me vigilantly, always on the lookout for trouble as we make our way through the busy airport and outside to the storage unit where I keep my motorbike. I grin at his unmistakable sigh of envy and acknowledge his nod of jealousy as I pull on my black leathers and helmet. Then I throw my leg across the seat and sit astride my MV Agusta F4CC, one of the rarest and fastest bikes in the world. He opens his mouth but rapidly closes it without saying anything, settling for a dismissive shake of his head. It’s been a long time now since he last tried to argue against me going off alone. It’s palace protocol that all royals of Amahad have a personal guard. However, my high disregard for convention means unless I’m going somewhere in my official role his services are not required.

“Take care,” he says unnecessarily, narrowing his eyes. “Call me, Nijad. Keep me in the loop.”

I reach out and grasp his arm, shaking his hand, letting him know without words how much I appreciate his friendship and discretion, enabling me to live my life almost like a normal man.

Although I’m not too enamoured of Chantelle as a companion, thoughts of her hot body and the fact that she’s only a few miles away make me impatient to get going. I’m too wired to waste any time dawdling; my cock is starting to throb uncomfortably in my tight leathers and I need to deal with that problem before I can concentrate on anything else. Two weeks of celibacy is more than enough for me. Throwing a comment over my shoulder to let Jon know I’ll be in touch, I start the engine, rev the throttle, and take off. I know it’s childish, but I’m unable to resist the wheelie I wickedly know will give him palpitations. But once I’m out of sight I slow right down. I’m not a maniac, nor stupid, and a death wish is far from my mind.

It’s late morning and, as normal, the streets are busy with crazy Parisian drivers, all of whom seem hell-bent on cutting me up. The Agusta handles well, though, breezing through the traffic as I travel away from Charles de Gaulle and head for the city centre. In no time at all, I’m at my apartment building and securing my precious bike in the basement garage next to my other toy, my Maserati GranTurismo Sport. Knowing that Jon will be dropping off my luggage later, all I have to carry is my helmet as I make my way to the lifts, one of which is conveniently waiting at garage level. I get straight in, pushing hard on the button to the top floor as if that will make the lift move faster. Extracting my door key from my pocket as I travel upward, I’m ready to open my front door as soon as I arrive at the penthouse level. Thoughts of sex on tap, and the exhilaration of the bike ride home, mean I’m already primed and ready for some action.

Fuck! It’s my lucky day. As I open the front door to find Chantelle standing in front of me, wearing only a flimsy robe which leaves nothing to the imagination, the question of how she knew I was returning this morning is a long way from my mind. There’s no denying she is fucking beautiful, particularly with her assets almost, yet not quite, exposed for my immediate attention. My cock feels like a steel rod in my jeans, even though it astounds me that it’s possible to get any harder than I already am. Two weeks without sex; I’m not going to waste another moment. Kicking the door shut behind me I drop the helmet on the hall table, grab her and swing her around, and now I’m kissing her up against the wall, rubbing my cock against her, leaving her in no doubt of my intentions. This, this is the advantage of having a woman living in my home: instant availability, no making arrangements. She’s mine, and she’s here. My cock is pulsing. I want her now. I deepen the kiss, nipping at her lip and then soothing it with my tongue. My mouth firmly attached to hers, my hands rise and push the robe off her shoulders. Just as I expect, she’s completely naked underneath. I break the kiss, pulling away as I need air.

“Chantelle!” I manage to gasp, my hands going to her breasts, feeling the weight of them. My fingers find her nipples and pinch them lightly, knowing it always turns her on.

“Nijad! I didn’t expect you today!” She pushes me back a step and slides away from my grasp.

Something about the tone of her voice doesn’t sound right, but I’m too wound up to stop and consider.

“Come!” Assertively, I take her hand and pull her into the bedroom. It needs a little tug to get her moving, but not enough to suggest she’s making any real protest. I push her down on the bed, falling on top of her. Taking both her hands in one of mine I hold them above her head, imprisoning her. My legs slip between her thighs. I start to kiss her again, and it’s at that point I realise something is decidedly wrong.

Rocking back on my heels, I release her hands and stare down into the face of the unusually unresponsive woman lying beneath me. Only then do I start to notice the signs that I initially missed, now taking in the redness in her eyes and her pallor. For the first time, I wonder why she was standing by the front door all but naked when she hadn’t known I was coming back today. Mentally kicking myself, I belatedly realise that stripping off her robe as soon as I entered the apartment and dragging her naked into the bedroom wasn’t one of my finest ideas. The question of why she’s so scantily clad, and why the bed is still rumpled when it’s already past noon, now crosses my mind. Looking into her eyes, I worry she seems almost wary of me. It’s perhaps a bit late, but now I ask, “Chantelle, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“Why are you home so early?” she breathes, her voice sounding strange. I can’t tell what’s wrong, but I realise as she turns her head away that something is way off.

