by Sue Lyndon
Her cries unsettled him. Deeply.
But fluxx if he knew why.
Disgust rolled through him. Not disgust with her, but with himself.
He swallowed hard and looked at the strap, then back at the small human female. Hurting her didn’t make him feel better, as he’d hoped, nor did her suffering make him hunger for her blood.
When he finally allowed himself to consider how Shessema might view him now, shame washed through him.
Fluxx fluxx fluxx.
If he couldn’t use Layla to exact his vengeance, what exactly was he supposed to do with her? He couldn’t set her free. According to the Kall Custom of Retribution, her life belonged to him.
He stuck the leather strap into his waistband and started pacing behind Layla, trying to gather his thoughts. She remained on the floor, crying on her hands and knees.
He ceased pacing and knelt next to her.
As he observed her sorrow and took in the sight of her punished back, he experienced a strange tugging sensation in his chest. Remorse? Compassion?
Conflict roiled within him.
She sniffled and wiped at her face. Lifting her head a notch, she met his gaze, her eyes gleaming with both fright and pain. “Is-is it over?”
He nodded, unsure of what to say. For the briefest moment, an apology rested on the tip of his tongue, but pride kept him silent. She’s human, he told himself. She’s human and you owe her nothing.
He moved closer and ran a hand gently over her back. When she gasped and stiffened, he murmured, “It’s all right. I’m simply checking to make sure no skin is broken.”
Only two of the red stripes had formed large welts. He found himself breathing a sigh of relief. Once he finished inspecting the marks, he lifted her up and guided her to the bed.
“Please no.” She attempted to pull away from him. “No no no no.” She stared at the bed with alarm, and it took him a moment to realize what it was that scared her.
“I am not going to force myself on you, Layla,” he said. “I’m simply helping you into bed.”
She turned in his arms, facing him. “Do you swear it?” She didn’t look up as she spoke, and her quivering intensified.
“I swear it.”
He helped her onto the bed and frowned to discover she didn’t have any covers. Goosebumps prickled her skin and her shaking was getting worse. He glanced at her torn shirt and then her pants. She could only get half-dressed right now, and he very much wished to cover her immediately. He stepped back and removed his uniform shirt.
She stiffened and peered at him with caution in her eyes, but he only draped the black shirt over her body. Small as she was, his shirt almost covered her entirely. At the very least, it shielded her nudity, and it covered the shame of what Zamek had just done.
“Layla,” he said, and her name felt strangely intimate on his tongue, for it was the first time he’d spoken it without anger.
Her eyes drifted to his again. “Yes, General?”
“Rest for a bit. I will return soon.” He exited her cell and made haste for the medical bay, his mind whirling with confusion and guilt.
Trembles besieged her body. Layla couldn’t seem to stop shaking or crying. She wasn’t sobbing anymore, but the tears now trickled silently down her face. Her back stung and if she had more strength, she would go to the bathroom and check the damage in the mirror.
She inhaled a deep breath. Then another one. And another, until the terror of what had just happened to her began to fade. It was a gradual process, but eventually her tears dried up and her shaking lessened somewhat.
General Zamek’s masculine scent surrounded her. She shouldn’t like the way he smelled, but damn it to hell she did.
She ought to toss his shirt to the floor and put her pants and undergarments back on, but his shirt was warm and she felt oddly protected while covered with it. If that wasn’t fucked up, she didn’t know what was.
So she remained on the bed, with his thick black uniform shirt sheltering her from the cold and concealing her nudity.
Confusion swept through her when she replayed what had happened. Why had the general stopped strapping her so soon? She’d expected to be beaten to within an inch of her life. It had hurt—badly—enough to bring her to tears, but she’d expected much worse.
And she certainly hadn’t expected him to help her into bed and cover her with his own shirt.
Did he feel guilty? Had any of her pleas gotten through to him? Talking about Shessema and how she might view his actions had been a grave risk, but maybe it had worked.
But she was still in this cell. She was still his prisoner, and they were bound for planet Kall. The chances of her seeing Earth again were slim.
I’m so alone.
This thought kept repeating in her mind. Everyone she’d ever cared about was either dead or so far out of reach they might as well be gone too. It was a frightening realization—knowing she would never see anyone from her old life again. Not even Betsy. Even though they were headed for Sumlin District where Betsy lived with Commander Edek, she doubted she would have the freedom to visit her friend. Not that she would survive long enough to reach planet Kall…
She shifted on the bed and winced at the pain. When she closed her eyes, she could hear the swish of the strap cutting through the air, then the crack of the leather hitting her back.
It’s over. For now.
Footsteps in the corridor made her tense.
She looked up just as General Zamek returned to her cell.
He was still shirtless, and numerous scars crossed his red, muscular chest, evidence of the many battles he’d fought and won. She quickly averted her gaze.
A second later, she noticed the items in his hands and her eyes widened. He was holding a thick blanket, a pillow, and what appeared to be a dermal regenerator.
Were these items really for her use?
