His anger, already primed, appeared to be building with every offense he listed. "As you can see, the list is quite long. But I'm not through yet." He shoved away from the console and stalked toward her, his body poised for the kill. "It wasn't enough for you to hijack my ship. Oh, no. You had to load it with illegal goods. When you got caught, you managed to pawn it off on me. I'm the one who went to prison. Ever been to prison, Moriah? Ever been strip-searched? Thrown on a slime-covered, vermin-infested floor and left without food?"
She backed away as he advanced, but the navigator screen halted her progress. His hand shot out, gripping her arm painfully. "Have you?"
"No," she murmured. She hadn't ever been in a Controller prison. But she'd been in a different type of prison, one just as degrading. And now it seemed she had returned to a similar entrapment.
"I've been debating what would be an appropriate punishment. I could lock you up, except I don't have a working brig. Apparently Radd never got around to completing the repair." He shook his head. "You know, there's really nothing that would do the situation justice. But…you can work off some of your debt."
"Work it off?" Like Pax had demanded? Dread spread icy fingers through her chest.
"Yep." He released her and returned to the pilot’s seat, propping his feet on the console. "For starters, you can scrub this ship from top to bottom, the good old-fashioned way—on your hands and knees, with a bucket and brush."
The ice melted, thawed by anger. "You want me to clean this worthless scow? It won't do any good."
"I'll really enjoy watching you on your hands and knees, especially in that rhapha," he continued, as though she hadn't spoken. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, he leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Then there are my personal needs."
Moriah’s hands clenched against her thighs. "Personal needs?"
"Yeah. You can clean my cabin and lav, do my laundry." He paused to leisurely inspect his feet. "And my boots need to be polished.”
Clean his cabin? Polish his boots? She had spent the first eighteen seasons of her life taking orders from men. First her father, then Pax; waiting on them as if she were no better than a slave. Her temper exploded. No, by the Spirit! She was through playing slave to anyone.
Rage pumped through her, fast and furious. It was so uncontrollable, she didn't even think about her next action. She marched over to Sabin and said sweetly, "So your boots need polishing? Well, let's get started on those this millisecond!"
Grabbing one of his feet, she lifted his leg and yanked at the boot, tilting him farther back. She noticed three of the four bolts attaching the seat to the deck were gone. If he weighed enough…She depressed the pedal controlling a magnetic lock that was the chair's secondary anchor. Pressing her leg firmly against the seat, she heaved it upward. Sabin's weight did the rest, toppling the chair backward. He thudded resoundingly, his head hitting the floor with a very satisfying crack.
She smirked down at him, enjoying the momentary confusion on his face. "Oh, I am so sorry," she cooed. "I was just trying to obey orders and get your boo—"
His eyes narrowed, and anger darkened his face. With a roar, he came up from the floor, exhibiting light-speed agility. "You demon! That's it! I've had it. It's time you got what's coming to you, lady, and I'm going to make certain you get it."
He charged her like a rabid tri-horn bull. She hadn't expected him to react this strongly. Taking flight, Moriah darted behind the other chair. He reached across to grab her. She sent the chair spinning, and the high back smacked his chest. He staggered back, and she raced to the entry panel.
Before she could open it, he caught her arm. Pivoting, she broke his hold with a chop from her free hand. She leaped back and landed a high kick to his midriff, throwing him off balance. Whirling back to the entry, she reached for the control pad.
Sabin grabbed her wrist before she could open it. Pressing her against the panel, he held her spread-eagled with his body. He rapidly entered a sequence on the control pad. "Now you can't open the panel," he said grimly. "You can't escape me, or your punishment."
Punishment? He was going to hit her—or worse. Panic rushed through her like a nuclear meltdown. "What are you going to do?" she demanded, struggling to free herself from his grip as he pulled her away from the panel.
"What I should have done as soon as I caught up with you," he growled, dragging her to the other chair. He dropped into it, pulling her toward him, despite her frantic resistance. "And I'm going to enjoy every millisecond of it."
