“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m still wound up, I guess. You didn’t make this world, and it’s not your fault that I don’t like it much.”
Califa was instantly sympathetic. “I understand. I know it’s tough to unwind after a battle. Here, try the brandy.”
It went down smooth and hot and fast, and Shaylah welcomed the spreading warmth. But she excused herself after the second glass, thanking Califa again and promising to meet her for firstmeal at dawning.
Back in her quarters, Shaylah changed into the robe she took with her everywhere. It had been her mother’s, brought home from a trip to pre-Coalition Trios, along with a multitude of amazing stories, not the least of which was the tale that the delicate blue fabric had been woven with threads made by the larvae of some Triotian insect. Shaylah was almost certain that story had been invented to amuse a child sulking at being left behind while her parents went off to the most popular vacation port in the sector.
And soon afterward—too, too soon—her mother had been dead. Shaylah sighed and wandered over to the entertainment wall. Nothing particularly interested her; public information reports were too regularly depressing, she didn’t want to watch any of the several cineplays available, and she certainly wasn’t hungry. Maybe she would just go to bed. Even with her long nap, she could certainly use some more sleep. She could—
The buzz at the door interrupted her thoughts. Califa, she thought, wanting to see if she was truly asleep or available for a late night chatter session. She crossed the room and slid open the door.
“Still a night owl, I see—”
She broke off, staring at her visitor. It wasn’t Califa. It was Wolf.
Chapter 2
“I . . . WHAT ARE you doing here?”
Eyes appropriately downcast, he murmured in that rough voice, “I am honored to be chosen, Captain.”
Shaylah stared at him blankly. “Chosen? For what?”
“To pleasure you.”
“What?” she yelped, startled.
“There is a message,” he said in explanation.
Startled, Shaylah glanced at the communicator beside the door. The message light was, indeed, blinking. Wondering how she had missed its beep, she reached over and pressed the button beside the flashing light. Immediately Califa’s recorded image filled the small screen. She was laughing.
“I promised you dessert, remember? Give it a try, my friend. You might be surprised at what it will do for you.”
The image flickered and was gone; Shaylah groaned. Embarrassedly aware of her flaming cheeks, she turned back to the golden figure in her doorway. He was, she noted grimly, as beautiful as she had thought the first time. It made the cuffs and chain that bound his wrists together seem obscene.
“Er . . . Wolf,” she began, then faltered. It was impossible, she thought, to talk to someone who wouldn’t look at you. Especially when all you could see of his eyes were long, thick, gold-tipped lashes shadowing high, almost regal cheekbones. She wondered what those lashes would feel like brushing her skin, then felt herself heat at the thought.
He moved then, extending one chained hand. She looked and saw the controller resting on his palm.
“Eos,” she whispered, “they make you carry your own cross?”
His head came up then, sharply, and green fire sparked as he looked at her, obviously startled that she knew the old savior legend. He searched her face with an intensity that astonished her; she realized that this was incredibly audacious behavior for a slave. He seemed to realize it even as she did and quickly lowered his eyes.
“No,” she said, the protest breaking from her without thought. “Don’t do that.”
His head came up again, and this time the slave looked at her from those green eyes. There was the briefest hesitation as his gaze slid over the thrust of her breasts beneath the blue silk of her robe, but he said nothing, merely once more held out the small power unit to her.
She knew, from the requisite instructions given to all Coalition warriors in handling slaves, if she took it she would quite literally own him. Each unit was programmed to the specific brain waves of the slave it was designed for and could alter those waves in any way the possessor of the unit wished. All she had to do was take it, activate it with her systems card, and this magnificent creature would be hers to command. He would clean her flight boots, brush her hair, or kiss her with machine-induced passion. If what Califa had said was true, he would mate with her until she was limp with physical satiation and still be ready at her command.
She could even use the brain-wave system to achieve the simulation of bonding if she wished. She could turn the man called Wolf into her dream lover, who would say exactly what she wished to hear, do what she wished him to do, touch her exactly as she wished to be touched, and declare himself hers forever out of love. She could have her dream. But it would be only that, a dream.
She stared at him, knowing that he knew as well as she did what surrendering the controller meant. Something shifted beneath the flat, dull gaze of the captive, as if he knew also of the vivid images that had swamped her. The pictures she’d conjured up left her breathless; the method left her feeling slightly ill.
“No,” she said again, backing away from him a step in the manner of one recoiling from a temptation for something she knew would destroy her. “I can’t do this.”
Puzzlement flashed across his face. She could see the question in his eyes, knew he didn’t dare ask it.
“Please, I . . . it’s not . . . just go,” she ended desperately.
The puzzlement deepened as he looked at her for a long moment. At last he spoke, carefully making the words not a question. “Major Claxton said . . . you wanted me.”
I do, Shaylah thought, still feeling breathless. Eos help me, I do. And I can’t have you. Not like this. It would go against everything I’ve ever believed, everything my parents taught me. But, oh, the temptation, to have this golden man touch her with even the simulation of love was—
Impossible, she told herself sternly. “I’m sorry,” she said briskly. “This is all a mistake. Please go now.”
