Delaney froze. Her throat constricted. Her eyes darted to his.
He didn’t meet her gaze, but neither was he leering at her breast. He was examining her neck and stretching the fabric so it didn’t choke her as he lifted it.
Delaney swallowed. Her throat relaxed incrementally, and by the time she could take a deep, steady breath, her owner had slipped the fabric over her head and discarded it onto the floor in a translucent, blood-soaked heap.
She was hunched on a toilet bowl, hugging her naked waist, but his eyes—the ice and power of that dichotomous gaze—still didn’t stare. Well, they did, but not lasciviously. His eyes were all warmth and caring concern. Her composure, frayed thin from a lifetime of people fulfilling her low expectations, balanced on that look. All they had was five hours’ and a bath’s worth of trust between them, but that was more connection than she’d had with another person in an unbearably long time.
Her owner stood, walked to a closet, and returned with two furry towels. He draped one over her shoulders, chafing her upper arms warm with a brisk rub. He used the other towel to dry her hair, rubbing her head with that same rough efficiency. She braced herself against his gusto, but when he snapped the towel from her head a minute later, the half-dried coils of her crazy hair sprang over her eyes in gravity-defying quivers.
Through a curtain of frizz, Delaney watched as her owner’s lips peeled away from his teeth. A low, rhythmic growl issued from his parted lips. His shoulders shook. “Oh, this hair will be the death of me.”
Delaney blinked and then struggled to contain an answering chuckle. She’d shared the same sentiment for twenty-seven years.
He picked up a bone-handled, bristled tool—more toilet scrub than hairbrush—but his hands were exceedingly, nearly excruciatingly gentle as he combed her hair. Delaney sat as still as possible as he picked gently and tirelessly through the mess of knots—the majority of which he’d created with his enthusiastic towel drying—and tried valiantly to ignore the fact that his naked groin was six inches from her cheek.
She couldn’t help but glance sideways at least once—she’d had anatomy lessons, but never from this intimate angle!—but oddly enough, it wasn’t the Golden Rule that dampened her curiosity and stayed her gaze. Her owner hadn’t stared at her nakedness. She could extend him the same courtesy, even if he was unaware of the intent and intelligence behind her eyes, which in some ways made her stares more an invasion of privacy than his.
He brushed her teeth—as squeaky clean as her hair!—draped a new sheet over her head, and swathed her body in a fresh, sweet-smelling fur blanket. Having finished her ablutions, her owner performed his and wrapped a towel around his own hips. Delaney found it curiously strange to witness modesty from a man covered head to toe in fur, especially considering his privates were hidden inside himself. What did he think he was concealing?
He scooped her up by the bum, cradled her on his hip with one arm, and carried her to a bedroom. The room was obviously a bedroom in the way that the room with a toilet, bath, and body dryer was obviously a bathroom. Although some of the furniture was different, it was mostly, eerily, the same. The room had mirrors, a closet, a bureau, a narrow window, a nightstand piled with books, a small black device—an alarm clock?—and a kitchenette, but only one piece of furniture caught and consumed her attention: the bed.
He could have bought it at Ashley Furniture had they been capable of intergalactic shipping. The head- and footboards were made of a dark grained material—wood, at first glance, although she hadn’t seen any trees on Lorien yet—and the mattress looked soft, piled high with a thick, furry comforter, animal furs, and fluffy pillows. The bed was everything she’d dreamed of while shivering on the concrete floor of the pet store’s cage, but at the same time, it was his bed and the core of the recurring nightmare she’d suffered at every new house since living with the Todds.
She balked. He must have felt her stiff resistance, because he tightened his hold when he strode into the room. But he circumvented the bed and approached a small cot on the floor. It wasn’t raised, and it didn’t have a headboard. Really, it was just a nest of furry blankets, nearly identical to the ones draped around her body, and a pile of pillows on a stuffed mat. Her owner crouched on his haunches, laid her down, and stacked several of the pillows under her foot, murmuring assurances about her ankle. He nodded, evidently satisfied by his pillow placement, stood, and climbed into the massive sea of his own bed.
