by Leith Briar
I could throw her further than I can trust her.
“Time for bed,” I tell her in Gaelic. She narrows her eyes at me and I nod towards the bed before removing the fur that is draped around my shoulders and throwing it on the ground. The worried look returns to her face as she realises what it is I am asking her to do.
“Leabaidh,” I repeat. If she is to live, she will have to learn our language at some point, so I see no reason not to start now.
She shakes her head. “Nah.”
I chuckle. She is picking it up our slang well enough.
But despite laughing, I can not argue with her. I can not let her push me anywhere near rage and I can not let myself become annoyed. If I did that, I would sign her own death sentence. When the Bhiast get annoyed, aggravated, aroused, we lose all sense of reason. It is like what humans would call seeing red, but multiplied by one thousand. We can not control it. It is what makes us so lethal, and it is exactly why the Plaigh find us so useful.
Fighting her over this would kill her, but so would letting her have her own way. Letting her sleep anywhere else without me would open her up to being killed by someone else.
I left her alone with Brody, but I trust him with my life. Brody has unprecedented control, the likes of which none of us Bhiast can compete with. And even without that control, he has never been much interested in women, anyway. He is conscious of his face, always has been since we were balachs.
She would not last thirty seconds in this fortress alone and unprotected.
I will have to bind her to the bed again.
Chapter 6
Sophia
He’s wearing a skirt.
Well, scratch that actually — I know it’s not a skirt when it’s sitting on male hips.
He’s wearing a kilt.
And he has a dagger hitched in his boots, and another larger one vanishing under his skirt — I mean, kilt.
I’m trying to keep my eyes focused on his face, but it’s difficult when there’s a whole lot of man-chest just below it. He has tight abdominals and prominent pecs, wide shoulders and possibly the strongest-looking arms I’ve ever seen on a man — which doesn’t bode so well for the future if I have to fight him.
I almost scoff at myself for even thinking that would be possible. I’ll need a weapon… or five.
My eyes drift back to his face as he says that word which obviously means bed again. “Leabaidh.”
“Nah,” I tell him. I don’t know the word for please. “Pleeasa,” I say — it’s my best fucking guess.
But it just makes him smile. He shakes his head and gives me a sigh that’s more amused than it is exasperated. Then he comes closer. His muscles flex as he walks. Fuck — he is huge. I might struggle even with a weapon, even if he didn’t have sharp knives strapped all over his body.
But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t at least attempt it.
He pushes my shoulders, lowering me down on to the bed. I give little resistance and let him get on with it. Then, when he’s pulling my arms up above my head and trying to sort those straps out, I bring my knees up to my stomach, aim my legs at his stomach, and I kick with all the strength I have.
He lets out a sound that sounds like a curse word and instantly drops my hands.
I waste no time scrambling forward.
I have no clue where I’m going — it’s not like I can run home or make my way to the local friendly police station.
But my thought process is that if there are aliens here that look like humans and sound like humans, maybe there will be other, friendlier types on this planet. Ones who don’t want to strap me down in their beds.
I make it to the end of the bed before I feel his arms grip around my waist.
Every limb on my body thrashes, kicking and flailing with all my might, but this time he barely even flinches. I land blow after blow, he’s behind me so of course they’re not full force.
But they don’t seem to do anything other than hurt me.
When I finally stop I’m breathless, my chest heaving while I try to get enough air back into my lungs.
His weight is on top of me, crushing me into the furs and I fear if he wanted to — he could likely snap my spine in two just by shifting his position.
He whispers something undecipherable into my ear — his tone soft and almost comforting.
As if he’s telling me it’ll be alright.
Or maybe I’m just imagining that’s the meaning.
A moment later his weight shifts off me and I take in a deep breath. He doesn’t let go, instead he pulls me up with him, back to the top of the bed. One huge arm comes under my neck and crosses over my chest, the other wraps around my middle.
It’s like being stuck inside an iron vice. My legs are held in place by his and even if I used every ounce of strength I possessed, I wouldn’t be able to move an inch.
I can feel my heart racing uncontrollably at the thought of what happens next. I’m not stupid — when a man wants to tie you to his bed there usually aren’t many reasons for it — except the most obvious.
And this man who has me locked in place does not look the type to be gentle.
I’m trying to stop the tears pricking at my eyes as my thoughts spiral into what will happen to me. Not just in these next few moments, but after. I have so many questions and I know I will never get answers to them. I wonder how many times he has done this? Will he hurt me? And what happens next? Will I be discarded, will I be killed? Or worse, will this be my life now? Will he keep me here and use me until I’m completely useless?
Fuck, Sophia.
I sniff back the wetness that’s pooling in my nostrils.
Why isn’t he moving?
The wait is becoming unbearable, the not knowing getting worse than any scenario I could create in my head.
But still he stays until my heart stops racing so fast and my breath settles back to normal levels.
I feel the warmth of his breath on the top of my head. He is calm. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he could be sleeping.
