by Mel Teshco
She frowned. Eating lunch while watching fighters’ blood splatter the floor was not her idea of a romantic date. But Andrew wasn’t into romance. His only care was for his own pleasure. And she had no doubt he’d love the unsanctioned blood sport.
Her bedroom door unlocked with the usual flick of her wrist under the scanner. Inside her sanctuary, which consisted of a tiny bathroom and a single bed, she peeled off her clothes and tossed them into the laundry bag. She was beyond grateful that her ranking meant she didn’t need to share communal showers and toilets.
She clicked on the humidifier and allowed the apportioned one minute of vaporized steam to do its thing before a warm blast of air hit her body, drying her off.
Finally, after brushing her teeth and finger-combing her hair, she climbed naked under the warm bedcover she’d brought from home, and commanded, “Lights out.”
As usual, sleep didn’t come. Insomnia was a bitch and she was its biggest supporter. But prescribed drugs were hard to get, and worth more credits than she could justify.
She blew out a breath, trying to imagine relaxing thoughts and failing. Tristan’s face superimposed anything she forced to mind. The golden-brown stubble that half-covered his jaw. His brilliant, shrewd green eyes, which seemed to read her every emotion. His over-long, wavy, mussed hair that she wanted to trawl with outspread fingers.
She rolled onto her back, her nipples painful as they dragged against the top sheet, her pussy hurting with a deep ache that couldn’t be slaked.
Least of all by Andrew.
Her thighs spread apart and her hands moved south, past the silken-soft skin of her belly and its puckered scar, down between her thighs. Pushing aside the outer folds of her pussy, she rubbed along her inner flesh, using the moisture there to lubricate her tight, needy clit. As she massaged, gently and slowly at first, she imagined it was Tristan’s big, artist’s hands that were touching her intimately.
She moaned, writhing as pleasure quickly built.
One of her hands moved to her breast, pulling on the nipple and causing it to spring sharply to attention. But in her mind it was Tristan’s hand, stroking and fondling. Tristan’s hand that moved back to join the other one at her dripping mound, his finger dipping deep into her while his other hand worked her clit, hard and fast now.
She came suddenly, her pussy thrusting against her hands while moisture flooded from her channel and raw tingles pulsed to her toes and back to her womb.
Though the ache was relieved just a little, she was greedy for more.
She wanted Tristan to claim her, wanted him inside her, stroking long and deep. And then afterward, holding her reverently.
It was just a shame the wishful thinking would never be anything more than … wishful.
Chapter Two
Rita’s belly twisted with resentment at Andrew’s firm grasp on her forearm as he escorted her into the crowded, army recreation room. She wasn’t a possession to be flaunted. Except that was exactly what he thought she was. His smile grew cocky and self-important at the many glances cast their way.
A flush heated her face. Was it the red, slinky dress that caught people’s attention, or was it just pity that she’d thrown her lot in with the lieutenant?
She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders. She refused to wilt at her poor decision to become the lieutenant’s lover. Many of the people aboard this ship had done little better with their choices.
As for the dress … some battles in life weren’t worth fighting.
Andrew had sent her the gown just minutes before he’d shown up to escort her to the fight. She’d spent perhaps one minute of that short time seriously considering staying in the black shift dress she’d been wearing—her one luxury item, which she’d made do with on her last few outings. But she knew it wasn’t worth the lieutenant’s wrath.
It made her sick to the stomach knowing that the dress had more than likely been bought from one of the few elite onboard, who’d been able to buy more than their allocated weight limit of clothes and personal effects.
Andrew’s grip tightened as he led her through a scattering of perhaps twenty tables, each with twin chairs. His voice dropped to an undertone that was ripe with warning. “Smile. You’re meant to be enjoying this, not looking as if you’re attending a bloody funeral.”
She arched what she hoped was a haughty brow. “Excuse me if I don’t share your fascination with violence.”
