The Taming

by Imogen Keeper

  Beans?

  “SO, TOMORROW, you’ll drop me at Pax-Ahora?” Klym asked him, three days later. Tor leaned forward to get a look out the viewscreen and winced.

  Gray sky, murky, sullen and relentless. A concrete lot spread from where his ship was parked to a ring of grim trees with wrinkled, grungy leaves.

  He’d touched down on Frigorria, Jasto’s homeworld, a filthy, depressed mining planet. Everything was gray.

  At least it wasn’t raining.

  Judging by the puddles, though, it had recently.

  He made a grunting sound that could pass for affirmation.

  “Good. You’ll be free of me, then.” She made a huffing sound from her flight seat, where she was struggling with the harness.

  In point of fact—they’d never be free of each other again—but gods knew what she’d do while on Frigorria if he told her that.

  She pushed the central button on the five-point harness.

  As she twisted, pushing harder on the button, her dress rode up a few more inches. Vaniiya. He didn’t even bother looking away.

  Every single night on the trip to Frigorria, she’d slept in his bed. Warm and soft and smelling like fruit… some specific fruit that called to a memory, something he could never pin down, that flickered right on the edge of his consciousness and disappeared like a star in the sky if he looked right at it.

  The fruity scent hung in the air around her, and lingered on the pillows of the bed, and in his clothes. Not overpowering. Subtle. And sometimes, when she rolled over in her sleep, she made a throaty little murmur that set his balls on fire.

  Her preferred position was on her side, with that luscious ass shoved out at him like an offering, and far too frequently, he’d woken up to find himself wrapped around her, his dick riding the hot valley between her thighs, his hand wrapped around the full comfort of a warm tit.

  Pulling himself away had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed.

  He liked sleeping next to her. And now that he knew she was going to be his selissa, it was hard for his body to remember that she wasn’t yet.

  “Tor.” She waved her arms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He pulled his eyes away from her tits.

  “What is it? You’re looking at me funny.”

  Shaking himself, he crossed to stand in front of her. “You have something on your face.”

  She made a classic-Klym face of genteel shock and wiped at her perfect lips. “Did I get it?”

  “Yeah. It’s gone.”

  “What was it?” She resumed her struggle with the straps of the five-point harness.

  “Dirt maybe, I don’t know.”

  “Dirt?” She stopped struggling and frowned. “Where would I have gotten dirt on your ship?”

  “No clue.”

  “But I haven’t gone anywhere.” She kept wiping at her face. “And I bathe a lot.”

  “It’s fine. It’s gone.”

  “It’s so weird, though. How could I get dirty?” She poked at the buckle.

  “You’re doing it wrong. Don’t push it.”

  Her head tilted back, mouth dropping open, brows lowering. “Then what do I do with it? I watched you. You pushed right here, and it just popped open.”

  “I didn’t push.” He wasn’t sure he really wanted her to know how to undo the straps. He’d miss watching her wriggle.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Just show me how to unbuckle it, you big barbarian.”

  “Pull the button to the side.” He dragged his thumb over the smooth plastic button.

  The straps fell open.

  Her mouth formed a circle. “Oh.” She brushed a stray strand of hair back over her shoulders. “Thank you.”

  He stared at her pouty lips.

  “Is the dirt back?” she asked.

  “What? No. Do I need to tie you up?”

  “No! Why?” She brushed at her face a few times, checking her hands as if to see whether anything came off.

  “I need to leave the ship. But I need to know you won’t dismantle the engine while I’m gone.”

  “Can’t I come? Please. I’ve never been anywhere but the Institute.” She looked up at him. “And I owe her an apology.”

  “She doesn’t need to know about the birds. It was an accident. Let it go.”

  She stepped closer, her eyes going wide and earnest. “Just let me out for a few minutes. Just to see the planet.”

  “There’s nothing to see. This place is ugly.”

  “To you, maybe. You’ve seen lots of places, but I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve been cooped up on this ship for so long, I’d love a breath of fresh air.”

  “The air here isn’t exactly fresh.”