“Lights off,” he commanded.
The room plunged into thick black darkness.
Delaney held her breath.
Something clicked. A smaller light glowed from a handheld screen and then flicked off. A bracing squeak reverberated from the bed as he rolled and grunted and rolled again. Eventually he settled, seconds turned to minutes, and a rhythmic burring filled the silence.
He’d fallen asleep.
Delaney turned her face into her pillow and breathed in its softness. Her little cot next to his bed was cozy and warm, but most precious of all, it was hers. Hers alone, not to share.
She’d given up on human decency years ago, but as the minutes turned to hours filled with nothing but his loudening snores, her low expectations rose slightly, dangerously, into something she feared more than the nightmare itself: hope.
Sleep is a curious thing. Delaney could sleep through babies crying, dogs barking, the hard slap of hands striking flesh, the shrieks of women enduring those slaps, the rhythmic mattress squeaks and guttural moans of sex, and those same noises mixed with the yelps and breathless wails of rape—but silence could keep her wide awake. Her owner’s bearlike snores were a drug, lulling her into a peaceful if not deep sleep. But only a few short hours after having fallen asleep, well before the first sun had even risen, he woke, stretched, and left the room, abandoning Delaney to the dark and silence.
She lay faceup on her fuzzy floor cot, staring at the ceiling. When she blinked, she could feel the scrape of sand in the corners of her eyes. Her body ached. Her head throbbed. Her ankle throbbed too, which was admittedly the worse pain, but it might not have throbbed as bad if only she’d been able to sleep a few more hours. Or had some coffee. Jesus, how she missed coffee. And cigarettes. And the warmth of a bright, humid summer day.
She glanced out the narrow window, then sighed and stood to better take in the view. The courtyard was several stories and half a mountain below. If some lorienok were out and about, enjoying an early morning stroll, she couldn’t see them through the cloud wisps. Yellow orbs of light illuminated the fountain, lined the walkways, and twinkled on the snow.
She had to urinate. She hadn’t had to while lying in bed, but now that she was vertical, she suddenly had to, imminently, the urge made even more pressing because she desperately didn’t want to leave the room.
The flat roof outside the window had a railing, so she supposed peeing off the balcony was an option. She wrinkled her nose, turned around, and crossed her arms to consider the bedroom around her warily. There was the sink. Otherwise, she could leave a nice warm wet welcome on the floor for her owner. Keil had insisted that she do so at least twice within the first week, because that was what pets did in a new home, even those who were house-trained. He’d recommended that she growl, misunderstand commands, make messes, and even bite if severely provoked. Being a pet was more than just being obedient, owned, and (hopefully) loved. Delaney had to play her part, and that part included being bathed, being groomed, and pretending not to recognize household appliances, including toilets.
Except that her owner had shown her how to use the toilet, hadn’t he? She’d watched him relieve himself. The sight was permanently burned into her retinas.
Golden retrievers don’t use toilets, she thought. But some cats did, and all cats used kitty litter.
Fuck it. She unlocked the door, left the bedroom, limped down the hall, and waved her hand in front of the bathroom door’s sensor. It stayed closed.
“Give me a minute. I just got in,” som
eone called out.
Delaney jumped back and limped down the hallway before she could temper her reaction. She huffed out a frustrated breath and forced herself to calm. She was only guilty of something if she looked guilty, and God help her, in a castle that housed this many people, there had to be more than one bathroom. She just had to find it.
Five
Ingrained habits were difficult to break. For six kair, Torek had woken predawn before drill to squeeze in his own workout for the day. Now that he was on mandatory leave from the Federation and not charged with running drill for another several weeks, he could have enjoyed a day of leisure, slept in, and watched the morning report with a cool glass of saufre. But Torek enjoyed routine, reveled in it, in fact, which was one of the reasons why mandatory leave, in addition to the dictate of obtaining an animal companion, was so abhorrent. He refused to compromise any more of his routine than was absolutely necessary.
