by P. J. Fox
Ceres thought the man’s behavior was exceptionally unfair; didn’t he realize the burden of guilt he was placing on his daughter? Or perhaps he did, in which case he was even less of a man than Ceres had thought. What did he want—for his daughter to live and die here?
Or perhaps he’d hoped she’d never get married at all, become a nun, help him in his glorious calling.
“I do care for him,” Udit said in a small voice.
“My family isn’t perfect,” said Ceres, fighting to keep an edge from his tone, “but show me the family that is. When last I studied the scriptures, I believe I learned that no man is perfect, only God. I believe I also learned that God should be our judge, rather than our neighbors.”
Shutting his eyes, the cleric drew a breath and summed himself up.
For a so-called pacifist, he had a hell of a temper.
The man was a bully and Ceres loathed him, but he was still Udit’s father and she loved him for that reason. She loved her mother, too, that much was obvious; leaving her, and her sisters, would be difficult. Damn her father for making things so much worse.
He waited.
“Udit,” began her father, after a minute, “I just want you to be happy.”
He was insincere, but at least he was calm.
“I’m upset because…I don’t see that this is the right path for you, or that this man is the right person to walk it with.”
Udit nodded slowly. “I know.”
“But….” Now the cleric was working out in his small, self-absorbed mind that Ceres was rich, and if he played his cards right there’d be an increased chance of his hospice receiving donations. Maybe even large donations. Ceres would want to keep his in-laws happy, right?
For the sake of his consort, who loved them so?
“But,” he finished, “I hope I’m wrong, of course, and that you come back to visit us soon.”
Ceres smiled. His eyes remained cold.
Udit got up and, very carefully, walked around the table and sat down next to her new husband. He put his arm around her, and she leaned against him.
He watched her parents watching them, watching her. Taking in her clothing, her shoes, the fact that she was married. She still looked elfin, childlike, but there was a distinctly adult aura of confidence about her now. It came, he thought, from finally having an ally.
She was a strong woman, and a brave one, but she’d been alone for a long time—alone with her thoughts, alone with her guilt, and her fears, alone with a mother who was sweet but useless and a father who’d given himself over to zealotry. Neither of them, he’d realized the night before, had had too many opportunities to laugh. And they both rather enjoyed it.
“We have to leave soon,” he told her, quietly.
Biting her lip, she nodded.
Chapte Eleven
“Is he right?” She stood, gazing out the portal, her thin shoulders weighed down by his jacket. It was cold on the transport; it was always cold in space, whatever side of the hull you were on.
“About?” Ceres looked up from the communiqués he’d been reviewing. He was seated in one of the room’s two chairs, a reasonably attractive wingchair sort of thing that was bolted to the floor. They were on a military transport, not a pleasure ship; it was all bolted to the floor.
“About the contract.”
Ceres put down his tablet. “Yes.”
She turned. He was arrested, again, by how lovely she was. And she was his, for the rest of his life. The idea filled him with immense satisfaction. He thought back to telling himself, at the now-defunct café, that he hadn’t wanted her and was amused by his own naïveté.
That was a word he’d never thought to hear applied to himself.
But she made him feel…more human.
He gestured to the chair opposite. She sat, tucking her feet up under her.
“No commitment,” he said slowly, “is without sacrifice.”
“I know that marriage isn’t something you can just walk away from, regardless of the form it takes, but…I’m scared.” She stopped, biting her lip.
“Yes?”
She shook her head, embarrassed.
“Tell me,” he urged.
“It’s just that—I mean, what I mean is—I don’t know you all that well!”
He laughed. After a minute, she laughed, too.
“This is true,” he allowed. “But I think you know me better than most.”
She’d seen a side of him, certainly, that few others had ever seen.
“Really?” She sounded hopeful.
He nodded. “Really.”
She thought this over.
Putting the tablet down on a small side table, also bolted down, he stood up.
She looked up at him, nervous, as he held out his hand. After a minute she took it and stood up as well, letting him pull her to him. Tilting her chin up, he kissed her. She resisted and then, after a minute, kissed him back. Her lips were warm as they sought his and she slipped her arms around his neck. His jacket slipped off her shoulders, onto the floor, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him. She felt good, there. Right.
He unzipped her dress, still kissing her, and she stepped back just long enough to lower her arms so he could push it down over her shoulders. She began unbuttoning his shirt as he unhooked her bra, tossing it somewhere, and slid his hands down to her panties. He looked forward to buying her lingerie, real lingerie, and making her take it off for him.
Her kiss became more insistent as she twisted her fingers in his short hair, pulling on his scalp.
Lifting her up, he carried her toward the bed. It was narrow, and of the built-in variety common to all ships of the line. Even in such luxurious quarters—this was one of the nicest cabins on the ship—space was still at a premium and even with her being so small two people was a tight fit. He didn’t care; he wanted to sleep feeling her pressed against him.
She was eager, always so eager, and he liked that. A great deal. He’d enjoy teaching her how to do all sorts of different things, some of them naughtier than others. So far, she’d been a willing pupil.
Finally getting his pants off, he laid down on the bed and pulled her down on top of him. He’d been about to roll her over when she straddled him and, eyes gleaming with a wicked light, eased herself down on top of him. He groaned as, with a terrible slow deliberation, she began to move. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Just enough to keep him on the edge of climax but not enough to give him release.
And, looking into her eyes, he knew that she knew.
She smiled. She was, he decided, again, heart racing, the most beautiful woman in the world. And watching her like this, watching her move, watching her face tighten and her lips part, ever so slightly, as she took her pleasure—was agony. Growling, he grabbed her, pulled her to him, and flipped her onto her back. She giggled, thrilled, and he kissed her.
After that, it didn’t take long—for either of them.
She curled up against him, her head on his chest.