  “But it will smell different from the air on this ship.” Her gray eyes went imploring.

  Abysmos, he was pathetic. “Don’t make me regret it, or I’ll—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ll tie me up and spank me, right?”

  A quick image flashed of his hand slapping down on a firm, tanned cheek, right above a soft, pink... and he sucked in a breath.

  “I swear. I won’t cause any trouble.”

  He sighed.

  She made a beeline toward the passageway, but he caught her as she tried to walk past him toward the bathing chamber. “Show me your feet first.”

  “Wha... oh. They’re fine. The ointments you’ve put on them have worked nicely. My feet are quite healed, thank you.”

  “Show me.”

  For a second, he thought she’d argue, but she only nodded and dropped back onto the seat. He squatted and lifted her foot, sliding his hand up the smooth, bare skin of her calf.

  He’d found a thinner pair of socks for her that fit with her slippers. He rolled them down over soft, warm skin, and inspected her feet. The angry blisters had faded to a smooth, new pink. She should be fine to take the short walk to Jasto’s and back. It wasn’t far.

  He glanced up at her face, at her slightly parted lips, and stroked his thumb along the fine bones of her ankles. Her gaze lowered to his lips.

  He dropped her feet. “Fine. We leave in five minutes. Meet me at the hatch.”

  WHEN HE ARRIVED AT the rear hatch a few minutes later, she was already waiting for him with her face pressed against the portal, all buttoned up, hair coiled, clutching her holo-cam.

  He expected her to make a comment about the grim weather, but she didn’t complain while he opened the hatch.

  The planet was about as ugly, rough, and unpolished as they came. Squalid was probably the most complimentary thing that could be said of it. It had to be a far cry from the capital of Argentus.

  She passed through the hatch. “Look!” She pointed at a cluster of monstrous gnarled old trees.

  “They must be a hundred years old at least.” She took a few quick steps to the left, raising her holo-cam up in front of her. “They look almost haunted, don’t they?”

  He grabbed her elbow and hauled her around. “Wrong direction.” He jerked his head toward the rickety buildings hovering in the dirt a few hundred feet to their right. “Town’s this way.”

  “A town? So romantic.”

  He eyed the sullen structures squatting at the end of the pitted lane. “Not the word I’d have used.”

  She kept her holo-cam up on the walk, and he wondered for the hundredth time what she intended to do with whatever she was filming. People shuffled past, eyeing them warily. Primes were unusual in the colonies, and she might be the first Argenti woman ever to come to this planet.

  “Look. Flowers!” she said.

  Several heads turned at the bright peal of her voice. Feeling like the biggest idiot in the universe, he peered closer at a bucket full of dirt. “They’re gray.”

  Her brows lowered. “Silver.” She tilted a flower back and forth, and the dingy light glinted off the tops of the petals. “And look.” She grabbed his arm, pulling him closer. “Look at this. On the backside. It’s red.”

&nbs
p; He grunted and stepped away, taking a quick look at her ass, which was thrust out as she bent over, the fabric of her dress sticking to it. “Nice.”

  An elderly couple, wrapped in loose gray togatas, approached slowly, eyeing her. They seemed harmless, but he moved closer to her anyway.

  She blasted them with a smile and a flurry of excited, accented words, florid hand gestures. She pointed at the flower and declared it, “Abellina.”

  Beautiful. They’d only spoken in Argenti so far. Her accent was undeniably sexy, a little hesitant, a little rough.

  The couple smiled. The old woman touched a gnarled finger to the ugly flower and erupted with a long horticultural history of the squalid planet.

  Klym grinned and waved her holo-cam around.

  The old woman laid a gnarled hand on Klym’s wrist and led her a few feet farther to another bucket, pointing at more wispy plants.

  The one-legged man caught his eye. “Argenti?”

  Tor nodded.

  “A prize?”

  Tor frowned, but nodded because why not. It was easier than explaining who she really was.

  The man smiled broadly, exposing an array of missing teeth. “From a raid?”

