Book 1 in the Sacred Bonds series.
There are two kinds of scars on a man. The ones you can see, etched into skin by the Texas sun, and the ones you can't; the kind carved into a twelve-year-old boy watching his legacy get stolen at the barrel of a s...
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The hallway seemed to stretch for miles, the weight of his presence beside me feeling like a silent, overwhelming force. The violence of the evening -- the shouts, the sickening sound of fists, the fear -- still vibrated in my bones, a dissonant chord beneath the fragile silence of this new house.
My husband. The word felt like a foreign object lodged in my throat. I braced myself for the transaction to become demand, for the cold strategist to claim his prize. My mind ran through bleak, terrifying scenarios.
He stopped at a heavy oak door. Not his. Mine. He turned to me, and in the low light of the hall sconce, his face was all sharp planes and unreadable shadows. But his voice, when it came, was low, stripped of all the earlier fury, and frighteningly formal.
"This is your room," he said, his gaze holding mine for a beat too long, as if ensuring I understood. "The adjoining room is mine. There's a lock on your door, from the inside."
The statement was so simple, so absolute, it short-circuited my dread. It was like he was giving me a fortress, safety. The keys to my own cage, handed freely to the prisoner. I just stared, my rehearsed defenses crumbling into dust.
He didn't move to enter, didn't even touch the handle. "Everything you need should be inside. If it's not, tell me." He paused, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "I will be next door if you need anything." A final, measured look. "Good night."
And then he was gone, turning down the hall with that unsettling, silent grace, leaving me alone before the door to my new life. My heart hammered against my ribs, not with fear now, but with a confused, rushing relief so potent it felt like vertigo.
I turned the handle and stepped into the room.
It was beautiful, luxurious in a way that spoke of old money, not gaudy display. Soft lamplight glowed on rich fabrics and dark wood. And my things... my suitcase was gone. Instead, my clothes hung neatly in the walk-in closet, my books were stacked on a desk, my simple toiletry bag sat in the ensuite bathroom. Someone -- his mother, perhaps -- had unpacked for me with a care that felt oddly intimate. But it was the bedside table that stole my breath. A small, beautifully bound Qur'an, its cover tooled with delicate geometric patterns. Beside it, a prayer rug, new and plush, the pile deep enough to sink my knees into.
Tears, hot and sudden, pricked my eyes. He, or the woman who did this, had seen me, not just the veterinarian, or Azad's bargaining chip, but the Muslimah. They had made space for my soul in this gilded room. Alhamdulillah.
I performed Isha prayer there, on that new rug, the familiar verses feeling like a lifeline in the strange sea of the day. The supplication for peace, for guidance, felt more urgent than ever before.
