Chapter Seven
The next couple of months passed by with little clothing and the ability to leave the bedroom only while in Muhammad’s escort. If she was in their suite, he wanted her naked. Outside of the room, she was clothed, but had to remain within his sight. Most of her time was spent sequestered in the boudoir with nary a stitch of clothing. While the chamber was closer in size to a small house than a bedroom, it was still confining. She hated it.
The hour or so every few days that she was given clothing and the ability to leave the bedroom was mostly spent with Aaliyah. She was growing very fond of Muhammad’s little sister who always took the time to buy Viviana books to read and play board games with her. Jamila was never around, which was a good thing. The al-Raqqah matriarch was more than she felt up to dealing with.
Every time Viviana and Aaliyah played a game together, they would end up laughing and sharing stories. Muhammad would sit on the far side of the library, a brooding expression on his face. As soon as the game came to an end, he would invariably stand up and escort Viviana back to what she mentally referred to as her posh prison cell. The second the doors to the bedroom were closed, he ripped off whatever she was wearing and fucked her hard, like he didn’t want her to forget he owned her.
Muhammad fucked her three times a day—at minimum. His sex drive was undeniably high, but she sensed he had difficulty accepting emotion outside of bed and had come to associate being inside Viviana as being loved by Viviana. She couldn’t deny he was growing on her. Even imprisoned as she was, she’d never felt more needed by anyone—ever.
On the downside, she was starting to feel like one of those life-size “Real Dolls”. Her only purpose in life in so far as she could tell was to be a naked and waiting cum receptacle. One evening over dinner, nude as always, she became disgruntled enough to finally tell him exactly that.
“You are my wife, not a doll!”
“Yeah? So this is a marriage to you? Being locked up in this room sixty-nine hours of every seventy-two just isn’t cutting it for me.”
“I have my reasons,” Muhammad said cryptically. “They aren’t as selfish as you think.”
“Keeping me naked isn’t selfish?”
“That part is, but not the rest.”
Viviana frowned. “Then why?”
“I cannot say yet.”
“When can you say?”
“I do not yet know.”
She huffed, but said nothing else. Stabbing the meat on her plate with a fork, she jabbed a piece of it into her mouth.
“Why must you wear clothes when it is only the two of us in here?” Muhammad asked.
“I mustn’t do anything,” she muttered. “The point is having a choice.Youaren’t naked. You’re still in formal attire minus your head-scarf.”
“It is bad that I enjoy seeing my wife in a way no other man ever will?”
“You’re purposely turning this around on me. I’m not an idiot.”
He grunted. “I prefer you naked.”
Viviana dropped the fork and splayed her hands. “Your preference is my command. Now if only you could figure out a way to deflate the air out of me when you’re finished playing with your toy then you wouldn’t have to hear me bitch.”
“You have lowered yourself in status from a ‘Real Doll’ to the blow-up kind,” Muhammad murmured. There was no mistaking his thinly veiled amusement. “Too much work for me when I prefer to play with my toy as much as possible.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. He sighed.
“Viviana, the less people who know you are here, the better. For now.” Muhammad’s expression grew serious. “I will explain everything at the proper time. Just know this sentence of what I’m sure you feel is imprisonment will be over soon.”
She blinked. Her stomach lurched. Had he changed his mind? Was he letting her go?
She wished that scenario held the same allure it once did. Viviana blew out a breath as the truth struck her hard—Sheikh Muhammad al-Jihad al-Raqqah had gotten under her skin. She should be doing the happy dance at the mere possibility of freedom, but she felt instead like a child whose balloon was just popped.
Viviana told herself she no longer cared. Her nostrils flared as she stood up and pushed away from the table. Preparing to make her way to the bed and crawl under the covers, she was stopped when Muhammad’s hand seized her wrist.
“What is wrong with you now?” he barked.
“You! And let go of me!”
