Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) by Manda Mellett Read Free Book Online Page A

leave. He turns at the front door, and throws back at me that trademark self-deprecating grin which makes him look even younger and more boyish. When I see it, I can understand the effect of that expression on other women. They all but fall at his feet, especially when he starts speaking with a touch of that American accent he still hasn’t lost completely.
    Left alone, I move over to the sofa and take the seat recently vacated by Hunter. It still feels warm and I find it comforting. He’s a good friend; my only friend, if I’m honest, my rock when I needed it, watching my back for over ten years now. He’s normally a man who keeps his cool in all types of situations, so why was he acting out of character today? What was all that rubbish about Amahad? And why does he seem so worried about my connection with Joseph Benting? Does he know something I don’t? How could he?
    Feeling perplexed, I decide he’s overreacting. In any event, I’m safe locked away in command central and I won’t be leaving here any time soon, for any reason. Remembering my promise I go to secure the front door, check the window locks and engage the state-of-the-art security system. I’ll have to remember to disarm it before the courier arrives tomorrow, or else I’ll have half of Grade A appearing on my doorstep. Hunter, you’re a bastard , I curse under my breath. I was quite happy and content before our conversation, and now he’s put me on edge I’ll probably jump at the sound of the central heating boiler firing up.
    Heaving a deep sigh, I force myself to park any worries about Amahad for the moment, and return to the couch, picking up my e-reader instead, ready to leave the real world for a while. As the page I’m currently reading appears, I’m unable to suppress a quick chuckle at the thought of how glad I am that Hunter only saw the tree books. If he’d seen the ones on here, well …
    Picking up where I left off, I get lost in my book.
     

Chapter 2
    Nijad
     
    The Palace of Amahad hasn’t changed at all after three years. Fuck, it probably hasn’t changed in the thousand-and-odd years that it’s been standing. It still feels as damn oppressive, with the same stifling atmosphere it had when I was a kid. How happy I was, leaving to receive my education in Europe. Until, that is, I was called home to spend the obligatory two years in the military. Then, free at last to live my life as I wanted, I split my residence between the United Kingdom and France, considering myself more European than Amahadian. At least until the events in Paris shook me to the fucking core, and I no longer knew who or what I was. I savaged a woman, my woman, Chantelle. I could have killed her if she hadn’t summoned up the strength, or the luck, to defend herself, and landed me unconscious in hospital for two days. It was the least I deserved. But I have no memory of attacking her. I thump my fist against the stone wall in frustration.
    My penance is banishment to the southern desert, to head the army in protecting the border from jihadists who threaten the Amahadian way of life. To lead the soldiers from the desert tribes, their primitive attitude a far cry from the multicultural, multiracial populace that lives in the more civilised capital, Al Qur’ah, and the other larger cities in the north of Amahad. But I welcome my punishment. So what if a stray bullet stops my heart, or the vicious blade of a scimitar separates my head from my body? Who is this man that I’ve become, this vicious abuser of women? Do I even deserve to live?
    Coming back to the palace today is bringing it all back like a scab ripped off a barely healed wound, causing it to start bleeding all over again. Not that I can ever really forget; the best I can do is to put it to the back of my mind for a while. Feeling bleak and depressed, I make my way through the hallways of the palace but pull back momentarily into a vestibule, not wanting to draw attention to myself, when I hear