by Isoellen
She tightened the blanket he'd given her around herself, wishing there was a way to make it into a dress. She had no notion why he'd taken her clothes or if he still had them. At least she had her stockings and her boots.
Catching her when Annabell reached down to trace her finger over the red stitching in the leather of her boots, the war beast licked her hand, its tensile tongue rubbing up her arm to Annabell's face. Head tilted, the giant beasty eyed Annabell with interest, waiting to see what she would do, winking at her with the thin skin of its inner eyelid. Annabell's fingers twitched with the urge to scratch the brow ridge like she would Benjere's dog. Sniffing at Annabell, it yawned before nudging her shoulder with its muzzle in a friendly, pay-attention-to-me way. Seeing the lapping end of its tongue headed in her direction again, Annabell dodged. She'd never liked dog spit, and this big, blunt-nosed, pointed-eared, spiky thing, with its need to lick her, was no different.
"I think I remember you." She wasn't sure if it was a he or is she. There was some vague lesson pushing at her thoughts. Had Papa said the Orki hunting parties only rode females because the males were smaller and thinner?
Having evaded the animal's licking, it puffed air in her face. The hot breath of a meat-eater hit, invading her personal space. "Moons, what did you have for dinner? Ugh. That is not an agreeable smell. You have a name, don't you? I used to know Orki. I can't remember anything now. There is nothing in my head but woe."
The admission made her throat clench and eyes burn, but she kept the tears and the emotions at bay. The Orki male returned, carrying an armful of things, including food. Nudging the war beast out of his way with his hip, he sat down next to Annabell.
Holding up a jar that looked tiny in his hands, he popped the lid. Annabell recognized the scent of the healing ointment and held out her hand for it. Mama had made this too, but she always said that the Originals made it better. They had ingredients she didn't. Papa brought some home once, but it got used up on the boys' constant injuries. Eager to try it, she spread it on her sore face and down her arms.
He watched her do it, one eye ridge raised in a curious expression as she protected her modesty with long practice of living with boys, pulling her fur beneath her arms and spreading the salve everywhere she found a bruise or scratch.
One of the food items was a wrapped piece of fruit and nut cake. Thin vellum paper crinkled when she unfolded it. Sweet with wild honey, the scent of it activated sweet forgotten moments of her childhood.
She'd shared a cake like this with her papa. With his understanding of history and the Peace Contract, her father hosted Orki as the town's envoy when they came into the village. Papa took one or the other of the oldest boys and Annabell with him. Annabell always got to go. She became known as his junior negotiator. Welcomed by everyone, her smile and giggles brought better trade. Nervous around the planet Originals, the village merchants felt more comfortable having a happy child there. Papa boasted she could make a friend of anyone.
Surfacing with clarity, the rich memory felt close and real, squeezing at her heart. She had forgotten that. Taking a tiny bite, the flavors of fruit, nuts, and honey hit her tongue, causing more memories. Edgy with emotions, her eyes watered. She hadn't tasted this kind of cake since her father died.
The sweet piece of cake filled her, bulging her belly after too few bites. Her stressed system lacked the reserves to deal with the hardy food. Not wanting to get sick, Annabell held it in her hands and inhaled the memories and feelings it gave her. The happy nostalgia of it shone, sunshine on her skin.
There was also a thick piece of smoked and dried meat. Pinching the end off, she managed three bites, then four, chewing each one carefully. The raiders allowed her time for food and water at the tables one time, after coming up out of the storage cellar in the bakehouse. Surrounded by enemies, the ghost of the dead, and the wounded eyes of the other women, she had not eaten very much.
Next to her, his skin radiant in the torchlight, her rescuer also ate. She could feel his body heat, though he made no attempt to touch her. He put small pieces of food in his mouth, taking extra time to chew while he watched her. His throat moved, the stamped metal bobbing at the base. She had thought at first that it was a too tight necklace, but watching it move with his chewing confused her.
Was it a medical device? There were all kinds of innovations in technology she knew nothing about, but the Orki themselves had access to things no one understood. Primitive on the outside, with a grunting animalistic language, riding dangerous predators for transportation, they did not look like an intelligent race. Stone age barbarians with resources and abilities to destroy armies hundreds of times their size. To know nothing about them was to think their skills were exaggerated.
She had no idea what that metal could mean, other than it was alien to her experiences.
He said nothing, but she could hear a very faint rumble from him, the hum in his chest. Focusing on it instantly relaxed some of the tension in her muscles making it easier to eat.
That noise affected her brain. How did he do that?
He could make it louder—forcing it upon her ears—turning her muscles to mush, draining thoughts of all resistance. Not that she wanted to resist.
She said, "I'm not going home, am I?"
He held her gaze, watching her close enough to read her mind. Made that chest sound.
"I don't know if I want to. There is nothing there for me. But does this mean, I am your... your..." She tried to think of the words, recall what Papa had taught her. The words were close. Hovering like wispy butterflies. Floating away when she reached to trap them in her hands.