"You're primordial slime, lower than an Antek!" she spat, managing to get one arm free. He lunged forward and grabbed the arm again, pulling her over his legs. Adrenaline spurred her on and she kicked him. He gave a grunt of pain and changed tactics. Grasping her waist with both hands, he twirled her facing away from him and jerked her into his lap.
"Let…me…go!" she gasped, trying to squirm away.
"And miss the pleasure of teaching you this lesson? I think not." Reaching diagonally across her chest, he flipped her like she was a miteron, face down, across his lap.
She realized his intent. "You can't do this!" she screamed, kicking and bucking. He flung one leg over hers to hold them still.
"Just watch me," he grunted. His other arm pressed against her back, forcing her upper body downward. She lay draped over his lap in an inverted angle, her squirming rear in the air. He planned to hit her, to humiliate her, and she couldn't stop him.
She shouldn't be surprised. She'd had enough experience with her father and Pax to witness the violence that apparently lay at the core of every man. Why had she even foolishly thought Sabin any different? Disappointment left an acrid taste in her throat, followed by apprehension at the thought of what he would do after he hit her. Violence had always sexually excited Pax. After he was in a fight or had pounded some poor prisoner into a pulp, he had always turned his attentions to Moriah. Memories, like spreading poison, held her paralyzed in their grip.
Sabin Travers was about to prove he was no better than any other man.
* * * *
Sabin raised his arm, his hand itching to mold itself to the shapely target dead center on his lap. Outrage ricocheted through him, intensified by the throbbing at the back of his head. Yet his hand stalled midair.
"Go ahead," she spat. "Just get it over with."
"You've got this coming." He paused again. Blazing hells! He'd never hit a woman before, hadn't intended things to progress this far. But no one challenged his authority—or ridiculed him. He'd had enough of that in his life. He was going to put Moriah in her place once and for all. "Maybe I just want to hear you beg for mercy," he muttered. Yeah, that would be highly gratifying.
She went deathly still. "Never," she whispered.
He flexed his fingers, finding her sudden silence more unsettling than her firing insults like missiles. Resolute, he prepared to see this farce to the end. But his hand stopped midair once more. Why wasn't she fighting him? Damn her uncharacteristic submissiveness! It was almost as if she had accepted her fate.
She'd drugged him, dumped him in a brothel—naked—and stolen his ship. He should be furious, should make her regret crossing him. Yet she had an effect on him he'd never experienced with any other woman. And he didn't like it. But he didn't like violence either. He couldn't do it. He lowered his hand…and howled in pain. Sharp teeth imbedded firmly in his thigh sent agony shooting all the way to his groin. "You bit me!"
His leg jerked up reflexively. Moriah rolled off his lap, her upper body hitting the floor. Wresting her lower body free, she scrambled away. Fury and pain rapidly amended his aversion to violence. By the Spirit, he could finish what he'd started! He lunged after her, determined to seek retribution. "Come back here!" he roared. Catching the back of her rhapha, he yanked her toward him. The delicate silk gave way, rending to her waist.
"No!" she screamed, twisting. He lost his grip on the shredding fabric. She crawled away before pushing to her feet. Her chest hea
ving, she shook the wild mass of her tangled hair back from her face. The front of the rhapha sagged perilously low and she yanked it up.
"I won't let you!" she cried. "Nobody, ever again, is going to lay a hand on me. I'll kill you first! Just like I should have killed Pax."
Her words froze Sabin in midstride. Pax? The name blasted him with the force of a fusion cannon. He knew of only one person who went by that name. He was a man who embodied the most evil traits a shadower—or any being—could possess. Pax Blacklock was depraved and inhuman, and he didn't care if the beings he tracked were guilty or innocent, as long as he got the bounty. It was common knowledge his female prisoners bore the brunt of his voracious sexual appetite, willing or otherwise.