Hope flared inside her. If he intended to make her more comfortable, even going so far as to heal her welts, he must feel remorse over his actions. She dared a look into his dark gaze. She glimpsed no traces of anger, and the hope brimming in her chest swelled further.
He placed the pillow next to her head and she gratefully accepted it.
“Th-thank you, General.”
Not removing his shirt from her body, he unfurled the blanket and placed it over her, even going so far as to tuck it around her. So stunned was she by his actions, that for several long moments she forgot to breathe. She desperately wished to ask about his intentions, but she was too nervous to speak.
He sat on the edge of the bed and his nearness caused her tummy to flutter. She was still afraid of him, very much so, but she didn’t think he would hurt her right now. She swallowed hard and dared another look into his otherworldly eyes.
Regret. His gaze shone with unmistakable regret.
She almost gasped in surprise. Hope continued to burgeon within her. Apparently, the general had a conscience. He hadn’t apologized to her, and she doubted he would—Kall males were extremely stubborn and proud—but the warm blanket and the soft pillow felt like an apology of sorts. When he lifted the dermal regenerator for her inspection, that felt like an apology too.
“With your permission, Layla, I would like to run this over your back. It will heal the marks and take away your pain almost instantly.”
She inhaled a shuddering breath. “Wh-why?” she asked. “Why would you help me?”
He opened his mouth to reply but then quickly pressed his lips together. A look of uncertainty fell over him, his eyes clouding with confusion as he briefly glanced around her cell. Finally, his gaze drifted back to her.
“Just…” His voice trailed off and he sighed. “Please let me help you, Layla.”
His tone was gentler than she’d ever heard before, and the way he said her name made flutters rise in her stomach all over again. More fuckedupness. She quickly reminded herself that she couldn’t forget what he’d done.
He’d forced her to strip and
had taken a strap to her. He’d hurt her and frightened her.
She needed to be smart. Trusting him and getting her hopes up that he would never treat her with cruelty again would be foolish. She also needed to keep her guard up.
He held the dermal regenerator higher, and she eventually rolled onto her stomach and loosened the blanket around her shoulders.
With gentle movements, he drew the blanket and his shirt down to her waist. Her breath hitched when he trailed his fingers softly over her back. A shiver rushed through her and when he reached for her hair, smoothing it completely to the side, her scalp prickled with sensation. Her heart raced. She didn’t understand her visceral reaction to his nearness. After what he’d done to her, his touch—his mere presence—ought to disgust her.
Why were her insides still fluttering? Why were endorphins still rushing her head, making her feel dizzy? And breathing… her breaths became quick but shallow and she couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen all of a sudden.
“Please hold still, human.” This time, ‘human’ came out sounding almost like an endearment. Tears burned in her eyes and she blinked rapidly, not wishing to break down into sobs while he was healing her. The last thing she wanted was for him to ask why she was crying—and the truth was that she wasn’t entirely certain. Only that his sudden kindness made her feel like weeping for a year.
Her emotions were all jumbled up and confused.
The next words he spoke stunned her further.
“I thought your pain would please me. I thought your tears and your screams and even your blood would satisfy the rage and the emptiness inside me. But, fluxx, it did not.” Though he’d already swept her hair out of the way, he continued to stroke a hand through it, his manner intimate, his touch perversely comforting.
A question rested on the tip of her tongue, but she was too nervous to ask it, for she feared the answer. She wished to ask if he would ever beat her again. Would he keep her locked up forever? Her throat burned at the thought of being locked away, all alone.
Removing his hand from her hair, he shifted closer, and she soon felt the tingling warmth of the dermal regenerator on her punished flesh. The sting ceased after about a minute of him running the healing device over her back. Once he finished, he pocketed the device and pulled the covers and his shirt over her. Then he resumed stroking her hair.
He’d healed her and given her warmth and comfort.
But he’d also been the one to imprison her and hurt her in the first place.
Should she thank him?
His caresses to her hair started to relax her, and her eyes soon grew heavy, but she fought sleep, not daring to drift off in his presence. Despite his promise not to force himself upon her, she was very aware of her nudity beneath the blanket, and he was still shirtless, his broad, chiseled chest on display. She needed to stop looking at him. The last thing she wanted was to give him any ideas that she was interested. She most certainly wasn’t.
“Thank you for healing my back, General,” she said after a few minutes passed. How long would he stay here? She had so many fucking questions about his intentions but not enough bravery to ask.
“I can’t free you,” he said, his deep voice drifting over her.
“I-I know. I’m aware of the finer details surrounding the Custom of Retribution,” she replied. “Will-will you keep me locked up?” Her tongue thickened in her mouth and swallowing became difficult.
“You must remain in your cell until we reach planet Kall. There aren’t any vacant quarters available on the Tammusha, and even if there were… you must understand how important appearances are. A human found guilty in a Kall court cannot be treated as an equal in our society.”
“What happens once we reach your homeworld?” She turned onto her side and peered up at him.