She winced when he squeezed her arm harder, until he had no choice but to release her so she could be seated. She resisted rubbing her arm, refusing to give him even an inch of satisfaction over her pain. She let out a breath. This couldn’t go on. She had to find a way to end it without things turning ugly.
But all thought switched off as her senses abruptly prickled and she registered a stare she’d know just about anywhere. Tristan.
She looked up sharply, pinpointing him across the room. He was seated on a referee’s platform that jutted out perhaps ten feet above the floor, a waist-high glass enclosure giving him a full view of the room. From this angle she could see the back of his canvas, the brush gripped in his hand.
She shivered. Even from a distance she felt the heat in his stare, but this time it wasn’t repressed desire. He was livid with rage.
Had he witnessed Andrew’s rough treatment of her?
She didn’t hope for one minute that jealousy played a part in Tristan’s feelings. Though he was hardened and conditioned to violence, she perceived he’d loathe any man who treated a woman in any manner other than gentlemanly.
The lieutenant smiled as he followed her gaze. “I see you’ve found our artist, 1588.”
His name is Tristan, you arrogant piece of shit.
Andrew raised an eyebrow, highlighting the missing chunk of hair left by an old scar as he continued in a self-important tone. “Thanks to me, we were able to acquire him. His works will document our travels and our new start on Solitaire.”
Rita repressed a frown, though her mind worked overtime. What the fuck had Andrew done to “acquire” Tristan? He hadn’t wanted to be part of the journey to Solitaire, and she’d bet one of the prisoner tokens that coercion or even blackmail wouldn’t have changed his mind.
No, but what about being accused of a crime he didn’t commit? His only other option would have been the death penalty.
Her heart skipped a beat at the thought. No, surely even the lieutenant wouldn’t have gone to such extremes?
She pushed aside further speculation as a waiter appeared, setting down two glasses containing an amber-colored liquid. Her nose wrinkled as she recognized the startlingly strong aroma of whiskey, overlaid with something obnoxious. Alcohol had become rare and unaffordable for all but the most industrious over the last few years. Rita guessed someone—or more likely a group of someones—onboard the ship had been most enterprising with their privilege tokens to create this brew.
“Just water, thank you,” she said to the waiter before he withdrew.
Andrew claimed her whiskey along with his own, slugging the drinks back one after the other. He smacked his lips with appreciation, then smirked and said, “1588’s art is the best of the best. Shame he’s not right in the head.”
What a joke. The only person not right in the head was the man beside her. But she couldn’t help but ask. “Oh?”
“He’s a monster, an indiscriminate killer.”
The lieutenant lied. She wasn’t exactly sure what Tristan had done to earn his whites, but she knew with soul-deep certainty that he was as much an indiscriminate killer as she was a deep, restful sleeper.
As if reading her disbelief, Andrew leaned forward and took hold of her hand. Giving it another hard squeeze, he asked, “Should I be worried about your sudden interest?”
It’s not sudden, you jerk.
“One madman in my life is more than enough,” she said tightly, before jerking her hand free. But not before inwardly balking at the cruel flash in his stare. There was no doubt in her m
ind that he’d make sure she paid for her so-called insolence.
She shivered. She’d gotten with Andrew for his protection. Now that she wanted to break-up with him, she’d be needing protection from him. She should make an appointment with the Major and voice her concerns. Except the Major and Andrew were close, their backgrounds and social class too similar. Talking to the Major might very well exacerbate the problem. No, she’d end it with the lieutenant and deal with the repercussions on her own. As two fighters stepped into the painted ring wearing big numbers on their shirts, the rec room went quiet with expectation and excitement. Andrew leaned close to her and said softly, deliberately, “We’ll deal with this … problem, later.”
She pressed a hand across her belly to try and quell the sickening sensation within. All the while she felt Tristan’s stare on her, as if he could read her every thought, her every emotion.
The lights dimmed on all but the fight ring and she breathed a sigh of relief as the shadows concealed her. She needed the privacy the darkness afforded to gather her composure, displaying a calmness she certainly didn’t feel. Tranquility was impossible when Andrew disgusted and frightened her as much as Tristan attracted and unsettled her.
