She came up on her elbows and crooked her neck to look at him. “What do you mean?”
His jaw steeled, but Viviana didn’t glance away. She wanted to know what he was talking about.
“They were murdered in a drone strike two years ago,” Muhammad finally answered. “A U.S. drone strike.”
Her gaze softened. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Muhammad was apparently not one to accept pity. His demeanor became aloof and somewhat cold.
“Bathe yourself,” he instructed her, walking toward the egresses. “I’ll be back in a few hours to consummate our marriage.” He came to a halt as he reached the doors. He turned around, his gaze clashing with hers. “For the record, I am not responsible for the death of your parents and do not know who is.”
Viviana’s pulse raced at the mere mention of her dead family. She said nothing, only stared.
“But we do know who killed my sons,” Muhammad muttered. He blinked, as if forcing the memories away. “Be prepared before I return. I will send in my mother and sister to aid you.”
Viviana blushed. She knew whatpreparedmeant in this culture. All her hair, save her eyebrows and what was on her head, would be removed in a process called sugaring. It was similar to waxing, but allegedly much more painful.
“They took from me three children.” Muhammad opened the doors before crooking his neck to look at her from over his shoulder. “So you will give to me six.”
She swallowed. His eyebrows rose.
“Three hours,” he commanded. “Be prepared.”