Surely not, though?
Why would he go to all this trouble, why would he restrain me, just so he could go to sleep?
It makes little sense.
But then again, nothing about my life now makes any sense.
* * *
I had an even worse sleep than I did in the wagon.
Both times, I kept waking up periodically. Both times, my body ached, and I felt like I was on the edge. Both times nightmares plagued me.
But this time was worse, because this time I felt terrified to let myself fall back to sleep. Even when my eyes were heavy with exhaustion and my whole body felt as heavy as a stone, I was screaming at myself to stay awake. Stay alert.
And I couldn’t do it.
It was so warm and... dare I say it... comforting. Like being hugged under a weighted blanket. My little gran swore by one of those things, claimed she wouldn’t sleep without one. I took her for a liar because those painkillers always knocked her out, but now I’m wondering if she was right.
But when I woke up this morning, the weighted blanket with the silver eyes was gone, and the leather straps were back.
I’m alone until the door bursts open and a man comes strolling in with two younger men behind him.
I blink a few times as he stands in the middle of the room, hands on his hips as he looks around. He turns to the two younger men and says something in that strange language that sounds like an order.
The two younger men immediately get to work, one pulling the wooden shutter down from the window while the other blocks the fire up with a metal guard.
The man’s attention focuses on me and we both stare silently at each other for a moment.
I would guess he is in his forties, or perhaps early fifties. He has short hair, completely white and sticking up at the front in a way that looks deliberate. His eyes are a warm shade of blue, and his face has a red tinge across his straight nose. Rosacea. He looks friendly —
but I know looks can deceive and instantly I put my guard up.
He comes closer, still watching me.
“If I let you go, will you be a darling and promise not to run?”
My eyebrows rise instantly and my mouth drops open. His accent is thick and... Scottish? ... but I can understand him completely.
“You — you speak English?”
“When the need arises,” he says, bending over and fiddling with the straps above my head. “And I will assume a yes from you. Now, do not be making me regret that.”
I watch him as I sit up, now free. He takes my wrist in his hand, makes a face, tutting. “This will not do at all. Yer filthy!”
I look down at my hands and confirm he is correct. My hands are caked with dirt and my nail beds are black.
He barks another order at the two men from over his shoulder, who nod and scurry from the room.
“Now you sit there. I will get you all cleaned up, and then we will send for some breakfast and get you dressed. We have a visitor who is fair desperate to meet you.”
I swallow, trying to process all that he’s saying. “A visitor?”
Who could want to visit me? Does he mean the man from last night?
“Aye, a visitor. The natives here have never seen a human female before.”
“What do you mean, they’ve never seen a human female before?”
“Exactly what I say I mean.” He picks up the furs that are lying on the dresser and shakes them off, one by one, before folding them into the chest.
“But, how can you not have seen a woman before? What about your mothers? Wives?”
“I am not talking about us,” he says. “We have seen human females — although granted it has been a long time for most of us. I am talking about the natives. The species who lived on this planet long before we arrived.”
I’m about to question him further when the two men arrive back, carrying a large steaming tub between them. The man who seems to be in charge claps his hands together and nods at the door, and the two younger men vanish.
He crosses the room and slides a thick bolt over the door.
“No one is getting through there,” he says with a wink. “Well, except perhaps Colm.”
“Colm?”
“Colm.” He nods towards the bed at the empty space beside me.
Ah… Colm.
“And I am Loche,” he tells me, doing a theatrically low bow. “Closest thing there is to a handmaid around here — but you will never let me catch you calling me that.” He wags a finger at me and I can’t help smiling. It seems like he’s trying to cheer me up.
I nod and he smiles. “Come.”
Opening up the chest beside him, he pulls out a small bag and opens it up over the tub, letting the contents fall into the bath.
“’Fraid we do not really have anything that would compliment your natural female scent, so we will have to make do with this until our visitors arrive with the list I gave them.”
I take a step closer to the bath and breathe in the smell of the warm air above it. It smells like wood and leather and... Men’s aftershave. It smells like the man who shared the bed with me last night. I look at Loche and he shrugs. “’Tis Colm’s.”
I don’t really care though. With the amount of dirt and grime on me, it could smell like a wet dog and I would still get in.
“Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me...”
Loche lifts an eyebrow before chuckling. “Of all the men here who have not seen a woman’s soft curves in seven-hundred years, I can tell you I am the one who has been least affected by it.”
He winks and I smile, slowly understanding what he’s saying. I guess seven-hundred years is a roundabout way of saying a really long time.
“Colm would dismember any man who looked twice at you. Now come, before it gets cold.”
He nods at my nightdress and I turn around while I pull it up over my hips. Then I hop in quickly and lower myself down all in one motion.
The water is beautifully soothing and instantly I feel my muscles relax. Loche gestures for me to sit forward and then takes a hard stone and gets to work on my back.
