“Yes.” Cocky arrogance, probably well deserved, emanated from him.
Mary didn’t know which would give out first—her loyalty, or her resistance to the erotic lust he’d awakened in her. Captive and captor. Each time she thought of the duality, her body shivered with fear and desire.
Carefully crafted daydreams involving her shadowy hero, Overlord, always had an element of captivity and surrender. Here, clearly, was a man who could turn dark daydreams to vivid reality. More than loyalty held her back. Foolish, young-girl fantasies held her back. To him, sex was a game, a way to pass the time in an enjoyable pursuit. To her, intimacy held consequences. Not just to herself but also to everyone she fought to save.
Days without food and sleep, her belly now full, and her mind rendered silly by very fine wine, she stood. “Whatever your plans for me, at least—you once offered me a day to rest—let me have a night to sleep.” Had he any honor at all, he would grant her such a minor request.
“As I am a generous host, I will indulge you.” Seven feet of male uncoiled, reminding her she was no match for him physically.
“Should I kowtow to you now or later?” She swayed, closing her eyes against his potent smile. If he didn’t take pity on her, she would fall asleep at his bare feet.
“Follow me.”
Stepping carefully around the shards of glass on the floor, he left the dining room and strode through the grand ballroom to one of the huge doors between the pillars.
“House, this will be Mary’s room. Update and confirm.”
“Yes, Commander. Record of Mary updated with new parameters.”
The peach-colored door swung open.
“Where’s the—” As soon as she entered the room, lights blazed. “Christ almighty! Turn them off!” Mary threw her hand up to shield her weary eyes.
“House, set the lights to level three.”
The glare dropped to a soothing, warm tone. She glanced around the huge room. A span of open floor space made the bed seem a mile away. Even so, the bed looked big enough for six people. Puffs of shimmering gauze draped the four towering posters of the bed. Carpet to covers were the same pinky-orange color, like carrots stored too long in the cold. Ruffles, lace and a strong, sweet stench of flowers marked this as a woman’s room.
“Good night, Commander.” She faced him, making no effort to hide her crushing exhaustion. At this moment, she didn’t care if the room he offered came draped in black with gravestones decked about and a skull-and-crossbones flapping overhead. For a few uninterrupted hours of sleep, she’d take it.
To her shock, he scooped her up into his arms. He smelled good—citrus and pine. He felt impossibly strong—all bones and muscle. Long strides later, he tucked her into the welcoming folds of the massive bed. Warm and soft as a dinner roll, so unlike her hard-tack cabin bunk, the bed gave way below her as she melted into its silk embrace.
Being a prisoner suddenly didn’t seem so horrific. Her mind damn near stripped gears when he didn’t leave but hovered over her. All this luxury would come at a price.
She cast a wary eye over the edge of the blanket. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. This bed is your bed too?”
“Would you like it to be?” Soft as the silk on her skin, his voice smoothed against her ear.
What a vague word. Like. Would she like that? Her bed his bed too? In a way, yes, she would like that very much. In a way, no, because like wasn’t the operative word. Smart. Careful. Vigilant. Those words mattered more.
“I asked you first.”
“No, this isn’t my bed.”
When Commander turned away, she felt a perverse pang of disappointment.
At the door, he told House to shut the lights off.
“Enjoy your night of sleep, Mary.” House closed the door behind him.
Rather than worry over what tomorrow would bring, she thought of what it might feel like if he slid into the bed beside her. If he stayed on the far side, she would never even know he was there. But he wouldn’t. He would slip below the covers and press himself against her. How would that feel?
Chapter Four
Michael sat on the edge of his desk, alone in the dark, keeping watch over an array of sensors. Other eyes, many eyes, far from this room watched too, but when he couldn’t sleep, he came here to contemplate the prison his world had become.
Long arms, his ability to pay operatives, allowed him to run his empire from a safe position and earned him the despised nickname Overlord.
Not that I don’t deserve it.
He took a deep swallow of two-hundred-year-old Byzantine whisky.
