Recalling how mortified she had become over the oars, she decided to remain seated, biting at her cheek and trying to keep her tears at bay. She thought she did relatively well, but Master Olivar still glanced at her now and then, looking more troubled each time he did so.
She felt moderately better when he returned with two plates. At least he would be feeding himself as well, and had not gone too far out of his way just for her sake. “I do not know what you like,” he told her apologetically, taking the seat beside her. “But I hope it is all right.” He grimaced. “Yet somehow I doubt you would say anything even if you hated it.”
She wondered if that was a veiled command, but could not determine what he would have liked for her to do differently. Complain? Not possible. No master would like that, even one that seemed to be more kindly than she had ever known.
He picked up a utensil and began his own meal, watching her carefully. She looked at the strange cutlery, settling on the spoon. It wasn’t what he used for the same foodstuff, but it was what she knew. Thralls ate with their hands unless they were given porridge. Even broth was sipped in cups. She briefly wondered if the utensils were a test—he had even provided a knife!—but her stomach rumbled, and so she gripped at the spoon and broke off a little piece of... she did not know what it was. It was soft, yielding easily to the edge of her spoon, and it did not appear dangerous.
She brought it to her mouth cautiously, waiting for him to react or indicate she had done wrong. But he smiled encouragingly and took another bite of his own food, and she allowed herself to actually eat it.
It was mild, bland like most of the food she had ever eaten, but it was warm and welcome, and she had little trouble eating more enthusiastically when he did not pull the plate away or scold her for using the wrong utensil.
He ate even more quickly than she did, but despite her initial concern, once he’d finished his meal, he did not seem to expect her to be done as well. It surprised her, made her next few bites a bit more wary, but he only gestured for her to continue. He stared, though he seemed to be trying not to, looking away frequently as he played with his plate, pushing it around a little before sneaking another glance. She almost wished he would speak as he was making her nervous, her final few bites difficult ones to swallow as anxiousness smothered the last of her appetite.
Finally he conceded, twirling the pronged utensil through his fingers. He was very dextrous, she noted, and she wondered if that was an attribute of all of his people or merely him.
“Do you... do you have questions for me? You must, I am sure.” He huffed, not quite a laugh. She was left with that impression yet again that he was nervous. He did not act at all how she expected him to, and it was most disconcerting. “Will you... will you ask something? I do not know where to even begin with you.”
She almost glanced up so she could measure his expression properly, but caught herself. He apparently did not know how to direct her training and had already asked for her assistance in that matter, so there would be cause to do as he said now...
“Where is the mistress?” she asked quietly. There was likely much more important things she should have begun with, but that was the first to come to mind.
Master Olivar frowned. “Mistress?”
Ness flushed. Clearly she had questioned incorrectly. “I overheard in the boat,” she confessed meekly, fully expecting a punishment afterward. “Your... your lady?”
“Ah,” he breathed, smiling a little. “There is no female here besides you,” he clarified. “Jocen was talking about my ship, that was all.”
Oh. Relief came swiftly. She had not been mistakenly placed in a household. He was a master to be sure, a keeper for the time being, but she would not have to suffer the punishment to come when he realised she had not yet earned her honour by bearing more thralls. It was a start, and one she was incredibly glad for.
“Are you... uncomfortable about that?” he shifted awkwardly in his seat, a strange motion for a man so large. “I did not really think about how you might feel living here alone with me.”
He was such a peculiar master, thinking that should remotely matter.
But he seemed genuinely concerned about it, and she could not have that. She was to obey, yes, and while she could not perform either of her previous purposes here—not her sewing, nor the breeding—a thrall’s place was to ease the life of the master or household she served. She swallowed thickly, trying to determine what was safe to say that was not also an outright falsehood. She was frightened. And uncertain.
And while she had been terribly concerned about the mistake of placing her in a household, she could not deny that a part of her, small though it might have been, had also thrilled at the prospect. It meant she belonged, had found her place, her future suddenly assured.
Except that it wasn’t, for there was no mistress, and he was merely a keeper—her master for a time until another took his place.
That shouldn’t bother her. It wasn’t for her to feel anything at all about the masters. But Master Olivar was... perhaps it was too soon to think him kind, but he had given her a cup to drink with and told her to fill it whenever she was thirsty. He had fed her a portion of his own meal, and that was far more than any master had done before.
She still did not know what he would require of her, but she supposed it would be all right. She would obey, just as she had always tried to do.
And he had asked her a direct question, and it was hers to answer. “You are my keeper,” she answered easily enough, once she had settled on his role. “It is as you wish.”
He did not seem pleased with her response, and that made her a little despondent in turn. She hadn’t pleased him much yet, but she would like to.