If Moriah had been at Pax's mercy, that must mean— Spirit, he didn't even want to think about it, about what she had been through. First her father, then Pax. And here he'd been all too ready to inflict his own brand of abuse. He felt lower than an Oderian viper. He stepped toward her. "Moriah—"
She flattened herself against the entry panel and crossed her arms protectively across her chest. Her face was pale; shadows hollowed her cheeks and traced circles beneath her eyes. But it was the dread in those eyes that torpedoed his heart. She looked at him as if she expected him to hurt her, like it was the natural order of things.
He took a step closer. "Moriah, I'm sorry. I…I got a little crazy. You make me crazy! But I'm in control now. I'm not going to hurt you."
She fled his advance, leaping over the fallen chair. He halted and held up his hands in surrender. "Okay! Okay. I'm not coming after you, all right? Just answer a question for me."
She clutched the rhapha higher. "What?"
"Are you talking about Pax Blacklock?"
She nodded, her expression hardening. "One and the same."
Blazing hells. He suddenly made the connection with what Celie had told him. "Is he the one who won you and Celie in a game of chance?"
Her eyes narrowed. "How did you find out about that?"
That meant Moriah had been in Pax's clutches for some time. Sabin wondered at the full extent of the bastard's brutality. "How I know doesn't matter. Did he hit you?"
Her bitter laugh jarred him. "Oh, no, Pax didn't use his fists as punishment. At least not on me." She pressed her lips together, not offering any more information. But the torment in her eyes clearly said what she hadn't voiced, what Sabin already knew. Pax doesn't punish women with his fists. He rapes them.
Sabin had his answer. The realization of what Moriah had suffered at the brutal bounty hunter's hands sickened him. The rage he'd felt toward her earlier couldn't compare to the nuclear blast that now rampaged through him—only it was aimed at a fellow shadower. He'd give a thousand miterons to have Pax here right now, and to give the bastard a slow, painful death.
He also wanted to kick himself, because he should have seen the signs. Looking back, he recalled Moriah's skittishness whenever he tried to touch her. By the Abyss, thinking of the times he had searched her so intimately, the times he'd kissed her, the sexual innuendos he'd thrown out, he was surprised she hadn't knocked his teeth down his throat.
Now, after threatening to hit her and practically tearing off her clothes, he was faced with convincing her he wasn't like her father or Pax. He ventured another step forward. "Moriah, I won't hurt you. I swear it."
She sidled away, her expression stark. She was withdrawing, mentally and physically, probably the only way she'd survived the horrendous circumstances she had endured. An overwhelming compassion penetrated his emotional armor. He understood growing up in traumatic circumstances. Still, not being a woman, it was difficult to comprehend how Moriah must have felt, a helpless possession in Pax's ruthless grasp.
All things considered, Sabin was amazed that she had actually tried to seduce him in order to drug him. She must have been desperate to put herself in such a situation. Unfortunately, he couldn't recall enough about that night in her cabin to know how far the seduction had gone. Had she really experienced pleasure, as his blurry memory suggested?
Suddenly, he wanted to find out. He wanted both of them in that situation again; a second chance for him to convince Moriah that mating didn't have to be sordid. He thrust his fingers through his hair. Spirit, how had this happened? One moment, he'd been ready to pound out his anger on her. Now, he wanted to show her not all men caused pain.
Warning alerts clamored inside his head. This was not a good idea. After the trauma of losing everyone he loved when he was only six seasons old, he had avoided relationships that even hinted at permanence. It had been an easy enough feat as he'd been passed from household to household, settlement to settlement. Just another set of hands to claw out the survival of a race marked for genocide. Just another mouth to feed in Shielder colonies where there was never enough to eat.
He had finally escaped that indifferent acceptance when he'd gotten his ship from the leaders of one colony, in return for promising to deliver supplies on a regular basis. Now, he had no one to answer to, no one to disrupt his safe, noninvolved existence. He had no need to let himself care about the fate of one troublesome smuggler, no matter how beautiful, no matter how spirited…no matter how unloved.
