The Slave Palace: Wulf and Locke (Kingdom of Slaves Book 1)

by Wendy Rathbone

  But Wulf was Locke’s purchase. A personal bet. And yes, he could not deny his instant infatuation. And so he’d bought a One-Night Thrall. And now the game became of interest.

  How to train him? How to tame him?

  Another question came to him. Was Wulf actually a violent criminal by definition? An enemy to the state, yes. But war made ordinary men into killers. They even perceived themselves as heroes. Whether they were or not was beside the point. Wulf might hate the country of Avilan, and serve willingly in a military that raised him to fight, but that did not mean he wanted to murder each and every citizen in their sleep.

  This was something Locke might be able to work with. If, that was, Wulf even wanted to live.

  It had been a long time since Locke had taken a slave in hand and trained him (or her) from the ground up. Since he’d garnered a seat on the Slave Palace board and become an Eminent Master, he’d overseen final training exercises, given orders, and critically fine-tuned methods and strategies, but it had been a cold performance only. He also watched final graduation performances, wrote up his reports, gave his thumbs up or thumbs down. He didn’t have time for anything else.

  Malik still trained slaves, skin to skin, from the bottom up. He enjoyed his work. He enjoyed all the pleasures and commented often about it. He told Locke he never wanted to do anything else.

  When Locke had taken his seat on the board, Malik had said, “You’re too young for that.”

  For Malik, the added paperwork would have kept him from the pleasures he loved. He’d declined an offer to the Board so he could stay closer to the slaves’ daily lives.

  But Locke had been ready. The slave training was fun but left him hollow. He excelled at it, or he would not have gained his title so early in his life, but administrative duties gave him another sense of power, for he oversaw and controlled the daily dealings of all the slaves in training, and made decisions on everything from how they presented themselves, to how much each should be priced. He was able to deny customers at the flick of a cursor. He could make slaves repeat their training if they needed it, or introduce them to stronger methods.

  Any complaints or problems within the palace that landed on his desk were his to oversee. He made decisions that fixed or eradicated any drama. No day was boring.

  It was a heady feeling.

  It made him revered, and both loved and hated.

  Now he watched as Wulf slowed his prowl about the room. Finally, the man sat on the edge of the bed.

  From Wulf’s file, Locke read he’d come straight from the military prison where he’d refused food. He had then been put on a plane and taken to another holding cell, only to be sold a day later to the slave broker, Parcival.

  Wulf had to be tired. No doubt, he’d barely had time to assess his situation. He probably had not slept much. And if he’d refused meals, Locke had to wonder when the last time he ate was.

  First things first. What does one do with a feral animal they want to tame?

  Offer it food, of course.

  *

  Locke placed his thumb on the door’s security system. Recognizing his print, it unlocked.

  A pretty young slave named Sky, who was repeating his manners lessons, attended. Sky stood naked and lithe at Locke’s side holding a covered tray containing a sumptuous meal of rib eye, baked potato, green beans and peach pie. The scent of the steak still sizzling in its juices would make anyone not a vegetarian salivate.

  Wulf’s files did not indicate he was a vegetarian. But this meal would allow Locke to learn at least that much about him.

  He opened the door.

  Wulf sat on the edge of his bed. His head jerked up as Locke entered, the slave trailing behind him.

  Watching Wulf on the cameras for the last couple of hours did little to communicate Wulf’s true magnificence. Seeing him again in person, Locke had to force himself to remember to breathe.

  Was it just he who was affected by this man’s immediate virility and ability to fill the room with his aura?

  Locke glanced at Sky to see if the younger slave had any reaction, but Sky, dutiful and obedient, and determined to pass his manners test by the end of the month, kept his gaze on the tray in his hand.

  Willing the tingle of arousal away, Locke stepped forward.

  “Sky, please put the tray on the table by the left gray chair.”

  Wulf did not stand at Locke’s presence. A problem, but expected. And minor compared to everything else Locke knew he faced with this one.