He drew back a little. “But—”
He cut himself off sharply, and she saw his jaw tighten as he squared his broad shoulders. His head lowered as he assumed the subservient posture again.
“As you command.”
He gave the traditional slave’s response in a voice that clawed at something deep inside Shaylah. She felt a shiver ripple through her as she watched him walk away, every muscle in his near-naked body glistening in the lights of the passageway. He’d been prepared for her, she realized with a little shock, his hair freshly cleansed, his powerful body oiled, and wearing a new trewscloth of some soft, clinging material that emphasized rather than concealed the masculine contours. Were there slaves who prepared the slaves? she wondered dazedly.
Restlessly she paced her quarters, her arms wrapped around herself as if it could ease the strange feelings churning inside her. When at last she slipped off the robe and retreated to the bed, she feared she would never sleep.
When she did, her dreams were haunted by a golden image rising above her, soothing her battle-weary body, teasing her with delicate touches to a delicious frenzy. He came to her with desire in his face, need in his body, love in his vivid green eyes. And without the golden collar around his neck.
“SOMETHING BIG must be on!”
“I saw three cruisers leave port yesterday.”
“I wish they’d tell us what’s happening.”
Shaylah heard the youthful voices as she walked down the hall to the dining room. When she turned the corner and came upon the group of cadets, they snapped immediately to attention and moved respectfully out of her way, lining up against the wall as if she were about to inspect them.
“At ease, troops,” she said with a f
riendly laugh; a couple of them smiled back at her tentatively, and the girl at the end of the row threw her a snappy salute.
“Do you know what’s going on, Captain?” she asked.
“No,” Shaylah said, “afraid not.”
They looked disappointed.
“No one ever tells us anything,” Brakely, the cadet who had met her at the door, complained.
“They don’t tell anyone anything,” Shaylah said dryly. “It makes them feel important.”
The cadets were still laughing as she waved and continued on her way to the dining room. She shook off a familiar qualm as she passed the female slave at the door. Despite a lingering weariness after a restless, dream-filled night, she had found it an unexpectedly relaxing day. The humidity had broken, and a cool breeze had blown in from the mountains to the west. A walk in the extensive gardens had soothed the disquiet in her soul, and another long soak in the massage pool had soothed her body. In fact, it had been a most peaceful day, marred only by the habit she couldn’t seem to break of scanning her surroundings constantly for a glimpse of light gleaming on a golden mane of hair.
She wouldn’t ask where he was, she told herself as she joined Califa for dinner. She was better off not knowing. And if she didn’t see him again before she was recalled, she’d be better off for that, too, she added with emphasis.
When Califa suggested more brandy, Shaylah opened her mouth to say no. But no words came, and she found herself nodding her head instead. Califa waved a signal.
She sensed his approach and made herself study the table before her as if it held one of her navigational star charts. The decanter came into her line of vision. It was set down rather heavily, but she didn’t look up. Then the glasses appeared, clinking together. Odd, she thought. He’d done it so quietly yesterday.
Her forehead creased as she looked at the hand that had set down the glasses. It was shaking. Even as she watched, the long, strong fingers curled into a fist, as if to hide the trembling. It only sent the tremor rippling up his arm.
Shaylah couldn’t help herself. She looked up—and for the third time since she’d been here, gasped at the sight of him. He looked dreadful. He was ashen beneath the gold tint of his skin, and his jaw was clenched tightly, as if only sheer force of will were holding him upright. Little shudders, barely visible, swept him as she watched.
The question escaped her before she could stop it. “What’s wrong?”
“Go now, Wolf.” Califa’s words came sharply.
“Wait,” Shaylah said, reaching out to touch his hand. Instinctively he looked up, and she gasped again. His face was haggard, almost gaunt, his eyes darkly shadowed and bruised-looking. Pain and exhaustion stared back at her from beneath the gold-tipped lashes, the vivid green turned gray and muddy. His wrists and ankles were raw, as if he had strained against his chains for a long time.
“By Eos,” she whispered, “what happened?”
Something akin to bitterness flickered in his eyes, then died, as if he had no energy to sustain it.
“Go, Wolf,” Califa snapped.
Shaylah’s throat constricted until she could barely breathe as he walked away. The smooth, graceful stride was gone, distorted into a shambling, painful gait that made her own body ache as she watched.
“I’m sorry,” Califa said. “I’d forgotten how sensitive you are about some things. I should have had someone else bring the brandy.”
“What—” She had to stop, swallow, and try again. “What happened to him?”
“I’m afraid Marcole got a bit carried away with the punishment.” Califa shrugged. “He does enjoy his work.”
“Punishment? What punishment?”
“Usually it would be just a night spent with the pain system activated to the second level. But Marcole insists Wolf needs special attention. Anything less than fourth level doesn’t seem to have much effect.”
Shaylah stared at her friend, wondering how she could talk about nothing less than torture so casually. “Much effect?” she finally managed to say, the memory of those haunted, pain-filled eyes stark in her mind.
