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 past - 12 years old.
You remember a life by its smells. The good life, the before-life, smelled of two things: my father's cigar smoke, sweet and dark like burnt honey, and the rain-soaked earth of the Martinez ranch after a storm. It smelled of God's own clean dirt.
The after-life began the day I turned twelve, and it carried the smell of dust, diesel... and blood.
I was in the stables, brushing down my father's favorite mare, Isabella, a creature the color of a moonless midnight, her coat gleaming with a mixture of her sweat and mine. I was telling her about the new foal, my words getting lost in the rhythmic swish-swish of the brush. Then came the sound of trucks; not the friendly rumble of the ranch hands' F-150s, but a predatory growl. A convoy rolled up the long gravel drive like a pack of jackals coming to pick a carcass clean.
The violent slam of the screen door from the main house was a sound completely alien to the happy crack I was used to. In that moment, I knew. It was like a primal understanding, the way an animal senses a tornado before the sky curdles to green. A cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach, dropping like a stone.
Creeping to the stable door, I saw them: three black Suburbans, their engines ticking as they cooled. And there stood my uncle, Malik Martinez, draped in a suit that cost more than any of our tractors, looking like a vulture that had learned to wear a tie. He was flanked by two meaty men with faces like clenched fists. My mother, Maria, stood on the porch, her small frame a fragile barricade in the doorway. The rifle in her hands trembled. She was a botanist from Mexico City who had fallen in love with a cowboy; she wasn't built for this kind of standoff.
"Where is my brother, Maria?" Malik's voice was slick and smooth as engine oil, a sound that made my skin crawl.
"He is with God, Malik," my mother replied, her voice thin yet sharp. "You will not defile his house."
Malik smiled, and it was the emptiest thing I had ever seen. "His house? His land? The paperwork suggests otherwise, cuñada (sister-in-law). The ranch was in my name; a necessary precaution. Faruq was sentimental, while I was practical."
Those words, "in my name," were the first twist of the knife.
Suddenly, my older brother, Zayan, came tearing around the corner of the house. At fifteen, he was all limbs and raw fury. "Get off our land!" he screamed, his voice cracking with adolescent rage.
Malik didn't even grant him a glance, merely nodding to one of his men. The man struck Zayan with a backhand that sent him sprawling into the dirt, the impact landing with a wet, final thud.
"Zayan!" My mother's cry was torn from her throat.
That cry broke my paralysis. I launched myself from the stable door, a twelve-year-old missile of pure hatred aimed at my uncle's soft, suited middle. I barely made it two steps before the second man caught me by the scruff of my neck, lifting me as if I were a sack of feed. I kicked, spat, and screamed every foul word I had ever heard the ranch hands use.
Malik finally turned his gaze to me. He walked over, his steps slow and menacing, the air around him smelling of expensive cologne and mint. "Azad," he sighed, as if I were a disappointment. "The little lion. All that spirit." His voice then dropped, low and cold, for my ears alone. "This is not a game, kid."
He looked toward Zayan, who was now on his knees, a trickle of blood painting a crimson line from his nose to his chin.
"One of the boys is coming with me," Malik announced, his voice returning to its oily normalcy. "A man needs his sons, even borrowed ones. But I will be generous and let you choose which one I take."
"No!" The word was an animal sound ripped from my mother's throat. She raised the rifle, her knuckles white. "You are not taking my boys! Over my dead body!"
Malik watched her with sheer boredom. "Maria. If you pull that trigger, they will bury you next to my soft-hearted brother. And then who will look after your son?"
"I don't care if your men shoot me, Malik!" she roared, a mama bear defending her cubs with everything she had. "You are not taking my boys from me!"
Malik took a menacing step forward, his hateful gaze pinning her in place. "If you don't choose," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "I will take them both." With a snap of his fingers, his men seized Zayan and me in an iron grip. Our struggles were useless against their strength.
The fight drained from my mother then. The rifle wavered, its barrel dipping until it pointed uselessly at the porch floorboards. She had been checkmated. "Please, Malik," she begged, her face streaked with tears. "Take the ranch, take the land. Just leave my boys. Please."
Indifferent to her tears and our screams, Malik gestured with a tilt of his head. His men began dragging us both toward the cars, forcing the choice she couldn't make.
"My boys! Please, Malik!" she cried again, rushing forward only to be halted by their implacable advance.
"Choose," Malik commanded, his voice flat and final.
Her sobs intensified as her anguished eyes darted between me and Zayan, torn to shreds by an impossible decision. Her gaze finally settled on Zayan, locking onto his terrified face. With trembling lips, she uttered the devastating verdict, "Za... Zayan."
My heart plummeted. Zayan's face turned ashen, etched with a terror so deep it was mixed with the sting of abandonment.
The man started dragging Zayan toward the Suburban. My brother's eyes, wide with panic, locked with mine. "Azad!" he yelled, his voice breaking. "Take care of Mama! You hear me? You're the man of the house now! You take care of her!"
They shoved him into the truck, and the door slid shut with a heavy, final thump that echoed across the ranch.
Malik turned back to my mother. "You have one hour. Take whatever you can carry. Then I'm burning it. All of it, for a fresh start."
He climbed into his truck, and the convoy drove away, leaving nothing but a suffocating silence and the slowly settling dust.
We stood there, my mother and I, in the yard of the only home I had ever known. The good smells were gone, erased by the stench of dust and the coppery tang of my brother's blood on the Texas dirt.
That was the day I learned that land is not just dirt. It's memory. It's blood. It's a promise. And my uncle Malik had stolen it all.
But you don't forget a smell like that. It lodges deep in your lungs, becoming a part of your very being. And one day, you make damn sure the man who caused it gets a chance to taste it, too.
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This prologue sets the stage for a story rooted in revenge, resilience, and the complex journey to find faith in the ruins. Sacred Ground will explore a halal romance within a dark world, focusing on Islamic values as its moral compass.
If this is a journey you wish to continue, your support through votes and comments is deeply appreciated. If this narrative isn't for you, I understand and wish you the best in finding your next great read.