“I miss my family,” she said quietly.
He stroked her hair. “I know. This doesn’t feel like home, yet, but I hope it will.”
“I hope so, too.”
They shared the silence. It was a good one.
“I could tell you more about where we’re going,” he offered.
“I’d like that.”
“Well, the first thing we’ll have to do, when we get home—”
Is buy you panties. And stockings. And corsets.
“Is find a house.” He didn’t try to describe Chau Cera, the Alliance capital; there was no point. It was like trying to describe the air to a fish. She’d just have to see it, and decide for herself.
“Oh? You’re homeless?” She giggled.
“Well, I have an apartment, but it’s small. It’s only ten rooms.”
“That’s a city block where I come from.”
He sighed. “This is true. We can live there for awhile, until we find something a bit more suitable. Th
ere’s a house on the river I’ve always liked. It has trees; you might like it, too.”
“I’m not terribly particular, you know. I’m still getting used to the idea of hot and cold running water.”
“And shoes.”
“And shoes,” she agreed.
“Also,” he continued, “we’ll have to purchase some new slaves. I only keep two, as there’s only one of me and I’m rarely ever home. Which reminds me, we’re going to be doing a lot of travelling. The bad news and the good news are really the same news, in this regard; I go to all kinds of revoltingly dull state events for my brother, all over the empire. But the good news is, there’s almost always interesting gossip and free food, and you can come with me. In fact, it would be ideal if you did; having your consort along makes you seem so much less threatening to all the trade attachés you’re trying to make friends with.”
“Oh,” she said dryly, “I can’t wait. But—slaves?”
Trust me, our slaves will live better than your parents.
“It’s a time-honored institution.”
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “we’ll see.”
That aspect of their lives, at least, was non-negotiable; he would have slaves, and plenty of them. But she’d never seen a slave before, so a little latitude could be allowed. She’d learn.
“And—the rest of it?”
“It’s not uncommon for us to marry,” he told her.
Sometimes, even for love.
“Does it work?”
“Usually, yes.” Except when it doesn’t.
“And if a man has to…choose?”
He looked down at her, and away, staring up at the ceiling. “If you trust me, and do as I say, even if it upsets you or appears to make no sense, you’ll never have to put me in that position.”
“I don’t want to, you know,” she told him. “I want to fit into your life, not change it.”
He smiled slightly. He was a lucky man.
“Will we have children?”
I hope so. “Do you want children?” With me? Knowing what I am.
“Yes.”
It could take a toll on relationships, he knew. He’d seen it happen. The problem was, once you married an assassin, that was it. Divorce was not an option; there were too many loose ends.
Not that, in traditional Bronte society, divorce was ever considered much of an option—but it was possible. The woman who tried to leave her assassin husband wound up dead. It was an unfortunate situation but, in some cases, an unavoidable one; people thought they could handle things, sometimes, when it turned out they couldn’t. The long hours, unexplained absences, the secrecy, the knowledge that your partner had, at his core, an other.
Such had been the case with Dharun Ravi; after five years, his consort had finally left him.
He’d handled it…poorly. If he’d been a stronger man—if he’d been a stronger man, Ceres reminded himself, he’d never have gone rogue—he’d have done what needed to be done to keep her safe. He’d have locked her up in the basement until she came to her senses, or beaten her into submission. Sometimes, you could be someone’s protector, or their friend, but you couldn’t be both. He’d compromised the woman he’d claimed to love, ultimately, by letting her walk all over him.
Unfortunately for all involved, however, fate had gotten to her before the guild could or, indeed, before Dharun could come to his senses and attempt to fix the problem before it got completely out of hand. Although, on further reflection, perhaps it had been past that point already. She’d been hit by a car coming out of a store: a genuine freak accident that’d left her dead, on impact, in the middle of the street. The driver, of course, was intoxicated.
And Dharun had blamed the guild.
That was how it had all begun, and that was what had led to him lying here in bed with Udit.
No, he reflected sadly, Dharun’s consort would have died either way.
Sometimes, being a responsible adult meant denying yourself; if he wasn’t willing to do what it took to keep her safe, he shouldn’t have married her. To do so, knowing his own weakness, was supremely selfish.
Women needed certain things, to feel wanted. Loved. He should have given her those things and, even if their marriage soured regardless, he should have done whatever it took.
There was something, too, to be said for choosing the right woman.
Looking down at Udit, he thought he had.
“Ceres,” she said suddenly.
“Yes?” He thought she’d fallen asleep.
“I think I am.”
He stilled. You think you’re what?
“I think I am,” she repeated, “falling in love with you, I mean.”
“Oh?”
She smiled into his chest, eyes closed. “Looking back, I think it was the rat. The look on your face was….” She trailed off, sleep threatening. He’d just decided that she was done, when she spoke again. “I can’t wait to see that look, on the faces of our children.” She shifted, smiling up at him, and it was the most wonderful vision he’d ever seen in his entire life.
“We’ll be a family, together, and we can all be ill-tempered and stubborn.”
She was the only person who’d ever called him that, and not because no one else had ever noticed.
“Like camels.” He arched an eyebrow, amused. “They spit, you know, and bite.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “like camels.”
And she kissed him.
About the Author
P.J. Fox is the author of several novels, as well as the nonfiction writing guide, I Look Like This Because I’m a Writer: How to Overcome Sloth, Self Doubt, and Poor Hygiene to Realize the Writing Career of your Dreams. She published her first story when she was ten. Between then and publishing her first novel, The Demon of Darkling Reach, she detoured to, in no particular order, earn several degrees (including a law degree), bore everyone she knew with lectures about medieval history, get married, and start a family. She realized, ultimately, that she had to make a go of this writing thing because nothing else would ever make her happy. She invites you to visit her at her website, www.pjfoxwrites.com.