  “Been on my share.” Tor jerked his chin at the man’s missing leg. “That happen on a raid?”

  The man bent down and knocked on his prosthesis. “The Fringe.”

  Tor winced and eyed the man with new respect. “Bad things happen there.”

  “Long time ago.” His eyes lingered on Tor’s tattoos. “You were at Punt-Rayabad?”

  Tor ran his tongue over his teeth. Long time since anyone had mentioned it. Seven days of gory combat. Screams and the stench of shit. That was all he really remembered. And pure hatred for his father. More than anything, it was a reminder that he was back on Vestigi territory. No one else spoke of that miserable fight, but to the Vestige, it was epic. A thousand men against a whole planet. Children spoke of them as heroes. Tor hadn’t slept for a month after that. “I was there.”

  “Not many of you alive.”

  Tor jerked his head. “I took an ax to the back four days in. My brother dragged me behind a building. Kids found me bleeding in a corner and practiced on me. I came to, and they scattered. By then it was mostly over. Just random luck.”

  Sanger had saved his life, dragging him like that. He’d been injured as well. Tor had never asked how he’d survived that hellhole. That had been the turning point—Sanger had argued with their father over every raid after that. And only a few months later, his father had taken brutal and bloody revenge against Sanger’s wife.

  “Battle’s like that.” The old man spat on the street. “The fucking Alliance.”

  Tor spat too. “Fucking Alliance, indeed.”

  They stood in companionable silence after that, because they didn’t need to talk anymore. They knew what they needed to know, and there wasn’t much to say.

  When the women were done talking, Tor extended a hand to the old man. They nodded their goodbyes.

  “See? This place isn’t so bad.” She dropped her hand on his forearm.

  He considered pushing her away but didn’t. “You were good with that woman.”

  “As opposed to what? Being bad with her?”

  “You could have been rude.”

  “I’m never rude.” She smiled. “Except with you.”

  “Why did they bother teaching you Vestigi, if your only job was to breed?”

  They walked in silence down the rough street, past hundreds of curious, but non-threatening eyes. “I suppose to make me conversant at parties.”

  “Waste of time.”

  “As it turns out, it’s rather coming in handy, isn’t it? Though they ought to have taught me the finer points of cursing since it comprises roughly...” She grinned as they entered the central square. “Oh, say... half of your vocabulary. What does that one you say all the time mean? Mangianne? Meenganne? Man... mang... manggeena?”

  He barked out a surprised laugh. The words were so filthy—and so specific— even he was slightly shocked. “I wouldn’t say that in publ—”

  “Mengana? Mengonna?” she continued, making it worse.

  His mouth dropped.

  “Mang? Mang? Mang?”

  So much worse. He doubled over. Tears. He was laughing so hard tears came out. A crowd had gathered around them. She hadn’t even noticed.

  “Migané! That’s it.” She’d raised her voice in her excitement, and people in the street stared, eyes wide, faces contorted with disgust. No doubt shocked to their core that a woman—especially a fancy Argenti woman decked out in lace—would shout something like that in public. “Migané! Migané! Why are you laughing? Did I say it wrong? Menginee? Migané.” She broke off, looking at the people gathered around them. “I’m sure it’s migané,” she whispered.

  He rested his hands on his knees and tried to suck in air. “Stop. Just stop.” His stomach hurt from laughing. “Please. Stop.”

  A woman hissed in their direction and pulled her friend away.

  A middle-aged man with a mustache stopped mid-stride, nose wrinkled like he’d smelled something foul. “The mouth on her,” he said. “It’s lucky there’re no kids around. And no one eating. Disgusting.”

  “I know. I know.” Tor wiped at his eyes. “She’s like a space pirate. Can’t take her anywhere.”

  The man nodded sympathetically. “She looks too sweet to have a mouth like a shitbox. Tell her to stop eating mang if they set her ass aflame.”

  Klym looked faint. “Mang?”

  “Spicy beans.”

  Her face fell. “Oh, dear.”

  “She’s from Argentus,” he called to the man. “I think all their women talk this way, the barbarians. Can you imagine? Nothing but bathing-chamber humor.”