A shadow darkened his face, and he withdrew his hand from her hair. “Get some rest, Layla.” Then he rose to his feet and departed her cell without another word, leaving her with her thoughts in turmoil.
She didn’t quite understand what had just transpired between them. Would he visit her again? What if he changed his mind about beating her? What if he wished to try again in hopes that it would satiate his… rage and emptiness?
Emptiness. This was an unusual word choice. But it was an honest word choice, a word that very much mirrored loneliness. He missed his wife. Despite what he’d just done to her, her heart broke for him.
But fuck if she didn’t feel guilty for not missing Michael. When she thought of him, anger and betrayal were the predominant emotions. He had to have known that his actions would change her life forever. He had to have known she would be taken into Kall custody after he killed himself.
She’d mentioned the Custom of Retribution to him before on more than one occasion, as she brought up a particular instance she’d read about in the news.
But all this aside, he’d taken an innocent life in an extremely violent manner.
His grief and his pain weren’t an excuse. Nothing could excuse what he’d done to a defenseless Kall female. Her skin crawled just knowing that she’d been married to him and had slept beside him every night for two years, never knowing that one day he would become a remorseless, cold-blooded killer.
She pulled General Zamek’s shirt up to her nose and inhaled deeply. Not for the first time, his scent soothed her, made her feel protected. Keeping his shirt close, she nestled back under the warmth of the thick, soft blanket. She closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.
General Zamek haunted her dreams. She dreamt of the courtroom and saw her blood spilled on the white tarp, as the general stood above her holding a sword. She dreamt of the strapping. But she dreamt of his strange gentleness too, of the way he’d given her his shirt and healed her back and stroked her hair.
Whenever she awoke in the night, she would smell his shirt and wonder if maybe it was causing her dreams, and think maybe she ought to throw it to the floor.
But for a reason she couldn’t fathom, she didn’t wish to part with it, even though the blanket would be plenty warm on its own.
All night, he was her tormentor and then her savoir, over and over again, until she finally rose for the day, her mind not any clearer than when she’d drifted to sleep.
She glanced at his shirt. She didn’t have one anymore—the remnants of hers remained on the floor. So, she picked up the general’s shirt and put it on, telling herself she didn’t have a choice.
Chapter 8
Zamek stared at the video feed of Layla’s cell. The little human was currently jogging around her unit, wearing her pants and his shirt, the latter of which she’d tied into a bow at her waist to make it fit better. She was flushed and speaking to herself in English, though he couldn’t quite make out her words over the video feed.
He thought she looked adorable.
Alarm and guilt filled him. He shouldn’t be watching her. He shouldn’t be drawn to her and find her pleasing to look upon. For the rest of their lives, she would be his captive. His people would expect him to kill her. Questions would be raised after she survived a few moon cycles.
He ran a hand through his hair and growled. At least his home in Sumlin District was on the mountainside, and his servants were loyal. Even if he treated her with kindness, word wouldn’t get out. But he was required to report her death to Kall authorities when it occurred and turn over her body, so he couldn’t pretend to have taken her life. Not that he would consider lying to Kall authorities…
Fluxx.
Five days had passed since he’d beaten her. He sickened at the memory.
He continued watching her and decided he liked seeing her wear his shirt.
Ancient gods, what would he do with this human?
He’d lost his wife less than four moon cycles ago. He’d loved Shessema and he shouldn’t allow himself to harbor a growing fascination for a human female, particularly one who would be his lifelong prisoner.
She stopped jogging and got down on the floor for some strange exerc
ises where she turned on her side and lifted one leg up in the air over and over. He moved closer to the video feed and heard her rapid breaths. Perspiration glistened on her face and neck.
He admired that she wasn’t sitting still in her cell in quiet desolation. She was keeping up her strength. Kall females usually only went on walks for exercise, so he was unaccustomed to witnessing a female complete a vigorous exercise routine. Every day she trained like this, once in the morning and again in the evening.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, once more debating what he should do with her. Keep her, he knew that. He also knew he must register her as a slave immediately upon arrival on Kall, as the only humans currently permitted on his homeworld were slaves—well, aside from the small number of human females who were already married to Kall warriors who happened to live on his planet.
But when he finally brought her to his home on the mountainside of Sumlin District? Should he house her with his servants and treat her as one? Or give her a room of her own and treat her more as a guest?
His servants might balk at the second option, but he reminded himself of their loyalty. No matter how he treated her in the privacy of his home, his servants wouldn’t spread gossip in town, as most servants would. He ruled his home with an iron fist and expected nothing but obedience from those who worked for him. In return for their allegiance, he paid them well and kept a roof over their heads.
Zamek glanced at the tablet which contained the report about Layla. He’d reread it at least a hundred times, memorizing all the details of her life. Yet still wanting to know more. He ached to visit her, to speak with her. To touch her.
Aberrant as it might be, he had enjoyed taking care of her after the beating, despite his guilt and the fact that he shouldn’t want to ease her suffering in the first place.