What Mary said tonight rang true enough. He did think he could buy and sell anyone. That he couldn’t buy a woman dubbed Remarkably Average Mary stunned him.
He tried to remember the last time he’d been off his world and out into the Void. Years. Mary, fresh from the trenches, knew all too well how harsh and brutal life was on the Fringe. Dark smudges below her eyes and cheeks, battered homespun clothing, her animalistic consumption of dinner—his decadence mocked her struggle to survive. And here he sat, trying to figure out a way to seduce her.
“I am a ruthless bastard.”
A warning flash of red caught his eye. He unlocked the door at the back of his office. Hidden by the extensive woodwork and paneling, the door became visible only when opened.
“Commander?”
“Come in, Duster. Have a drink with me.” If it had been anyone else at the door, Michael would have sent them away.
“Thanks but no. I’m pulling MacKay’s shift.” Duster fished a palmful of seeds out of his vest pocket.
“His daughter?” Michael remembered the accident report from this morning. Eighteen-year-old Shadra MacKay had been halfway up a sandstone face when the chunk of rock collapsed.
“Her leg was too crushed to save. Doc Murphy had to amputate.” Duster delivered the news in his usual matter-of-fact tone but bowed his head. “MacKay wants to be the one to tell her.”
“I never even offered my condolences, and he kept working his shift.” Michael glared down at his drink.
“I made your condol—”
“I should have made my own condolences.”
“MacKay could lose his own leg and keep working his shift.” Duster popped a seed between his teeth.
“All the more reason I should have at least said something to him.” Michael took a sip of his whisky. “I am a villain.”
Duster spun and straddled a chair, looping his arms across the back. “What’s wrong? If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you’re one drink away from crying.”
“That’s another thing I haven’t done in a long time.” Michael considered his cut-crystal glass. Alcohol alternately made him emotional and distant, but he consumed the vile liquid to block his sense of smell. After three shots, Mary’s compelling, lingering scent no longer tormented him.
“What are you on about?” Duster ate another crackleseed.
“Mary.” He tossed off the dregs of his drink with a wince.
“Fancy dinner didn’t go over too well?”
“Total unmitigated disaster.” Michael slammed his glass to his desk. It shattered. Annoyed, he slid away from the pieces.
“How many is that?”
“Three.” Michael pointed to the corners of his desk. Below each was a puddle of shattered glass. He sat in the only glass-free corner.
“You put on boots after the first or second?”
“Second.”
“Figures.” Duster cracked another seed and tucked the spent pods to a pocket on his multitask vest.
“My big plan to impress the Bandit of Taiga only embarrassed and infuriated her.” Michael plucked the last glass off the service tray on his desk.
“Why did you think you needed to impress her in the first place? What do you care what she thinks?”
He knew he shouldn’t care, but he did. “I wanted her to like me. Just me. Not the overblown hero, or the malicious villain, just—Michael Parker.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t think I know him anymore.” He considered his empty glass. “Mary doesn’t know who I am.”
“I don’t—”
“She doesn’t know I’m Overlord.” He grimaced at the name. “She thinks I’m just some spoiled ego-freak who gets off on being addressed as commander.”
“Hence her calling you co-man-dur.” Duster laughed. “I still can’t believe she called you that.”
“She keeps on calling me that. She’s not intimidated by me. And she has no idea who I really am. Isn’t that funny?”
“Why don’t you just tell her?”
“Indeed. So maybe she can fall all over herself being impressed. She’s from Taiga, an OuterWorld, a WAG world. Didn’t you say they hold me up as a hero? What if that’s what she thinks I am?” He let fly an evil, booming laugh. “Overlord, the big hero who ruthlessly built his own world into his own prison.”
“Windmere isn’t your prison,” Duster said.