She should remember.
Every seventh son carried the tradition of history, of memory, to pass it onto his seventh son.
It was another superstition. An unproven myth.
"The seventh is blessed and lucky. They hold things, remember things, can carry the words of the past and change into the future. Seventh is blessed. I was so excited when your papa asked to marry me. I knew I would have a good life," Mama whispered.
Annabell clearly remembered it. Mama standing over her wood board rolling pie dough, and Papa right beside her kneading the next batch.
The other memories were buried. Drowned in woe and loneliness.
When the Orki saw she had finished eating, he gave her a water pouch. Next to him lay another one, stained red. The maker had taken time on the stitching, including fancy patterns. Constructed from an animal bladder, not even the wineskins at home were as carefully constructed. The craftsmanship was pure cream. Red was a significant color among the Orki.
Whatever was in that thing, it was important.
Nervous fear bloomed at the back of her neck and rolled down to her fingers. Her hands shook when she lifted the water skin to drink more. A new feeling. Nothing like the greasy, disgusting creep of dread and woe dogging her heels these last days.
This feeling was exhilarating. It reminded her of young and adventurous days. That red bladder hid a secret, something to do with becoming a bride. She knew it. The information was in some other old teaching of Papa's she couldn't reach, or maybe it was her mother who had told her.
She wanted it.
"What are you doing, Annabell Roe?"
Nothing. She was doing nothing. Sitting in a cave, facing a lava wall, next to a huge, muscled Orki, drinking water. Doing nothing. Sitting, still a little giddy and reckless, as if a boy she liked was finally going to kiss her. Instead of running away and telling her brothers, she was going to let it happen.
Handing him the rest of the water, she said, "Thank you."
He watched intently, with a focus that saw everything. The thoughts behind her eyes, the way her eyebrows moved, every twitch of her lips, the pulse in her throat. Setting the water aside, he picked up the red bladder.
Annabell twitched, wanting to reach for it. The strange, amazing life she lost with her brother's rejection had inexplicably come back to her grasp. Nothing would make he
r miss this chance.
Lifting the red bladder, he leaned closer to her. Comfortable in his skin, this male had no awkward, unconfident moments. Muscle, bone, sinew flowed, seamless and intentional. With him kneeling over her, she found herself between the v of his spread legs, her folded knees pressing into his thighs. Filling up her world, he pressed the end of the red pouch and its mysterious contents to her lips.
Annabell looked into his eyes and opened her mouth. All her limbs flooding with that feeling, flashing her cheeks pink, ready for that first taste. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears.
He squeezed it.
A sour, fermented milk squirted into her mouth. It did not taste good. The smell filled her nostrils—like something spoiled with foreign added flavors that didn't mix with it. Determined, she closed her mouth around the spout to swallow, eyes watering, trying not to blink, as she answered the intense stare of the Orki with one of her own. Her stomach wanted to send the stuff and everything else back up, but her determination was louder than Mama's voice, stronger than her brother's judgment.
She brought her hands up and squeezed the bladder, swallowed. Squeezed it again, forcing the stuff down.
"What have you done, Annabell Roe?"
In defiance of the voice in her head, belly churning and arms trembling, Annabell sucked and squeezed.
The pale Orki said nothing, but his eyes went wide with surprise. He seemed to have expected a different reaction. His expressive face shifted from one feeling to another—surprise, satisfaction, and pleasure.
"No!" She reached, trying to get it back, not thinking.
Everyone that could stop her or judge her was dead. She had only herself to please. And without this Orki she'd be absolutely and utterly alone. She couldn't do that anymore.
The way he held her when she cried, the feeling of his skin under her cheek, the intensity of his eyes. The woe always drained every bit of happiness, the curse of the red moon hovering over her every day from dusk until dawn. But this creature, this Orki Original, a native of the planet, he was bigger, stronger than all of that.
He killed those murderers. He and eleven others and their war beasts had torn through them, ending their terror. Ruthless, but not cruel. Unstoppable. Held against his chest, that purr—a sweet drugging sound—he'd filled up her cold with his heat and made her safe.
Safe. And not alone.
This was her dream come true, and Annabell opened her arms wide to embrace it.
He took the bladder away despite her protest. Holding her still when she tried to chase after it. "What is that stuff? I remember Papa telling stories. So long ago. Oh, more than years. I was a little girl, and I had hope," she said.
He didn't answer. Sitting back, he watched her, curious.
"That drink is awful. You know it is awful. But I know red is a good color for you. I want good things. I had hope, and then I didn't. I want that again. I had a good life, and then Papa was killed and I was dirty. I had his blood on me, you understand. It was my fault." The never-spoken admission slipped out. It startled her to hear it, to vocalize a belief she had always carried but didn't know existed.