One of the many on-duty soldiers stepped forward. In the muted lighting his electro-whip gleamed menacingly on his hip. “Place your bets,” he barked.
As the commotion of betting began, a handful of off-duty high-ranking officers and their partners in plain dress took to the empty chairs and tables nearby, while behind a barrier the crowd became a sea of yellow prison uniforms and the beige fatigues of the soldiers. Rita noted a scattering of civilians. They were hard to miss among the uniforms.
Perhaps the prisoners were brought in to ease their boredom and push the cred of the fights up another notch—even though the cons were relatively harmless, given that their magna-cuffs meant they could be locked down within seconds.
The chance to watch a blood sport obviously overrode whatever lingering fear the civilians may have had.
The fight began. Fists thudded into flesh. Grunts deteriorated into pained moans. Droplets of sweat soon became a splattering of blood. Rita couldn’t focus on the round anymore, and didn’t want to anyway. It was barbaric, and reminded her too much of what Earth, or at least the people on it, had become, what they’d left behind. Instead, her eyes were pulled toward Tristan, whose attention seemed finally caught by the canvas before him.
As she surreptitiously watched him, she wondered what thoughts were going through his head as he painted. Was he intent on the fighters, or was his mind elsewhere, the same as hers?
One of the fighters landed on the floor with a heavy thud, his face pale and smeared with blood, one eye swollen half-closed. The soldier-come-referee pronounced the man unfit to fight and the prisoner was marched away.
“Damn it, I lost credits on that coward,” Andrew gritted out. “Fucking loser.”
“You could always volunteer to fight?” she murmured.
“So you’d like to watch me thrash the prisoners?”
And here she’d thought it was only women he enjoyed inflicting pain on. “Not particularly.”
The lights went bright as the soldiers called their next recruit to the ring, providing time for waiters to serve lunch to those “lucky” enough to be seated ringside. But mostly it was so more bets could be placed and another round of erode-your-belly drinks bought in the heat of the moment with hard-earned tokens and credits.
Rita picked at the nutrient-rich glop that was her lunch, wishing for the sweet taste of an orange or the tangy zing of pineapple. Such things were attainable from ES Siren’s garden nursery or prized orchard, but only if one had the appropriate credits, or tokens, if you were unlucky enough to be a prisoner.
She forced herself to finish her lunch—to waste it would be nothing short of a crime, given the famine and food shortages on Earth. She pushed away her empty plate and sipped on her glass of water. Having been many times recycled and chemically treated, it left a strange, metallic taste in her mouth. Despite this, it was still far superior to anything she’d drunk in recent years on Earth.
The lights dimmed once again. But the rest of the fights passed by in a blur. Her mind and eyes were too often on Tristan, the shadowy room affording her the chance to study him unnoticed, while Andrew jeered and hollered beside her, his fists punching the air and banging on the table.
But even with the lieutenant’s antics beside her, she couldn’t miss the agitation of the crowd. They were becoming more restless and rowdy by the minute, booing the referee’s every decision and jeering each losing fighter.
A big, muscled fighter with a beaked, crooked nose and a pockmarked face stepped into the ring, spurring a frenzy of betting. Everyone wanted to bet on this new combatant, who obviously had a reputation in the ring.
Rita turned to Andrew, and though his face was flushed and his stare feverish with excitement, she sensed his underlying concern. His eyes darted constantly to the crowd and back. He was aware of the growing restlessness and tension, which could so easily spill over into violence. Hell, he probably would have gotten off on it, if it wasn’t his reputation on the line.
An on-duty soldier approached Andrew. Even over the noise of the crowd, Rita heard him ask, “Sir, would you like us to shut the fight down?”
Andrew’s expression hardened. “No. We can’t give in to these imbeciles. If we show them even one crack in our armor we’ll have a riot on our hands.”
