The Sheik and the Slave

“When he’s done feeding, we must go see her. She needs him now,” Abigail told her.

Oona smiled back.

“Of course.”

***

Mohammed awoke to a pounding in his head. He grimaced slightly and reached for her. He longed to hold her against him, to mold her slender shape into his. He wanted to press into her until he was falling into that deep abyss, with her blonde skeins of hair falling all around them as he made love to her. He wanted her sea blue eyes dark and dilated with love.

But then it all came back to him. She was gone and he was here alone. Nothing had come of his exhaustive search and he was becoming more and more desperate. He imagined the worst things: her held captive, in the arms of another man, raped and beaten. It even drove him to drink.

Why? he thought to himself. In the name of Allah, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful. Why?

Enough! He slammed his fist into the closest thing to him, smashing the glass into his flesh. The pain and blood didn’t even stop him. Enough. He exploded with anger. Enough.

“Abdullah!” he yelled. His voice echoed in the room.

He was up and pacing the room, waiting for Abdullah’s response.

“Sire?” Abdullah asked.

Mohammed knew he had to return to England. He’d had enough of waiting and wondering. Either Jean Baptiste had lied to Abdullah, or perhaps his advisor had misunderstood, but Katharine was not in Arabia. Of that he was absolutely certain.

“We have spent enough time here. It’s time to return to England. Katharine has not been seen or heard of, and I’m convinced she’s still in England.”

“But my lord,” Abdullah said.

“No,” Mohammed yelled. He raised a hand to stop him. “Whatever that criminal told you, it was obviously not the truth. We have heard nothing about her for weeks. She is not here. We must go back.”

He gritted his teeth in anger. He had allowed himself to seep into a depression for weeks looking for her and drinking his pain away, while all that time he could have been journeying back to England.

Abdullah bowed to Mohammed, but inwardly he fumed. Safiya had not done her job. He had planned so well, but had gambled too much on one young girl’s charms. She had failed.

“Good. Make the arrangements,” Mohammed said.

“But my lord,” Abdullah said.

“Yes. What is it?”

“The girl, Safiya,” he reminded Mohammed.

“Who?” Mohammed barely remembered the girl he had seen weeks ago.

“Safiya. The sheik’s daughter?”

“Oh, yes? What about her?”

“She begs an audience with you,” Abdullah said.

“I see. For what purpose?” Mohammed was irritated. He needed to be on his way

“I do not know,” Abdullah said as he shrugged.

“Fine,” Mohammed said, nodding.

Mohammed paced the floor, irritated and angry at himself. He hoped to be on his way before the next week’s end. Mohammed remembered little of the night weeks before when the young girl had supped and danced for him. He recalled vaguely that they had been invited to the palace by Abdullah.

The young girl was breathless as she entered the room.