  Despite everything that had happened to Wulf in the past few days—fighting, defeat, captivity, being sold at auction as a thrall only to be put to death—Wulf lifted his chin in a show of strength. Maybe even defiance.

  And that laced Locke’s blood with a heated thrill.

  His very own slave again, his to train, and such a superb specimen.

  When Sky put the tray down, Locke turned to him. “You may go.”

  “Yes, Eminent Master.” Sky bowed gracefully—he was learning well—and exited the room.

  “The meal is for you,” Locke began. “The rib eye is rare, the way I take it. I am assuming you are hungry and tired. So your training begins with this, a simple meal.”

  Wulf did not move. He watched Locke with a wary gaze, shoulders back, his palms at rest on the tops of his thighs.

  Locke blinked slowly, meeting that gaze with his own strength of will.

  “You should understand that this situation is uncommon. The good news is you are to be trained. You will not be killed immediately as your broker intended.”

  Locke decided to come clean with the truth immediately. He wanted Wulf to feel somewhat safe, but still feel the anvil of his mortality hanging over his head.

  “You are labeled as dangerous, but I see from your records that your aggressions have so far been in battle, which includes a perfectly reasonable reaction to fight your captors.”

  “Is not everything a battle?” Wulf asked.

  Locke’s body tingled. The voice was as beautiful as the man.

  Locke lifted an eyebrow. “Indeed. The struggle to survive.”

  Wulf did not reply.

  Locke said, “That struggle includes keeping oneself fed and healthy. Right now, you need to eat.”

  Wulf glanced at the tray on the table between the two lounge chairs that faced the view of the city lights. His throat muscles moved as Wulf seemingly could not control his need to swallow.

  “And if I take my steak well-done?” Wulf asked.

  “You are not in a position to make that decision.”

  At Locke’s statement, the muscles of Wulf’s face hardened along the jaw line and cheekbones. He was clenching his teeth.

  Wulf met Locke’s eyes. “You’re the one from the garden auction.”

  “Yes.”

  “When I fell—“

  “Yes.”

  “It is interesting that you think you are doing me any favors at all.”

  “It is interesting that you think my actions are favors,” Locke replied.

  “You are preserving my life. You call that good news?”

  Locke frowned. “At the point where you were sold to the broker, whether your life was forfeit or preserved was not your decision to make. When I bought you, it was my decision to stay your execution. For me, that is good news. Otherwise, what a waste of your—uh—attributes.” He smiled with that final word.

  “Your decision? Do I not belong to the Slave Palace now?”

  “No. But even if you did, I make such decisions and assessments daily for Palace slaves.”

  “Then if I don’t belong to the Palace, why am I here?”

  “Because,” said Locke, “you belong to me now.”

  Wulf’s eyebrows rose. “You?”

  Locke turned away. “Enough questions for now.”

  “Why?”

  Locke ignored Wulf and went to the lounge chair. He sat and folded his hands across his abdomen. He waited.

  “Why?” Wulf asked
again.

  “You will eat now,” Locke said. “It is a very small thing I ask. And for your own health and well-being.”

  Silence followed.

  Locke waited without a word, without moving a muscle.

  The hotplate kept the steak sizzling, its fire-seared odor permeating the air. Locke had already eaten, but even full, his saliva glands responded.

  This had to be torture for Wulf.

  Long ago, at the inception of this job, Locke had learned infinite patience. Training was, strangely, a form of meditation. For both trainer and trainee. To become an Eminent Master, he had learned the art of discipline, both for body and mind.

  Controlling the slave through the electrical device on their collar was easy. Controlling their emotional response to their situation was the hard part. First, a trainer needed impeccability of self. Becoming enraged, yelling, screaming, violence… that was never a way to treat or teach anyone, including a slave.

  Locke stared at the whip hanging off the side of his belt. A tool. Meant mostly to intimidate, to discipline, but never in anger. Never in violent outbursts. The best masters did not need to resort to any harm, and Locke rarely used such tools. Training was an art. If treated as an art form, the slave responded in kind.