“It is.” He lifted his hands as if to encompass his planet. “A gilded cage. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to struggle for every scrap of food, every breath of air. When was the last time I used my body in necessary physical exertion?” He paused, but not long enough to give Duster time to answer. “I’ll tell you—when I fought with Mary. Wasn’t that a heroic thing to do? A woman who’d been abducted on my orders, bound for two days—no food, no sleep—I challenge her to a fight.” Michael scowled at his empty glass. “I’m a real hero. Poster child for men everywhere.”
Duster whistled lightly. “What did this woman say to you?”
“Mary held up a mirror. I didn’t like what I saw.”
“Do yourself a favor and let her go before she has you doing something crazy.” Concern stamped Duster’s face. “Give me permission to take her back to Taiga right now.”
“Don’t you understand? I don’t live anymore. I’m not alive. I’m an old museum exhibit. I sit around in my high-tech office with my boot-licking toadies doing all the dirty work, just like she said.”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Duster stepped back from his chair, his concerned face turned contemptuous. “You’re drunk, and I don’t feel like being insulted.”
“I’m just ruminating. I don’t mean to offend you.” Michael motioned him back. “Please, sit down.”
Duster straddled the chair. His fists gripped white along the back. “Now isn’t the time for another midlife crisis. Our teams are ready to terraform Sangfroid. One whiff of our operation, and the IWOG will invade.”
“Years down the road.” Michael didn’t want to talk about this now.
“Maybe not. They might not wait for the crews to finish.”
Michael’s puzzled expression prompted Duster to explain.
“Brace has reported an increase in IWOG scout ships. Solo ships. I think they’re looking to scan Sangfroid and see if that ball of rock will bring you a mother-lode like Windmere did.”
“I still don’t like that name.” Michael glared into his empty glass. “Windmere sounds poofy.”
“Fine.” Duster sounded frustrated by this familiar argument. “Call your planet Prime Bastard. The name doesn’t matter. My point is the IWOG knows you have a nose for success, and they won’t wait for things to shake out before they invade.”
“Civilize. That’s what they call a military action.”
“Civilize. Sure.” Duster gave a snort of derision. “And when I fart, I call it air freshening. Changing the name doesn’t change what it is. Still smells just as bad.”
Michael chuckled and stood to refill his drink, wobbling his way to the cleverly hidden bar. A little too cleverly hidden, he thought. Where was that stupid button? He slapped at the wood paneling until the door popped open.
“I think that’s enough.” Duster took the glass from him.
Michael jerked the glass back. “Don’t tell me what to do. You may be my only true friend in the whole of the Void, but I’m in a very black mood at the moment.”
“And you think getting plastered is gonna help?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“It sure enough did when you did it over Kraft.” Duster checked his wrist com, then popped another seed between his teeth.
Michael yanked open the bottle of very fine Byzantine sipping whisky with a defiant glare. “Stop bringing her up.”
“Fine. You’re acting like a thwarted child.”
“Indeed.” He poured himself a long shot. “But it’s my damn world, and I’ll act any way I want.” He wobbled his way back to sit on the one glass-free corner of his desk. He looked at the array of sensors. “Why did I do all of this?”
Duster sighed at the rhetorical question. “You wanted freedom from the IWOG.”
“But what kind of freedom have I made for myself? I can’t leave my own planet. Is that freedom? Overlord like a spider caught in his own web.” He frowned down at his glass of amber liquid. “Seems to me what I’ve done to myself is far worse than what the IWOG had in store for me.”
“You’d rather be dead or working for them as a brainwashed meatbag?” Duster asked.
“If those are my only options, then, no. I don’t have a death wish, but I also don’t feel alive.”
“You need a challenge.”
“Yes.” At his command, an audvid of Mary slumbering in her bed popped up on the main screen. He zoomed in on her face. “A challenge.”
“Don’t you dare.” Duster slapped the desk with open palms, his seedpods joining the shattered glass. “Don’t you go jerking that poor girl around just to give yourself something to do.”
“I don’t recall asking for your permission. In fact, as I recall, you brought the Bandit of Taiga to my attention to challenge me. You are now furious that I aim to solve the perplexing riddle of Remarkably Average Mary.”