Despite his new responsibility of being an animal companion owner, he’d woken before anyone else on the Onik estate and enjoyed a vigorous two-hour hike through Graevlai. Surely, Reshna would remain safe, locked inside his living quarters to slumber peacefully through her morning, but when he returned, his door was no longer locked. Reshna’s pallet next to his bed was empty.
He blew out a hard breath. His door locked from the inside, naturally, but he’d been careful to block her gaze while locking the washroom door yesterday. She must have been watching him leave this morning when he’d been groggy and considerably less careful. But he shouldn’t have had to be careful; her breaths had been deep, even, and a little growly. She’d been asleep.
Apparently not, because wherever she was, she wasn’t still locked in his living quarters.
Wasn’t an animal companion supposed to be stress relieving? Wasn’t that the point of all this, for her to aid in his recovery?
He’d squeezed in her veterinarian appointment today between his surgical follow-up and his weekly psychological evaluation. And then he had another deposition this afternoon. His day was going to be long, likely exhausting, and mostly pointless—especially the psychological evaluation—but he enjoyed having a schedule and sticking to that schedule.
Losing his human had not been on that schedule.
Adult humans require private sleeping quarters and washrooms…
Maybe after only one day of sharing his rooms, she’d already sickened and died somewhere.
Exhaling a deep, self-deprecating breath at the mixed horror and relief that thought provoked, Torek about-faced and walked down the hall. He bypassed his neighboring officers’ living quarters—by Lorien’s horn, skewer him if he actually needed to ask their help to find Reshna—peeked inside each common room—empty—and eventually, reluctantly, stepped up onto the dais overlooking the surveillance hall. His guard were hard at work at their monitors, some of them suddenly harder at work now that he was watching. He scanned them, keeping his expression stern as he searched the room for a glimpse of his human’s long, golden head hair.
Nothing.
He nodded vaguely at the guard—as if he could approve of anything while standing this high over and far removed from them—stepped off the dais, and looped the long way back around to his quarters. As he walked the perimeter, exuding the confidence of a commander whose guard served him and Lorien well, his eyes darted between computer stations, under desks, and behind holograms, any nook Reshna might have tucked herself into.
Still nothing.
He imagined her roaming through the halls as he’d been pounding over running trails. She might have retraced her steps from yesterday. Being the intelligent human that she was, she might have mimicked the lift combination she’d witnessed him press, and considering the unlucky owner that he was, she might have adjusted her hand placement to descend. But she wouldn’t know to stop the lift at ground level. She might ride it all the way down, deep below Onik’s surface into the depths of the deporak.
Breathe.
Torek focused on slowing the panicking race of his heart and regrouped in reality before he had another attack. An alarm hadn’t sounded. Reshna might very well be in the lift, but she hadn’t ridden it down into the deporak. Not yet, anyway.
Torek rounded the corner and jogged back to his quarters. There were only so many places on the estate that one wee human could hide without either sounding an alarm or freezing. The cold would hopefully keep her indoors, but he’d check the lift and courtyard anyway. He’d log into the network and search for her room by room through the security camera feeds if need be. He’d double-check the common rooms, looking under the furniture, behind the doors, and inside closets. He tore open the door to his quarters. He’d—
Reshna was standing on the windowsill—an open window he most assuredly hadn’t left open—looking as if she was attempting to climb out. The door slammed shut behind him, and she startled from her perch. His heart jumped to choke his throat, but she fell back inside, safely if not gracefully, to the floor on her rear. Her head whipped up, her wide gray eyes meeting his gaze from behind the curly curtain of her hair.
She pushed her hair aside and tucked it behind a small, round ear. The hair disobediently sprang out from behind her ear, but she didn’t move to correct it. She just stared at him as if transfixed. Or terrified.