  Locke forced himself to remain in the chair. Unmoving. Silent. He gazed out the long window past the Palace battlements at the view of Lirangel, its confetti of lights: soft blue, gold, blinking red.

  The towers of the city were jagged silhouettes dappled with white luminescence. The new evening sky was a deep purple. From this distance, nothing about the city was garish, concrete, or cold, as most cities were. For the moment, it seemed a fairytale sight from where the great Palace on the hill overlooked it.

  Locke had seen the Palace from a distant vantage first as a child. It had a holiday spangle to it year-round.

  But what might Wulf, who had never grown up here, see? An alien world, Locke thought. Sinful, of course, as Rille was a country that prided itself on the belief that pleasure equaled shame, especially sexual pleasure. The country’s courting rituals involved chaperones, and marriages were arranged. Wulf also probably thought Lirangel was dangerous, full of crime lords who traded in human flesh, and slave brokers who sold people like Wulf to be raped and killed. Of course, that was true, but not the norm.

  Locke wondered what it might be like to be raised in a culture where pleasure was seen as a sin. He had never felt ashamed of his body, or the bodies of others. Not once. The body was an art form. To be deprived of such art, that was the sin, the crime.

  Locke had ten days to convince Wulf to his side. To tame him.

  Of course, he had longer. He owned Wulf now. His bet with Malik was merely a dalliance. But still, the ten day deadline gave him a thrill. Could he do it? The funny thing was, few could tame a feral kitten in ten days. And Wulf was no kitten.

  He waited. He refused to look at his watch. The time seemed to stretch. He would wait for hours if he had to.

  Locke affixed his gaze on one blinking light far out on the sea of colorful city-stars, and sent his mind into a meditative doze.

  The soft crush of footfalls on carpet roused Locke. He blinked.

  He did not know how much time had passed, but the night looked deeper, and the city seemed almost sleepy.

  Locke kept very still as he saw movement in his peripheral vision. A naked, beautiful man came to stand before the view, but he wasn’t looking outward. He was gazing at the table. At the tray of food still fresh on its warming plate.

  More waiting.

  Wulf swallowed, an audible gulp. Locke’s heart skipped. He could see the lovely profile, the pale hair with stripes of deep gold sweeping in tangles at the shoulders. Straight of form, Wulf stood as if he’d been trained to look that good, shoulders back, hips straight, hands at his sides with the fingers slightly curled, stomach clenched, fit, tight.

  So pleasant to see even if Locke pretended not to look.

  Finally, Wulf bent and reached for the tray. He took it up, holding it as if to sniff the fragrances of the meal.

  There was really nowhere to take the tray, set it, and sit down to eat. Locke realized this a moment too late. Normally, all slaves ate in the community cafeterias and dining halls. A dining table was not normal fare in the quarters, even lavish quarters such as this suite.

  Finally, seeing no other way, Wulf sat, tray in hand, body gracefully bending to the chair. He set the tray on his bare thighs. The balance of it seemed to be a problem, and Locke realized it was because he was shaking.

  Despite stimulants and vitamin shots, the man was starving.

  Wulf managed. Barely. He took the cover off the plate, picked up the steak with his bare hands and bit into it. Grease rolled down his fingers to his wrists. He hardly chewed, he was so ravenous. He tore into the meat, which parted like butter at each bite, and in about a minute, the steak was gone.

  Locke turned to him, then. He spoke with affected nonchalance.

  “In the slave halls, you would be punished for that.”

  Wulf looked at him, steak juices glimmering on his lips, which he flattened in a rude, ugly look. Then with his glistening fingers, he picked up the baked potato dripping with butter and sour cream, and bit into one end.

  “Perhaps you never used utensils in Rille?” Locke said quietly.

  “Perhaps a plastic knife and fork are useless on a steak,” Wulf said with his mouth full.