“At what cost?”
“I paid—”
“I’m not talking about money.” Duster grunted with frustration. “I’m talking—if you hurt her for your own selfish reasons, you really are a villain.”
“Maybe that’s the challenge.” Michael twirled an imaginary mustache. “I’ve played at being the hero for so long, perhaps the time has come to play the villain.”
“You pathetic sack.” Duster stood. “I hope this is the booze talking and not you, because you’re talking about playing with a woman’s life. Do you really want to hurt Mary just so you can feel alive?”
“She stole from me.”
“And that gives you the right to destroy her?” Duster asked with perplexed incredulity.
“I’m not going to destroy her.”
“Yes, you will. You want her and you’ll do anything to get her, even though it won’t make you happy.” Duster sighed hard with a sharp shake of his head. “You’re like a damn kid. You only want things you can’t have. As soon as you get what you want, you abandon it for something else. Women included. That’s why you’re still hung up on—” Duster slapped his forehead. “You’re using Mary as a stand-in for Kraft.”
“I’m doing no such thing.” Michael traced his finger along Mary’s face on the holoplas screen embedded in his desk. He frowned when she rolled away as if avoiding his touch, as if she knew what he was thinking.
“You are.” Duster cut the link and all the screens went black. “You couldn’t get Kraft, which pissed you off. Along comes Mary, who’s damn similar, and you’re gonna break Mary because you couldn’t break Kraft.”
An impulse to stand gripped Michael, but he was too drunk and remained seated. “I think you’re talking a little too freely. You might want to remember your place.”
With a salute, Duster straightened. “You’ve got more than any one man needs, Commander, but you’re missing a crucial possession.”
“And what’s that?” Michael ordered the audvid back on. Swaddled in silk, Mary slumbered on, blissful and unaware.
“You seem to have everything but a
conscience.” Duster leaned over and cut the audvid again. “Mary isn’t Kraft. Don’t you dare corrupt that arrogant waif because Kraft dumped you.”
“Get out.” Michael thrust his finger toward the hidden door. “Get the hell out of my office before I start throwing Diane in your face.”
Duster didn’t budge until Michael stood too.
“I might be a little drunk, but if you start up with Kraft, I’m going to start up with Diane. Mary has nothing to do with that old argument, so you’d best drop it and get out of my office.”
“Fine.” Duster slammed the door behind him.
Michael tossed off the full of his drink.
When he took a deep breath, he smelled a hint of Mary.
He slammed his cup to the last glass-free corner of his desk. Shattering crystal shards mixed with the dregs of whisky and puddled on the floor.
Michael threw himself into his chair. What did Duster know? Wasn’t any of his business what he chose to do. His pursuit of Mary had nothing to do with Kraft.
Chapter Five
Mary woke to a horrible smell. She sniffed deep, trying to identify what—
“Oh my God, it’s me!” Flinging back the covers, she fumbled around for a light before she remembered. “House, lights on, low.” The lights came on. “Show me the bathroom.”
A door to her right opened. She slid off the bed and crossed to the door. White marble and gleaming gold fixtures blinded her sleep-dazed eyes. Ordering the lights down by half, she began to disrobe. A sudden thought stopped her cold.
“House, are there cameras in my room?”
“In your bedroom, yes. In your bathroom, no.”
“Sonofabitch!” She considered as she held her unbuttoned pants to her hips. “Screw it.” She let them fall. “If he wants to watch me, fine.” She stepped from her stinky heap of clothes and hopped into a shower big enough for a party of six.
Plucking up random bottles from an impressive array, she used a peach shampoo and hyacinth soap. The rest of the potions she didn’t bother with, because she didn’t know what they were for.
Looking at her hairy legs and pits, she found a razor and shaved with self-conscious strokes. It wasn’t like she never shaved, just that she generally didn’t bother, unless she wore her lone dress to church.
Overlord: The Fringe, Book 2 Page 4