Smiling at her, I slide my finger down the side of her face. “My last meeting was cancelled. I couldn’t wait to get home; I missed you.” Well, that’s true of a certain part of me, for sure. My cock is straining at the fabric of my jeans as if it’s trying to escape by itself, but I’m starting to come to terms with the realisation that I am going to have to remain uncomfortable. Shutting my eyes, I will my erection to subside. I’m twenty-seven years old, for fuck’s sake, not a teenager, and I should be able to control my libido. Her uncharacteristic behaviour triggers my sympathy. “Are you not well?”

She starts at my question, and then sniffs dramatically, “I’m OK, it’s just 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 into 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 suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and then pull open the closet doors and start chucking in her clothes. I don’t bother folding them, nor do I worry about the blood from my injured hand dripping onto the fabric.

“What are you doing? Nijad, wait, we have to talk,” she pleads, stepping toward me, putting her hand on my arm to try to make me stop what I’m doing. I shrug her off, but pause briefly, glowering at her. I cannot remember ever feeling so angry in my life. Trust and honesty. That’s what I expect from people. Is that too much to fucking ask? On current evidence, it seems it is.

“There’s nothing to say. I don’t even want to know how long you’ve been making a fool of me. Get dressed and go.” I sling some clothes at her, hoping there’s something there she can put on, but not giving a damn if she has to walk out of here naked. I just need her out of my sight as quickly as possible.

“It’s not like that …” Her arm reaches out to touch me again. Stepping back, I evade her touch.

I can see tears in her eyes but have zero sympathy. She’s brought this on herself. I take a deep breath.

“What is it like then? You’ve been screwing other men in my apartment, taking drugs? You’ve lied, cheated. What other secrets have you been keeping?” As she starts to answer, I slash my hand through the air, cutting her off. “Don’t say another fucking word, Chantelle. There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear.” I continue stuffing her belongings any old way into her suitcase.

“Nijad, we’re good together! I didn’t expect you home today!”

I can’t believe she’s trying to offer that as an acceptable excuse. She puts both her hands round my head and tries to pull me down as if she’s going to kiss me. Unsure how I’m still controlling my temper at this point, and incredulous that she thinks there might be any justification for her actions, I remove her hands roughly, my sore and bleeding knuckles leaving a red smear across her cheek. I thrust her away from me …

And then the world goes black.

 

****

 

I wake feeling groggy, with no idea where I am. Slowly, I begin to take in the sounds around me and the strong smells wafting in the air. The unmistakable odour of antiseptic makes me think of hospitals and, as I open my eyes, I realise that I’m right on the money. It’s not until I go to sit up that I find my right wrist handcuffed to the side rail. What the fuck? Shaking my arm, trying to rid myself of the restraint, I see I’ve drawn the attention of a gendarme sitting in a chair beside me. It’s impossible to ignore the look of disgust on the officer’s face. Disorientated, hurting and utterly bewildered, I swallow a couple of times, trying to produce enough saliva to speak.

“Hommes comme vous me dégoûter!” the gendarme mutters.

Men like me disgust him? I can make no sense whatsoever of that statement. I shake my head to clear it, but the movement only results in the room swimming around me and shooting pains tearing through my skull. After the pain settles, I ask him what he’s talking about.

“De quoi tu parles? Je ne comprends pas …” I need to know what the hell is going on, but he interrupts me.

“Vous ne comprenez pas?” the gendarme spits out. “Je doute que le fait de cette pauvre femme, non plus.”

What poor woman? What has happened? Feeling that I’ve been dropped into an alternative fucking universe, I want to know more, but before I can question him further the door bursts open, and several men enter in quick succession. The first is easy to identify: my brother, Jasim. The second takes me slightly longer to place, but then I recognise the Paris-based lawyer the family use when necessary. His name escapes me at the moment. The man who follows them introduces himself, in English thank fuck, as the detective inspector in charge of the case. What case? Have I been attacked? And finally, there’s a doctor, apparent by his white coat, who’s having little success in his endeavours to usher everyone else out. While not at all in the mood to feel amused, the thought comes into my head that they resemble actors performing a slapstick comedy. I choke back the inappropriate, and probably hysterical, laugh before it can escape, and relax back onto the pillows. All the activity around me makes my headache worse so I close my eyes. Perhaps soon somebody will say something which will make some sense. Luckily, at the moment, they seem content to talk among themselves, seeking no contribution from myself.

“My client will answer no questions. You have no case against him.”

“No case?” The detective sounds incensed. “Have you seen the state of the woman?”

“She’s withdrawn her complaint.” The lawyer’s voice is calm. “She remembers now. She fell downstairs.”

“And his injury?”

“He tripped while helping her,” the lawyer answers steadily. If I hadn’t got the feeling of dread that they were discussing me, I would applaud.

“I can still press charges. The evidence speaks for itself! And do you know what else we found in that flat? Handcuffs, rope, gags, sex toys, whips! My God, what is this man capable of?”

Those were in Jasim’s room, not mine. I open my eyes and throw a quick glance at my brother, who is looking horrified. He gives a slight shake of his head; I nod, and keep quiet. Anyway, it’s a bit of an exaggeration. Last time I looked, there was one crop there, no whips at all. But the sex toys were quite intriguing.