Her secrets aired in the face of this Orki's silence. His mouth moved in what might be a sad, conciliatory frown, and she lifted her fingers, drunk on possibilities, to touch the curve of his full bottom lip, tracing it back and forth between his tusks. She needed him to know everything. How awful she was, who she was. "It was my fault. If I had been up earlier, if I had been on time, I could have been there. The sow got out, you see, and she knocked him down. Ran over him to get where she wanted to go. He hit his head. There was blood. When he took his hand away, there was a lot of blood. I think that was the first time I saw blood like that, just... pouring. And it was my fault."
Saying the words out loud as an adult, it all sounded absurd. Letting her hand drop, Annabell hid from his inquisitive gaze, hid from her own vulnerable admission. She had been a seven-year-old little girl, and the sow was bigger than her papa, yet she carried the certainty that it was her fault with her all her life. Papa's blood and those damned red moons had stained her. No amount of washing could get her clean, either. She knew it.
Saying it out loud. Thinking it through, compared to what happened with the raiders, how she had walked right into the middle of them, made the entire event and its life's result sound trivial.
But there it was. That morning under the red moons dominated her life. Marked her. The deaths surrounding her life caused by the raiders, all the deaths before that, that was the Curse of Woe. The result. Her fault. Her punishment.
His hand engulfed her chin. Tipping her head back. His other thumb brushed her tears, even as that hand slid down her chin to her neck, fingers wrapping around her throat. So close she could feel his breath on her face. He licked his lips. She saw the black surface of his tongue and answered with a moan, affected by the sight. She didn't know why—didn't understand. But his tongue, in that wide Orki mouth, between his intimidating tusks—solid black on top with dark-patterned markings on the bottom set butterflies alight in her center. She found it deliciously attractive and wicked.
Someone moved the torches in the cave, darkening the area, enclosing them in intimate moody shadows. Now they were all alone in the world. No one could see them. No one would judge them. No one would take this male from her.
Emitting soft growls, the war beast nudged her when it decided to stand and turn in circles, looking for a comfortable position. The white-eyed Orki snapped his fingers at it, and the enormous beast huffed in answer. Filled with tension, Annabell giggled nervously, drawing the Orki's gaze back to her as the war beast laid down. Its body curved in a half-circle around the area where she sat.
His hand still on her neck, under her chin, White Eyes moved his fingers, playing along the side of the muscles that ran up from her shoulders. She smiled at the light touch. It almost tickled, but not quite.
She watched his face for his reactions. Why did he not speak? She looked at his throat, the split of skin in a circle around it that looked like a scar, and the black rectangle piece there. Unless a string hid in the scarred crease of his neck, the thin metal thing protruded from his flesh.
Touching her the whole time, he moved, settling in for sleep like his war beast, and guiding her down next to him, in the vee of his shoulder. He grunted once in his throat, pulling her against him like a lover, encouraging her to cuddle close to his warmth and strength. Instantly assaulted with twenty different feelings and thoughts about where her body was and what this Orki wanted from her, Annabell let her body relax into his.
There were places where she was naked, skin to skin, with the male. Loving married couples acted this way with each other. She wanted to run from this. She wanted to press in. His touch—heat and masculine—spurred an addiction. Starved for it, denied touch for so long by her proper family and her proper village, everything the Orki Original did now fed a hidden monster inside of her voracious for more. It was so good. So good. To feel like a living, breathing being. To have his arm at her waist, and that hand at her neck slide around the back into the mess of her hair. To be tucked against him.
She could hardly believe it was happening.
She didn't really fit in the space. His skin was butter soft, the best kind of expensive leather, but the size and shape of his body was considerably different from hers. Resting her head on his muscled arm bent her neck at an odd angle. To be close enough to get the benefit of his heat, Annabell needed to lay on her side, lift her leg over his, clinging. This made her even more aware of her own nudity. Parting her legs like that opened the simmering pulse of her core, a greedy, wanton thing she'd never been able to suppress. That monster of want grew, now hungrier than ever.
That was unexpected.
She remembered this feeling from early in her marriage. Was it wrong? Would he reject her for it? Would he think her shameless? Did it even matter? Mark had said that only a woman who would lay down with the Orki behaved in this mann
er or wanted such things. That she should be a woman with honor and legacy. She should be above immoral desires.
But White Eyes was Orki. Did they want like this? Had that been an insult?
Cursing her limited knowledge, her lack of understanding, she ignored her body. She wanted to ignore it all. Too much. She shouldn't be experiencing anything. Just days ago, she'd lost the closest members of her family—and their families, as far as she knew.
Annabell whispered their names out loud, "Benjere, Kejere, Vej—their wives, their children." Their lives gone—all the males of her village—gone. Women she had known her entire life had suffered things she couldn't guess at.
Lurann did things to stay alive; slept with that Boss, catered to him, even stepped in so the younger girls didn't suffer the man's attention. Annabell learned from one of the other women that Lurann had told the steel city men about the hard cider in the other village. She alone had done something, attempted to help everyone, hoping to get the men too drunk to function and making them vulnerable in their sleep.