Chapter Two
Viviana spent what felt like several days floating in and out of consciousness. Very little made sense in this hazy, woozy state she’d been consigned to. She knew she was in a room, she comprehended she was lying on a bed, and she had vague, scattered recollections of women’s faces hovering over her. That was the extent of her knowledge.
Am I in a hospital? Was I rescued?
She didn’t know. Every time she tried to open her eyes for more than a few seconds she was rewarded with another jolt of searing pain.
Think, Vivi. Surely you remember something…
Quick, barely coherent images flashed through her mind’s eye:
Being sponge bathed by a woman in hijab. Another woman, also wearing a headscarf, forcing her to drink some sort of broth. An IV in her arm. A man looming over her, telling her he was feeding some manner of medicine into the IV.
Medicine. Yes, Viviana remembered him calling it medicine. She hadn’t been able to see him, only hear him and smell his scent. He had definitely been real though, most likely a doctor. He had taken delicate care of her, forging a connection in her fevered mind between comfort and his male scent. Yes, he had to be a doctor. The thought instilled hope in her.
Blinking several times in rapid succession, she attempted to regain her visual acuity. She whimpered as she did so, the strain causing her head to pound and her belly to churn with nausea. Her consciousness was coming back though so she was determined to see clearly no matter how much she ached in the doing.
“Do not injure yourself,” a male voice murmured in thickly accented English. “You will feel much improved by tomorrow.”
Viviana groaned and closed her eyes. She remembered that voice. She swallowed as she tried to find hers. “Doctor,” she said hoarsely. Her head turned on the pillow. Her throat was too dry and scratchy. “Water,” she managed to rasp out. “Please.”
She could smell his comforting scent before she felt his large hand cradle the back of her head. He lifted a cup to her lips. Yes, it was the same physician who’d been attending to her.
“Take only enough to wet your mouth,” he instructed in a calm, patient tone. His voice was deep, familiar. She supposed her subconscious recognized his distinct timbre from the time she’d unknowingly spent in his care. “I do not wish for you to be in pain.”
Viviana did as ordered, which turned out to be a good thing. The water felt like heaven to her dry mouth and parched lips, but burned like hell as it trickled down her raw throat. He made to remove the cup, but she weakly touched his hand. “More. Please.”
It took several minutes, but they repeated the action three more times. By the fourth sip, her throat stung less, even if it was still raw. Exhausted from her efforts, she was grateful when he gently laid her head back on the pillow.
“Please.” Forming words was tiring, but she didn’t want him to leave. “Stay.”
She could sense him hesitate. He probably had other patients to tend to.
“Please,” Viviana said weakly. She found his hand. “Don’t leave me alone.”
Images from her last night in the safe house flashed through her mind. Machine guns. Return fire. Helpless screams. Her door being kicked in…
She whimpered. Tears gathered in her closed eyes. The doctor tightened his hold on her hand.
“They will rape or kill me,” she whispered.
Again, she could sense him hesitate. “No one will bring harm to you,” he finally murmured.
The act of speaking was slowly getting easier, yet exponentially more tiring. Viviana knew she was about to pass out so it was important the physician understood she was a target. “They murdered my parents. My colleagues. I am next.”
She could feel the doctor’s reassuring hand clasping hers. Succumbing to the exhaustion that enveloped her, she fell into oblivious sleep.
* * * * *
Sheikh Muhammad al-Jihad al-Raqqah stared at his sleeping captive. Even in slumber her hand still clung to his—something he realized she’d never do once awake and cognizant of whom her precious “doctor” was. That, he knew, would take much time and patience.
Dr. Viviana Lincoln was a learned, Western woman. The customs and culture of his people would be difficult at best for such a female to accept. Butinshallah—God willing—she would eventually. At least he hoped so…for both their sakes.
Muhammad had been watching her for two months, long before his capture and escape from infidel clutches. At first, he had felt nothing but lust for her. The nights in her bedroom when she would play with her nipples and rub her clit, masturbating herself into oblivion…
Never had he wanted to fuck a woman more. The need had been so powerful that he’d committed the sameharam—forbidden—act as she by masturbating as he watched her touch herself. A pious man should always relieve himself inside his wife, not his hand, but a drone strike had killed both his wives two years past. That same air raid had also taken his children from him—a fact he tried not to think about lest grief and fury take root again.
After several days of watching Viviana in real-time through the crystal-clear cameras installed in the CIA safe house, his lust had turned into a peculiar mixture of admiration and enjoyment tinged with obsession. The lust never wavered of course, but Muhammad had gotten to see all the various facets of her complex personality. Who she was while in the company of colleagues, who she was when alone in her bedroom, her sense of humor, her compassionate nature, and her steadfast belief she was on—as she herself called it—the right side of history.
It was the latter part he had an issue with.
Her people had tried to break him; they had not succeeded. His physical wounds would heal, save a scar or two on his face and back, but he had not succumbed to weakness and divulged any information to his brutal captors that he didn’t wish for them to know.
Muhammad stared down at the beautiful, sleeping American still clutching his hand. He ran the fingers of his free hand through her cascading mane of dark gold curls.
Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow Viviana would be recovered enough to realize who he was.
He sighed. He had a lot of work ahead of him.