Don't get involved! his inner alarm cautioned. But, as he looked at Moriah's closed expression, at the pain mirrored in her golden eyes, he knew he was dangerously close to an emotional black hole. Close to being bombarded with feelings he didn't want to acknowledge. He felt fury at how she had been treated. Empathy for her pain. And, as always when dealing with her, the thrill of a challenge. But this was a trap, not a challenge, and one he couldn't—wouldn't—risk.
He could, however, show Moriah that not all men were brutes. He could give her the respect and consideration she deserved. He knew better than to ever let her get the upper hand, but he didn't have to be overbearing or militant, either. He took another step forward. "I acted like an Antek. I'm really sorry. I swear I won't ever raise a hand to you again. Let's call a truce, okay?"
She drew a deep breath, the tops of her breasts rising above the torn silk. He sensed her hostility easing, although she wasn't willing to trust him. Not that he blamed her. He offered his hand. "Truce?"
She stared disdainfully at his outstretched hand. "That depends on what you're planning to do next."
Delighted to see some spark returning, he grinned. "I'm going to get us off this star base and headed toward Elysia. Then I'll replicate the evening meal."
Surprise flashed in her eyes. Apparently, she'd expected him to do something else, such as shackle her. But force and intimidation would no longer be key components in handling her.
He was bound and determined to disprove her perception of men—one way or another.
Chapter Ten
Moriah lay on her bunk, exhausted, but too keyed up to sleep. Images of Pax, intertwined with images of Sabin, swirled through her mind. She again saw the rage on Sabin's face as he came after her in the cockpit, heard the horrifying rip of her rhapha. Why had she ever thought she could handle him? She'd become too self-assured in her independence, too certain she could never fall prey to a man again.
Yet… He had halted his own rampage. He hadn't hit her, hadn't forced himself on her. He'd even apologized, sounding sincere. She shrugged that off. Her father had always been sorry, too. After the liquor wore off and he sobered up, he would be contrite about the bruises he didn't even remember inflicting. Words and promises didn't always depict the true nature of a person.
The shifting of the ship told her they were taking off. Glancing at the chronometer, she wondered why Sabin had waited so long. It had been at least two hours since they had called an uneasy truce in the cockpit. He had even allowed her to make certain Celie was safely aboard Lionia's ship and to give Lionia some instructions. Afterwards, refusing the evening meal, she'd fled to her cabin.
Her stomach growled. She had not eaten since Celie had been arrested. Now she questioned her wisdom at turning down a meal. Hunger was a
minor consideration, she told herself. As was brooding over Sabin and his erratic behavior.
Delivering the iridon shipment to the Leors within the promised time frame was far more crucial. Funds for Risa, her group's survival—her own survival—depended upon her completing that transaction. But she had given her word she would accompany Sabin to Elysia, and she had to keep it, if for no other reason than honor and pride.
She turned on her side and saw the ruined rhapha draped over her cabin's single chair. In his rage, He could have done anything he wanted. She'd been trapped in the cockpit with no weapon. She was a skilled fighter, but he had the advantages of greater mass and strength. Yet he hadn't hurt her.
Heaving a disgusted sigh, she flopped onto her back, draping her arm over her eyes. How easily she'd slipped back into thinking about Sabin when she should have been planning her next course of action. What was it about the man that managed to diffuse her normally single-minded concentration? Perhaps fatigue and hunger were affecting her ability to stay focused. A few hours' rest should sharpen her wits.
She closed her eyes. As she was drifting into an uneasy doze, her panel tone sounded. She bolted up. Pax had never used the chime. He just barged in and took what he wanted. The tone sounded again. "Moriah! Are you all right?" Sabin called out.
She swung herself off the bunk. "What do you want?"
"Permission to enter."
She was too tired to deal with him. "Why don't you go away instead?"
"Not an option. I am coming in. I'm just giving you the courtesy of advance notice. Are you decent?"
As decent as a long-sleeved flightsuit, zipped up to her chin, could make her. "No. Go away."
A low chuckle reverberated on the other side of the entry. "Indecent is good." The panel slid open, and Sabin entered, carrying a tray in one hand and a box in the other. He halted inside the doorway, looking her over.
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