  “Bathing-chamber humor?” she mouthed.

  “No wonder they’re going extinct, then,” the man said. “If all the girls roam around shouting about their bowels. And for god’s sake tell her not to talk about her ass hairs in public.”

  The look on Klym’s face was one he never wanted to forget. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, raising the holo-cam in her hand up to capture an image of their faces, him laughing and her frowning.

  The man passed them by, giving her a wide berth.

  “Oh, stop laughing at me.” She shoved his shoulder.

  The crowd still lingered, gawking. A few of the men were studying her tits like there’d be a test tomorrow.

  He stopped laughing and raised a brow. “She’s foreign. She didn’t know what she was saying. Go on, then.” He tilted his chin, and the crowd began to dissipate.

  She watched them walking away. “What in the world did I say? Beans and h-hair?” She covered her mouth with her palms, her face turning redder by the minute. “Should I apologize?”

  He rested his cheek on top of her head. “It’s okay if you have a hairy asshole, Klym. You’ve got other fine qualities.”

  The elbow came out again, and she whisper-hissed, “I do not have a hairy bottom.”

  “You sure? I’d be glad to check for you.”

  She squeaked.

  He squeezed his jaw between his thumb and forefingers, kneading the muscles there. “My cheeks hurt.” He turned her to walk down the road. “You should contact your old tutors and tell them they’d be well served to teach their girls proper curses in Vestigi, if only to keep them from accidentally belting them out in public.”

  She just glowered.

  The town was more crowded here in the center, with people moving about from shop to shop. Everyone was curious about her. It had probably been centuries since an Argenti had been to Frigorria, if ever. That and they’d all witnessed her outburst.

  They stopped on a gray bridge to look down at a river full of stones. Klym pointed out more hulking trees along the shore, but kept her voice down, casting sheepish glances at the people in her vicinity.

  She found the only clothing shop in the village, and becau
se she was still embarrassed about the incident, he didn’t argue when she said she wanted to go inside.

  As she stroked her hands over a shawl, he couldn’t resist the smile of surprise. Silvery gray, it matched her eyes, embroidered with traditional motifs in a deep turquoise and indigo. She traced the tiny bells in the corners, making them jingle. “So soft,” she breathed.

  He bought it. Maybe it would keep everyone from staring at her tits, anyway. She wrapped it around her shoulders, bells tinkling. “I’ve never felt anything like it. Thank you, Tor.”

  “Come on.” He tilted his head at the door.

  They reached Jasto’s street too soon, passing derelict buildings with sagging porches and crumbling roofs. It was the nicest on the block, by far. A fresh coat of paint on the trim, and a recently mended roof with a shitty patch job.

  The last time he’d been here, he and Jasto had drunk too much Argenti akdov on that roof while doing the repairs. Jasto had done an impression of their latest job, a guy on the run from the authorities back on Vesta. He’d lost a foot and been blind in one eye, and the impediments had left him none the kinder. He’d been mean and dirty as sin. They’d cornered him on an ice planet and hauled him all the way to Insuractius.

  Jasto’s impression had been good. Too good.

  He’d hobbled around the roof, groping out, hissing and spitting and making threats in such a dead-ringer for the perp’s guttural accents, that Tor had laughed himself clear off the roof.

  Right over the eaves.

  He’d landed in the scrubby bushes at the bottom and sported a wide array of bruises and stiff muscles in the morning. Not to mention the headache.

  No one had ever made him laugh like Jasto. Until today.

  He cleared his throat, eyes on the yellow front door. “Klym, I—”

  Her hand stopped him, coming to rest on his chest, right over his heart. “I know. It’s okay.”

  “This is bound to be ugly.”

  She nodded. “I can only imagine.”

  It would be a hell of a lot harder on Syena. “Just don’t talk too much, okay? And don’t mention the birds.”

  She made a long face, but after a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”

  He closed his fingers around her forearm and propelled her up the steps. The tiny bells on her shawl tinkled in the air as they climbed.