He took a deep breath so when he spoke, his voice didn’t betray him. “Where were you this morning?” he asked calmly. “And what are you doing, trying to escape? It’s a long, deadly fall out that window, little one.”
She opened her mouth as if to respond—adorable!—and then just blinked.
Torek drew closer to her, his movements smooth and slow. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He held out the back of his hand for her to sniff. She flinched, but as he remained still, hand extended, her expression shifted slightly: her frown eased, her lips parted, and she swallowed.
“So skittish. But you came back after running away from me, didn’t you?” He shuffed, a long-suffering snort through his muzzle. “Must count for something,” he muttered.
She leaned forward, but instead of sniffing his hand like he’d expected, she grasped it with her own and used him to leverage herself to her feet.
He nearly pitched forward before bracing his footing. She was the lightest creature of her size he’d ever encountered. He could practically lift her with his little finger, but he hadn’t expected her to initiate such an intimate, lorienok-like gesture. He blinked at her this time, their palms still linked.
The contact, as familiar as it was rare, reminded him of Zana and the daily walks they’d enjoyed when she was healthy—well, healthier—and then while caring for her as she’d deteriorated. He vividly recalled one such moment, having just transferred her from the bed to a chair in an attempt to coax soup down her throat, always an event. She’d been painfully aware of her helplessness; she’d raised his warm hand in her frail, cold one and rubbed his knuckles against her cheek. To comfort him.
He yanked away from Reshna’s hand, burned by the memories, and she flailed. He realized too late that she’d been balancing on one leg, her good leg. She stepped back, catching herself by bearing weight on her swollen ankle, and let loose a low whimper. Eyes frantic, she looked like she might bolt, and then a different expression passed over her face, something intense. Her eyes closed, her face scrunched, and her lips compressed together into a thin, wrinkled line.
And then her eyes sprang open again. She looked down, her cheeks suddenly a shocking shade of red.
He followed her gaze and groaned.
She’d peed herself.
He passed a hand down his face. Rak the surgical follow-up. He was taking Reshna to the veterinarian immediately.
From the outside, the veterinarian’s office looked like another medieval castle, but the sterile, sleek design inside reminded Delaney of a government research facility or maybe an academic medical center. Instead of humans—or rather, in addition to one—this hospital treated pets. Her fellow animal compan
ions were different species from different planets. The one constant between them wasn’t their physical appearance but their temperament: they were all exceedingly friendly.
They wagged their tails and wriggled their heads into palms for more pets. They jumped up and licked faces, and they writhed in ecstasy when scratched behind their ears. They were lovable. Some of them had scales and others had wings and fangs and a disconcerting number of eyes. Some walked on two legs, others on all fours, one on all eights. But they were happy. They sure as shit weren’t cursing and punching and clawing their way out of their checkup, so neither could Delaney, even as she was separated from her owner and led to a private examination room. Even as a lor gently unwound her fur blankets, lifted her naked onto an exam room table, positioned her to crouch on all fours, and strapped her wrists and ankles to each corner.
Even as the exam room became not quite so private.
A dozen lorienok entered the room and promptly surrounded her, staring intently. Humiliation and dread and that old shame burned through her entire body, but she couldn’t fight them. She needed to assimilate. Her life depended on it.
She tugged on the restraints, and the chains tinkled like sleigh bells.
If only she’d found an unoccupied bathroom. If only she’d been able to sneak out the window and urinate off the balcony before he’d interrupted. If only the flames of her blush could literally engulf her, but alas, she couldn’t turn back and change time. She remained whole and healthy, even as her skin flushed a blotchy crimson.
“Is she sick?” one lorienok asked. “A skin condition, maybe?”
“Obviously, you didn’t read her manual,” another hissed.
“How could I?” the first whined. “The commander just rescheduled her appointment this morning.”
They were young. The girls were still petite, under five feet, and the boys still had short, goatlike horns that hadn’t yet curved. An older lor entered the room, and the youths’ chatter silenced. Their backs straightened, and they faced forward expectantly.
Beyond the Next Star Page 4