The soldier nodded stiffly, then saluted. “As you say, Sir.”
Rita pressed her mouth shut. Andrew wasn’t a fool, but right at that moment, she had her doubts.
Blood splattered the floor near their table and she shook her head. What had these fighters been promised? Extra rations of water? A token? A piece of fruit? She hated that prisoners were forced into physical harm because they had no other options. She only hoped—god, how she hoped—that mentality would change on the new world.
The bigger man in the fight suddenly crashed to the floor, and stayed out for the count. A collective gasp was followed by thick, stunned silence. But when he was hauled away, the tension broke, and the crowd went ballistic.
The lights brightened even as the soldiers released their electro-whips. But it was too little too late. The crowd was jostling, fights breaking out between the prisoners and even between the off-duty soldiers and other divisions.
Andrew stood up, a muscle jerking to life in his jaw. “Keep those filthy cunts behind the barrier!” he roared.
Rita felt the blood drain from her face even before she glanced toward Tristan. He’d abandoned his artwork and was climbing out of the referee box, the magna-cuffs encircling his ankles. As he jumped, rolling on the floor to break his fall, Andrew grasped her forearm and hauled her to her feet.
“Get to your cabin and into your uniform,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “We have to get this shit under control.”
Then he was gone, evidently in search of his own uniform and weapons.
She shook her head. What an asshole. She couldn’t have chosen a worse protector if she’d tried.
An alarm sounded as a section of the barrier thudded to the floor. She turned to watch, almost numbly, as a prisoner king-hit a soldier, knocking him out cold. Another soldier’s whip snaked out, unleashing high-voltage currents and cutting the prisoner off mid-scream, his throat convulsing and blood gushing from his nostrils. His body jerked spasmodically before he, too, fell to the floor.
Then a hand encircled her forearm, steering her away from the carnage. “You need to leave,” Tristan whispered urgently.
Rita choked back hysterical laughter. How perverse that a prisoner—and one in whites—turned out to be a better guardian than the lieutenant. She managed a nod, mouth drying when she said, “We’d best get you out of here too, before they lock down the magna-cuffs.”
Any one of the guards could activate the cuffs. Prisoners within a ten-foot radius would then be magnetically
pinned to the floor or walls. The “all whites” prisoners suffered a far worse fate, the lock-down setting off intermittent electric bolts that coursed through their body, incapacitating them in the worst way possible.
A wave of soldiers burst through the far door, their weapons drawn and their faces hard. Thankfully, their attention wasn’t on the woman in the red slinky dress, nor the prisoner whose only duty onboard was to paint. They had far more aggressive people to deal with.
She heard the snick of magnetics being activated, followed by surprised grunts and the thudding of bodies as about a dozen prisoners were locked to the floor by their wrist cuffs.
She closed her eyes. Holy shit. There was only one frequency—high—for the electric shock triggered by lock-down for “whites” prisoners, and Tristan had escaped the excruciating jolts by just a few feet.
Rita put her wrist under an identifier and quickly pulled Tristan through a side-exit before any other prisoners saw them and followed. She tugged off her heeled shoes and clasped them in one hand. “This way,” she urged, breaking into a sprint in her bare feet.
Her nightly runs meant she knew the maze of corridors back-to-front. She could get to her cabin via a series of back corridors, while most of the soldiers would use the main passageways.
Tristan followed, his breathing even and his stride effortless. Rita was impressed. He must make full use of the prison gym to keep up his fitness. Fighting in the ring was a prisoner’s only other outlet. She blew out a hard breath. Little wonder for the revolt—the prisoners must be going stir-crazy.
A few minutes later she stopped, Tristan pausing behind her while she scanned her wrist and pushed open a door. They moved silently up some stairs before stopping yet again as she pressed her ear to another door.
Footsteps pounded past, echoing down the corridor over the now-muted sound of the alarm. More soldiers heading to the fray. Perhaps a minute later, she clicked open the door and scanned the corridor. “Let’s go,” she whispered.