He was quiet for a time, dwelling on his own thoughts and she sat quietly. Now that her belly was full and her mouth no longer parched, it was easier to think on her other hurts—her legs and womb the most pressing discomforts. She often had to work even with the latter pain, but sometimes she didn’t. It was nice to lie quietly, curled up in a tight ball as she waited for the cramping to pass away. She did not have her bleeds terribly often, not like the other thralls seemed to, and she most definitely did not lie when they did come. They were what had brought her from the children’s dormitories, had caused the implantations to begin.
Had resulted in her coming here.
Yet now she was not convinced that was the worst of things. She would have to experience more to know for certain.
“If... if I was able,” Master Olivar suddenly began, and she turned her head in his direction. “Would you like me to find a different home for you? Somewhere else?”
Her eyes widened. He wished to be rid of her already?
She did not know the rotations of the masters before. There had been many, working in tandem as they oversaw the thralls. But she had thought Master Olivar had been happy to claim her charge. She bowed her head, feeling every bit the failure she knew herself to be. “If you wish it,” she answered meekly.
He sighed again, reaching out and tipping her chin so she would look at him. “That is not what I asked,” he reminded her, more gently than she had ever heard a master speak to a thrall. “I asked if that was what you would prefer. Someplace with... women, maybe? There are a few that might be willing to take you in...”
He was right of course. She hadn’t answered his question fully. And from the way he was looking at her, she knew that was what he wanted most.
So she swallowed, her eyes darting about his home, wondering if that was what she would prefer. He was offering her a household, a place of her own, regardless of the honour she had yet to earn.
But it was another unknown, with people she had never met, who perhaps would not be as keen as he believed to have a too-small slave underfoot, her skills few.
And though it felt wrong to answer, to voice any sort of preference other than what should have been provided for her, he was looking at her so expectantly and the words came to her lips, rega
rdless of her past training. “I would... like to stay with you,” she confessed.
She did not know him. Not really. But he had defended her against her old master, from the angry voices of his own people, and that was... more than something. It was as if tendrils of trust were being pulled from her whether she willed it or not, and it was strange and terrifying yet... comforting.
No, she did not want to be given to another household.
She would likely regret it. The first time he punished her, hit her for speaking out of turn, or perhaps beat her for completing a task inadequately. But for now... she was full, her thirst quenched, and he was already talking about where she might sleep at night.
It was more than enough.
And when he smiled at her, a bright, hopeful thing, she felt another thrill.
For she had obviously given the answer he most wanted.
“Good,” he said decisively. He nodded to himself. “Good,” he repeated. “But you will have to help me, Ness. You will have to learn to speak up about what you need because there are things I am going to overlook. Though I am going to try not to!” he hastened to assure her. As if it was even necessary.
She did not look away even when his finger left her chin. He obviously liked her attention to be focused on him or he would not direct her to do so as often as he did.
She sat, a little uncomfortably, and he glanced her way again, his eyes narrowing. “Do you need something now?”
She wanted to duck her head, but didn’t. He needed her help. Needed her to speak. And though so much rebelled against such orders, her need to comply overrode such aversions.
“I am... bleeding,” she told him ashamedly, remembering how angry her previous master had been at the sight of it on the cloth.
He sat, his eyes widening as they suddenly flickered over her form. “You are injured?” He did not move, did not seem to understand in the least, and she released a shaky breath as she tried again. Embarrassment twisted in her belly and pressed a hand to her lap, her palm covering her lower belly as she begged him silently to understand.
Yet he merely continued to stare.
Her concern for the mess that could result overrode her mortification. She did not wish to bleed through the only clothes she had, and especially not onto the nice chair he had put her in.
So after a deep breath, a desperate grab for what little courage she possessed, she tried again. “Bleeding here.”
And this time there was no mistaking the green tinge to his skin as that of equal mortification.
4. Hers
Master Olivar made the strangled coughing noise again, giving her a rather panicked look. “I do not think we are communicating correctly,” he said at last. “Because that is your... your...” he waved with his large hand, looking every bit as embarrassed as she felt. She had done that. She hadn’t meant to, had only tried to do as she’d asked, but she did not like to see him so discomforted—and not because of something she’d done.
She couldn’t look at him. It was simply impossible, despite his apparent preferences. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning over and huddling, if just a little.
He did nothing for a while, merely sat, and she could feel his stare prickling at her, but she did not know what else to say. How was she to speak of her needs when he reacted poorly to them?
But he hadn’t been angry. He merely said he did not understand. That was not his fault—she had known that there were difficulties between their languages, and that comforted her, if just a bit.
“Ness,” he said gently, laying his hand on her shoulder and giving it a timid pat. “No, I am sorry. Do...” he released a shaky breath, and she wondered why this was apparently so difficult for him. No other master had trouble talking about anything relating to a thrall’s body. It was not like it was a mistress’s body, something important. “Do your females... bleed through their...” he swallowed, forcing the word out. “Their cachra?” She did not understand the last word, and in truth she barely heard it for he whispered it so softly, but she thought she caught his meaning.
He wasn’t upset.