“Whatever. The woman was not bound or whipped. I don’t think the procureur général will want to waste police time investigating a case with no witnesses. Sheikh Nijad al Kassis has an impeccable reputation.”

“And a bottomless pit of money,” the detective adds.

The lawyer nods, not trying to deny it. “As you say.”

I’ve been growing more and more confused listening to them talking. As the conversation seems to reach an impasse I turn to my brother.

“Jasim.” My voice shakes as I start to speak, not only with weakness resulting from whatever’s happened to me, but I’m very much beginning to dread what I might hear. “What the fuck has happened?”

I see the detective shooting me a look as if he can’t believe I asked the question. But his next words show he knows he has to bow to the inevitable.

“Remove the handcuffs,” he instructs the gendarme, spluttering out the order as he admits defeat. “Mr Kassis.” he looks down to address me directly. I note that he declines to use my title. “I suggest you stay out of Paris, damn it, out of France! Your money might have got you off this time, but you’d better pray to whatever god you have that you don’t cross my path again.” He turns to leave the room, but before he reaches the door, he spins back. Reaching into his wallet he pulls out a photograph and throws it at me. “And you might as well have this,” he snarls as the paper flutters down, landing on my chest. “A memento of Paris.”

Bemused, I pick up the photo, glance at it and shudder, feeling bile rising into my throat. I’m no stranger to violence—I’ve been in combat, seen injuries beyond belief on the battlefield—but to see a woman in this state is almost more than I can take. I don’t understand why I’ve been given the photo of a face so covered in blood that it’s almost impossible to recognise her. As I look closer, though, I know her immediately. It’s Chantelle. Fuck, she’s hurt! Who attacked her? Did the same person attack me? Is that why I’m here? Once more I address Jasim.

“What the fuck is going on?”

The disappointment in his eyes almost undoes me. I watch him take a deep breath, and then exhale as if he’s having difficulty speaking to me. In the end, he chooses not to use words at all. He just pulls a newspaper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and holds up the front-page headline so I can read it. I immediately wish I hadn’t. “savage sheikh savages woman!”

Swallowing a couple of times, I take the paper and try to get my eyes to focus and my brain to comprehend what the hell is going on. I read the text beneath the headline, feeling as if a cold hand is clutching at my heart. I turn my eyes up to my brother’s face. “Tell me this isn’t true, Jas,” I plead. “I couldn’t have done this!”

Jasim shakes his head sadly, his despair plain to see. “It would appear that you could,” he tells me simply. “And that you did. This time, you’ve gone too far, Nijad. Your club membership is permanently revoked, and what’s more,” he pauses a moment, running his fingers through his hair before turning his face away from me, “I disown you as my brother.”

I don’t know what shocks me most, the accusation of an inexplicably violent attack on Chantelle or my brother’s rejection of the relationship between us. My head is spinning as I try to take in everything that’s been said over the last few minutes.

The police officers have gone, the lawyer following them. The doctor busies himself checking my vital signs, and then he too leaves. Apart from Jasim, the only person remaining in the room is Jon, standing stoically by the door, his arms folded, his feet apart in typical soldier stance. It’s the look of repugnance on his face that’s the final nail in my coffin. Rapidly, I rack my brain, unable to accept what I appear to have done. Surely I couldn’t have reacted so badly? I remember Chantelle and Henri’s appearance. I remember packing her clothes. I remember I was going to throw her out … But everything after that is a blank. I couldn’t have done it; there must be a way to prove my innocence.

“The security camera …” I start, thinking rapidly. The newspaper report said it had happened in my flat, but Jon’s firm installed the security equipment for me.

Jasim defers to Jon with a nod.

“It was turned off,” Jon replies, his voice terse.

My forehead creases. I realise I hadn’t reset the alarm in my hurry to get my rocks off, and Chantelle must have disabled the security camera while I’d been away. Presumably, so there’d be no evidence of her dealer’s visits.

“How the fuck could you think it was me?”

Jon shrugs. “I was first on the scene. There was no one else there. Chantelle told me, and the police, that you attacked her.” He shifts awkwardly and, at last, looks me in the eye. “Ni, I’ve spent the last two days while you’ve been unconscious trying to find another explanation. Chantelle is adamant it was you who attacked her, and the available evidence backs it up. Blood from your knuckles was on her face and her blood on your clothes. There’s no doubt.”

A touch on my shoulder brings my attention back to Jasim. “You did this, Nijad. Just like you lost your temper with St John-Davies. You’re out of control.” He shakes his head sadly. “Fuck knows what’s going to be done with you.”

I stare at him but see only the certainty of my guilt in his eyes. With no alternative, I have to accept what he’s telling me. This time, I’ve gone too far. I’ve hurt a woman. Badly. I hurt Chantelle. Jasim’s right; I’ve no control, I’m no Dominant, and I won’t be able to trust myself ever again. Closing my eyes, I can’t forget the newspaper headline. I’ve earned a new title. I think I would rather be dead.