  Locke leaned forward to see the plate. Indeed, the cutlery was plastic. He’d forgotten that Wulf was labeled dangerous. No one in the Palace would give him an actual knife or fork.

  Wulf continued to eat with his fingers, licking them as he went. The act might be titillating if he knew how to do it right. Instead, he was a lost child pushing food into his gullet to stave off starvation.

  “How long since you had an actual meal?” Locke asked.

  “I don’t know.” Now Wulf’s mouth was filled with green beans.

  Locke took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. If Wulf could not remember, then it had been too long.

  When it came to the peach pie, at least Wulf wiped his greasy hands first before picking it up and taking the slice almost whole into his mouth. Locke watched the blue eyes glaze over when the meal was done.

  A full belly would do that to anyone, even the most seasoned enemy soldier.

  Wulf leaned back in the chair, the tray still balanced on his thighs. His stomach rose and fell with each inhale and exhale. Taut. Flat. The navel like a half-moon in a golden sky. His pecs twitched once. He closed his eyes, leaning his head on the back of the chair, blond hair falling over the edge.

  Clearly, he was exhausted.

  Locke could not help the wave of affection that rose over him. What was this? The man was still a stranger, and a surly one at that. Dangerous.

  Eyes still closed, Wulf said, low, “I think I might throw up.”

  When one was starving and ate too fast, it happened.

  Wulf did not move.

  Locke said, getting up from his chair, “You may rest for the evening. You have everything you need. And if you are sick, housekeeping would appreciate it if you vomited in the toilet.”

  Wulf gave a groan.

  Locke approached him.

  Wulf jerked back, the tray on his thighs rattling when he saw Locke standing in front of him, inches away from his knees.

  Calmly, Locke reached down and picked up the tray. “Now, now,” he said softly.

  Wulf said, “Do not touch me!”

  “Oh?” Locke replied, holding the tray at waist level. “You think you have any say in what is done with you, with your body, or how, or when, or with what?”

  Wulf glared.

  “Now that we are finished, you may rest.” Locked turned toward the door.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s what?” Locke asked, turning his head to look at the magnificent man still sitting in the chair.

  “You bring food. I eat it.
That’s it?”

  “For this evening, yes,” Locke replied.

  Wulf’s brows lowered. “You were here simply to watch me eat?”

  “Hmm. Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To see how long it would take you to decide to live.”

  “What? You told me yourself you have the power of life and death over me!” Wulf nearly shouted.

  “I could force nutrients into your system medically, I suppose,” Locke said. “But that’s not really living.”

  Wulf let out a rude, huffing sound. “So when do we begin my training in sin? In the morning?”

  Locke turned all the way around, tray in hand. “My dear, we’ve already started.”

  Chapter Eight – Wulf

  Things were not going as Wulf expected. The luxury of the Palace. The perfunctory attitude of the doctor. The casual, party-girl tone of Bunny. The calmness of his owner, Locke. And the food. Such quality of food as he had not had in years!

  Wulf looked around his room. His cell. He’d never known such richness. Such finery. Satin comforters and pillows. Silk bed ruffles. Curtains like velvet. Chairs that cushioned his bottom like clouds.

  He kept having to remind himself from one minute to the next that this was still a prison. He would never be free again.

  And his new owner! He could barely allow himself to think of him. But how could he stop?

  Locke. That was his name. He seemed harmless. Almost. His presence filled a room when he entered. It was nothing he overtly did. But a bearing he had, the way he stood, walked, spoke. All with an inner calm as if he owned the world and could decide who to present it to, and when.

  Wulf had known men like this. They were important people, princes, commanders, teachers. But all of those men, and a few women, had been harshly formidable and cold, never quiet. They shouted and yelled orders. They were zealous in their agendas. But that was what one met when they joined the army at eighteen.

  Wulf was twenty-three now. But he never pretended he knew anything. He was a baby compared to the leaders of men, the captains against sin, those superiors who would purge the devils of the world.