He was confused.
He had asked her for help.
“Yes,” she confirmed, a tiny bit stiffly. And because she felt so awkward and confused, it made her training suddenly very far away and she found herself asking an equal question. “Do your women not?”
He barked out a laugh, and she thought it was fuelled more by nervousness than actual humour. She did not think she had been funny. “Goodness, no!” She looked downward again, fiddling with her shift, hoping he would decide soon if it was all right that she did before everything she wore was horribly stained.
“Ness,” he began again, this time letting his hand linger a little longer on her shoulder—smoothing it rather than tapping. “But if your kind do... are you well? Is it... is it permanent?”
She bit her lip, hating that she had to talk of this at all but knowing that she must. “No,” she murmured back, using just enough sound that he might hear. She would have preferred to use none at all. “It just... means that I am not... not going to have a child.”
She waited, waited for his grip on her to tighten, for him to fully realise what her blood meant. There would be no child, no turning the bargain to his favour by receiving the thrall that would come from her womb.
There was just her. Every inadequate bit.
But an angered grip did not come. Only another pat. “That is good,” he commented absently. “I am not certain you are sturdy enough for that yet.”
She blinked, never having expected that. The Narada had waited for her hips to widen—in truth, they had widened before the bleeds had even begun. They had come to realise that the blood itself was not enough for a thrall to prove able to carry, so the waiting period had been established. She would have to grow, at least some, and then the implantations would begin. There was not much point in putting a babe inside if the slave wasn’t big enough to get it out again.
“You are not... displeased?” she felt the need to clarify. She must be truly fatigued, for her words were coming more easily, her questions falling almost freely.
She would be better in the morning—more careful with her tongue as she decided how best to navigate her new world.
“No? Are you?” he looked at her rather oddly, an assessing thing that ended with him sitting back in his chair and withdrawing his hand from her. “Do you... do you have a... I am not sure of the word. Is there a man you...” he scrunched his face up, considering. “You favour?”
Her brow furrowed. She wasn’t that stupid, and she felt strangely hurt that he might think she had been. Pairings were assigned, not sought. And she did not care to remember the punishments that had followed for those thralls who had disobeyed that order. “No,” she told him firmly. In that at least, she had been good.
He nodded, seemingly relieved. Her head tilted slightly, and he gave her a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t have minded,” he assured her, but there was a tinge of something odd in his tone. It couldn’t be dishonesty, for a master did not lie. But... something. “I just... do not like to think that I took you away from someone you cared for. I... I did not, did I?” He began to look slightly panicked, and she watched him with a hint of incredulity. How had it come to be that it was her responsibility to soothe a master?
Yet apparently, it had.
But she also could not bring herself to say anything against her previous placement either.
It made choosing her words a difficult thing, but she managed. Barely. “Thralls are not... permitted... ties,” she explained lamely, already knowing it was inadequate. He was looking at her curiously, as if something in her face would further expound where her words had failed. She sighed, bracing herself as she tried again. “There were none I cared for in the way I... I think you mean.”
His shoulders relaxed, but his relief was short-lived as his eyes suddenly narrowed. “Not permitted? How do you control something like that?”
> She did not want to discuss this. Not at all. And in truth, there was little to say. It wasn’t a matter of controlling anything—she could not imagine feeling anything but trepidation and despair in relation to the men assigned to her. Master Olivar grimaced, and he shook his head. “You do not need to answer that,” he conceded, and she sighed, terribly grateful. She would have tried, had he pressed her, but there was no denying that she much preferred to keep that subject buried.
“I am sorry,” he said again, sitting a little straighter in his chair. “You... you said you were bleeding.” There was the green tinge about his ears again. “What... do you require for that?”
If the females of his kind did not experience the blood as hers did, then it was no wonder he was so confused. “Rags,” she told him timidly. “They will...”
He waved his hand and she fell silent immediately. He stopped when he saw her frightened look, giving her another of his sheepish smiles. “You do not have to tell me,” he said in lieu of making any more gestures. “You are allowed to have private things.”
She was? She certainly never had before.
But if there were things he would prefer not to know about her—especially if they referred to her cachra as he called it—then she would take that as a blessing. Perhaps he was not interested in having her bred and would not care for how her body functioned in those areas.
It felt strange to even consider it. For a master not to demand a cloth be wiped between her legs, to inspect it to know of her fertile periods.
Clearly Master Olivar intended things to be wholly different here. And for the first time, she was willing to consider that perhaps they might be better.
He brought her a basket of cloth, and she was glad to see they were well-used things. They were soft with age and heavily stained in places, but clean. He pushed the entire basket into her arms, still a little green. “You may take whatever you need,” he told her, his head slightly ducked. He was embarrassed again. But he did not seem bothered by giving her these things, wasn’t scolding her, and so although she was sorry for his discomfort, she did not think a punishment would soon follow.
Thrall (Deridia Book 3) Page 6