Free Taken by the Sheikh by Kris Pearson Page A

could still remember the shame of it at school. No ‘real’ parents to attend sports days or end-of-year prize-giving evenings. No Granny and Grandpa to go and visit at weekends and talk about with school-friends on Mondays.
    She tossed restlessly and felt a gentle tug on the sash that joined them.
    “Sorry,” she said. “Anyway, I stayed longest at the last home. Mr and Mrs Gorridge. That’s why I can’t stand being locked up. They locked me up all the time.” 
     
    Rafiq heard the tremble in her voice. Fury? Pain? He found he wanted very much to enfold her in his arms again and comfort her, but in the intimacy of his bed this was no longer possible. On the floor, with her in tears, it had seemed permissible—indeed, necessary. But now? No way in hell!
    “And no-one came to rescue you?”
    “It was for my own good. No-one knew besides them.”
    “Locked up why? What had you done?”
    “Nothing. Grown up. Got a bit prettier, I suppose. They locked me up because of their son, Gary.” She moved restlessly in the bed, and again the sash tugged tight between their wrists. “I was fourteen. Not very confident.”
    A wave of protectiveness rushed through him, swamping every other emotion. “And the son did what exactly for you to deserve this?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm.
    “He was big. Mr Gorridge was big, too. Big and fat.”
    Rafiq could feel she was shuddering; the mattress shook.
    “Gary was out of control,” she added a few seconds later, once she’d apparently gathered her courage up again. “Full of teenage hormones on the rampage. Wanted sex. Wanted sex all the time, with me. So they locked me up to keep me safe.”
    Rafiq stayed silent for long moments as he battled with his outrage.
    “They should have locked him up,” he finally grated.
    “They did. He smashed his bedroom door down. Twice. They couldn’t let that happen all the time. I could see that. So locking me up was the second-best option.”
    “Not for you.”
    “No,” she agreed in a small sad voice.
    “Every day?” 
    “Mostly. Unless he had football practice.”
    Rafiq swore under his breath. 
    “But what was worse...” she added after a thrumming silence. “He used...to knock on my window while I was locked in. Lots of times. And I had to look out through the glass to stop him knocking because it made Mrs Gorridge angry if she heard him banging and banging.”
    She turned away from Rafiq, feeling ashamed, even though she knew full well the shame should not be hers.
    “And when I looked out, he would be...playing with himself,” she concluded in a strangled mutter. “His ‘thing’ was huge and red and ugly. So you see...”
    Her voice was the merest whisper now. The voice of a frightened child. “When you held me down this afternoon, it brought memories back. Being helpless and frightened. Being in a nightmare that happened again and again. I hated having to watch him, but if I didn’t he’d be smashing at the window and I was frightened the glass would break and his mother would blame me for that as well as the broken door.”
    She sighed, and he heard the weight of huge sorrow in the soft sound.
    “The thought of being locked up again tonight was just too much to bear,” she added. “I’m sorry I lost it.”
    He reached out and found her hand. Curled his fingers around hers in friendship. And wondered what he could ever do to make amends.
     
    The tiny movements had been going on for some time now. He’d woken instantly and lain there, alert and primed for action, even though he’d been careful to give no sign of this. He kept his eyes closed down to the merest slits in case Laurel caught their gleam in the darkness.
    He watched as she slowly sat up. With infinite caution she pushed back the bedcover and rose from the bed.
    He launched himself across at her like a heat-seeking missile at a bonfire, yanking her down again as she screamed with terror.
    “Where the hell do you think you’re