We make small talk while he rubs my skin until it’s red, and then he takes a jug and washes my hair with the same masculine smelling soap.
“How is it you speak English?”
When he doesn’t reply, I turn around and look at him. He stands up and busies himself over at the chest, putting the soaps away and pulling out a large white sheet.
I clear my throat and I’m about to ask again before he interrupts me. “Come, the hour is late and we have a lot of work to get you ready.”
I know I should probably press him for an answer. If he can speak English, perhaps others can too. Or perhaps he could translate for me. But I feel like we’ve struck up a sort-of friendship — albeit a delicate one. If I play my cards right, maybe I’ll get more answers from him than I would from having him translate Colm’s.
I step out of the bath and he wraps me in the sheet. It’s only now I’m noticing he’s really not that much taller than me.
“Why are some of you normal height, and some of you are giants?” As soon as I’ve said the words, I hope I haven’t offended him. I know men get touchy about two things — height and the size of their cocks. I assume these alien men aren’t so different from our Earth men.
“Well, that is because we are different,” he says.
“In what way?”
He nods towards the sheet that’s wrapped around me. “Dry yourself. Do not forget your belly button and between your toes.”
I swallow and do as he says while he leaves the room. I feel like maybe I have offended him, and that wasn’t my intention.
He returns with a wooden chest and sets it down in front of me and then straightens. “I do not know how much Colm has told you, what he wishes you to know and what he does not… But I do not see what good keeping you in the dark will be for any of us.”
I fist the sheet with my hands and take a seat on the bed.
“Do you know why I’m here? Is there any way home? What is this place?” My words spill out of my mouth uncontrollably and I only stop when Loche raises his hands in front of him.
I shut my mouth, signalling that I’m ready to listen to whatever he’s going to tell me.
“We were people of the Earth, like you. A long time ago. We were visited by a master race. They have a name, but our tongues found it impossible to pronounce, so we simply called them the Plaigh which translates to Plague. They took us here, and they split us into two groups. The ones who were bigger, stronger, more aggressive and violent, we call them Bhiasts, and then the rest of us. We call ourselves men, but the Bhiasts call us Balachs.”
“Balachs?”
He laughs. “Boys. Half-men. They forget they were just like us once, a long time ago.”
“But they’re not anymore?”
“No. They are not. And then,” he says, nodding towards the chest at his feet. “There are the Tusail, the native people.”
I watch him as he opens the chest. “We do not have the female of our species here, but the natives do.”
He pulls a garment out of the chest. “So I made some alterations to the way they dress.”
I look at the thing he’s holding up in front of me. I’m not even sure what it is exactly. There’s a corset, of sorts, but it doesn’t look long enough to go where it’s supposed to go, and cover everything it’s supposed to cover.
“Can’t we have... normal clothes?”
“You mean that thing you were wearing when you came in? That was indecent, and it will not do at all.”
“That was sleepwear,” I tell him.
“Sleepwear?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Why would you need to wear something to sleep?”
I think about it for a moment. I wasn’t actually wearing it to sleep, but it seems pointless going into a whole big explanation about why I actually had it. So I settle for the first thing that pops into my head. “In case
the house catches fire,” I say with a shrug.
He shakes his head. “Well, it will not do. Colm has already made it known what the women of our species will wear.”
Why does Colm get to decide? “But you said that’s what the natives wear. Why don’t we think of a new thing that my species can wear? Like... Jeans? Trousers?”
I’m thinking purely on a practical level here. If the chance ever did come for me to escape, I wouldn’t be able to run in something like that.
“And disrespect the natives? I do not know how it works on Earth in this current year, but on this planet we hold their native customs just as dear as we do our own.”
I eye it up again. “How does it... work?”
He smiles and beckons for me to stand. “I will show you.”
* * *
The thing is an abomination. Sure, it looks beautiful, but this is a case of beauty only being surface deep.
I’m told they come in all colours, but my one is a shade of deep purple — which apparently is a great honour and meant only for those of noble birth. The skirt part is fine, long and flowing and made up of many layers of gauze-like fabric. It covers me completely from my hips to my ankle, except for a secret slit up both sides that rises to my hip bone.
Loche told me I must take great care to ensure it doesn’t open when I’m walking and show the poor men-folk an inch of my lady-flesh. I wondered why you’d design it that way if you didn’t want the wearer’s lady-flesh to be seen — but once he told me the admittedly obvious reason I wish I had never asked.
The dress is almost completely backless save for the two straps that come from the back of the skirt and around my arms, crossing over my breasts before tucking inside the thick leather half-bodice that cinches my waist.
“I can’t really move my arms,” I tell Loche. “Are you sure this is right?”
“That is the point, my dear.”
He takes a step back and admires me, and it looks as if he’s finished. But it doesn’t feel finished. “It feels like my boobs are about to fall out.” I look down at the girls, and their precarious position — almost free and exposed above the bodice except for the two scraps of fabric that are also keeping my arms in place.