Califa shrugged again. “Marcole threw in a few jolts of five level, just to emphasize the price for failure.”
“Failure? What did he fail to do to deserve that?”
Califa looked surprised. “To please you, of course.”
Shaylah let out a startled cry. “What?”
“His orders were to pleasure you. He failed to carry them out.”
“But . . . I sent him away.”
Califa nodded. “Obviously he did something to offend you. He knows the penalty for that.”
“But he didn’t! You knew I didn’t want . . . that!”
“If he’d pleased you enough, you would have changed your mind. But he failed,” Califa explained patiently. “You can’t let a slave get away with that, Shaylah. Even you should see that. He had to be punished.”
A memory flashed through her mind, quick, vivid, and razor sharp. That second of hesitation, the protest he had cut off sharply just before leaving her . . . He had known what he would be going back to. He had let her send him away, knowing what he would face when he returned so quickly, obviously not having done what he was sent to do.
It was her fault he had suffered such hideous punishment. She hadn’t understood, hadn’t known what her rejection would mean. But he had. Yet he had said nothing, had not uttered the slightest protest that might have saved him. Because had she known, she would never have sent him away. They would not have mated as expected, but no one would have known. He would have been safe.
“Don’t feel bad,” Califa was saying in soothing tones. “It’s not your fault. After the way you looked at him last night, I assumed you had changed your mind about a mating.”
Shaylah shuddered. She had much to answer for; in her determined ignorance of the system she so hated, she had brought disaster down on a man who had already seen far too much of it. And Califa . . . she saw nothing amiss in the logic that allowed her to punish a slave for not doing something he hadn’t been ordered to do in the first place.
“Was he uncooperative, or something?”
“No.” It came out as a tight little whisper.
“Then why? I do need to know, Shaylah, before I send him to someone else.”
“Someone else?”
“Yes. Krel—you remember my old navigator, don’t you?—has had her eye on him, but I was saving him for you. You outrank her, after all, and besides, she tends to claw up the merchandise a bit. You know how Carelians are.” Califa looked suddenly thoughtful. “But that might be good for him, teach him a lesson. She’ll be back tonight, so—”
Loathing, violent and corrosive, bubbled up inside Shaylah. Loathing for this system, for the cowardly euphemisms that tried to hide the reality, and, in this moment, loathing for the friend who supported and encouraged it. She scrambled to her feet; Califa stared at her.
“I want him,” she said harshly. “Tonight, and from now on while I’m here. No one else is to have him, for anything.”
Califa looked stunned. “But I thought—”
“Can I have him, or not?”
“Well, of course. It’s what I’d planned, anyway, but I thought you didn’t—”
“I do.” Short and sharp, her words cut Califa off. Shaylah stared at the woman who’d been her friend for so long, wondering if she’d ever really known her.
“I’ll send him to you,” Califa said, eyeing Shaylah a little warily.
“Thank you.” She turned on her heel, conscious of Califa’s stare but not caring.
Back in her quarters, she paced the floor with short, quick steps. Even though she’d been expecting it, waiting for it ever since she’d left the dining room, she still jumped when the buzzer sounded.
She had hoped
that she’d been mistaken, that he didn’t look as bad as she’d thought. She knew she was wrong the moment the door slid open. If anything, the softer lights of the dining room had masked the true extent of the damage. He swayed slightly as he stood there; she saw him struggle to control it. She dreaded the moment when he would look up, and she would see those eyes again.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His head came up then. He met her troubled gaze, and beneath the pain and exhaustion she saw her answer.
“Pride is a costly thing for a slave,” she said softly.
He lowered his eyes once more. Bracing his unsteady right arm with his half-functioning left hand, he once more held out the control unit. This time, although she had no intention of using it, she took it. A tiny breath, barely noticeable, escaped him.
Voices echoed in the passageway, and Shaylah glanced up to see two cadets approaching, involved in animated speculation about the recent exodus of Coalition vessels. Quickly she stepped aside, clearing the doorway. Wolf took her hint and stepped past her into the room, out of sight from the corridor. The two cadets saluted respectfully as they passed; she nodded, then shut the door and turned around.
He was standing beside the bed, his feet apart slightly as he braced himself against the tremors that still shook him. His unsteady fingers were plucking at the ties of his trewscloth, and color rose in her cheeks as she realized he was about to take it off.
“Don’t,” she said quickly.
His head came up. He said nothing, but stopped. He lowered his hands to the traditional clasped, submissive position before him, his only choice because of the chains.
“Please, sit down, before you fall down,” she said urgently; he looked even paler than he had before.
He sat on the edge of the bed. She saw the skin around his mouth tighten as the metal cuffs tugged at his wrists.
Shaylah swore, low and harsh. She looked at the controller, trying to remember her single long-ago training experience with one. She had tried it, because she’d been ordered to, but she hadn’t really believed it truly worked, that anyone would invent something so horrible. She’d been cruelly convinced in short order.
Lord of the Storm Page 3