response. If she cared about him, and he cared about her, it wasn't such a terrible betrayal of her people to find paradise in his arms.
With this one act, he had stripped away her make-believe world. Bitter tears coursed down her cheeks, and she gave a harsh laugh. In his defense, she'd never even asked him to stop. Her submission was so ingrained she'd accepted his right to discipline her. In this society, he owned her. Reliving his words at the dock, she felt a kernel of defiance flare to life in her mind. Why? Why can't I ever go back? With the pain in her body worse than ever, sharp shudders racked her. At the sight of the pathetic creature she had become at the hands of an unfeeling monster, determination pulsed in her blood. Resolutely facing the drawn face in the mirror, Charity made a grim promise to herself. She would either find freedom or death. Whichever fate all owed, it would be on her terms.
Chapter Eleven
Melmanon strode down the corridor, a man possessed. The last of her thoughts still echoed in his mind, and the pain in her body ghosted through his. Hai! He was such a fool! At the platform that morning, he had heard her thoughts clearly. He felt her yearning, her hope. She wanted a man like her, a child of her own. It was almost understandable, considering her civilization, but it was a slap in his face.
He had spared her from a terrible death. She repaid him by forgetting her place the moment she saw a puny member of her own race! She was a slave -- his slave -- and he knew she would not forget it again. That was his sole reason for the harsh punishment meted out.
Melmanon had released his fury, and the rational part of him wondered why he was so angry. Unable to answer, he snarled at the voice in his head until it stopped.
In the rec room where warriors trained, he snatched up a card for the imager and threw himself into a simulated battle. After more than an hour of intense physical exertion, he stalked out in disgust. Even the war games couldn't get his mind off his slave!
At the elevator, Melmanon paused when he remembered her slight form bent over the rack. The welted skin on her back had blazed a fierce red as he hammered away at her. Even now, thinking about how he had taken her simultaneously made him hard and caused him regret. In the heat of his anger, he had thought only of imprinting his ownership onto her, and forgotten how fragile she was.
Suddenly worried, he reflected on how cold she had been, her lips white as she came away from the wall. What if she was still where he'd left her, unable to move? He rushed the last few steps to the door of his quarters, but hesitated a moment before opening it and stepping inside.
The rack remained where he had placed it, but she was not on it. All of the tools he had used were there, along with the ones he hadn't. Looking at the weapons of torture, he felt ashamed as he realized she would have seen them. He wondered if she thought he intended to use them again. Concerned, he crossed to the lavatory, and opened the door.
She was curled up on the floor of the shower. The water was off; Charity was soaking wet. He stepped closer and saw her face pressed to her knees. Hard shudders shook her, punctuated by muffled sobs. An unnamed emotion tightened his chest. Before he could analyze it, he took a clean cloth from the rack and stepped to the shower door, pulling it open.
Her strangled scream at his first touch stopped him cold, and he again saw her back, a mass of raw skin and deep bruises. He steeled himself against her pain and lifted her by gripping her upper arms then setting her on her feet.
She didn't meet his eyes, only stood frozen, hands clasped to her stomach. Her hair hung in wet ropes on either side of her head. With brisk motions, he toweled her arms, legs, abdomen, and lastly, her breasts, where he mentally
With this one act, he had stripped away her make-believe world. Bitter tears coursed down her cheeks, and she gave a harsh laugh. In his defense, she'd never even asked him to stop. Her submission was so ingrained she'd accepted his right to discipline her. In this society, he owned her. Reliving his words at the dock, she felt a kernel of defiance flare to life in her mind. Why? Why can't I ever go back? With the pain in her body worse than ever, sharp shudders racked her. At the sight of the pathetic creature she had become at the hands of an unfeeling monster, determination pulsed in her blood. Resolutely facing the drawn face in the mirror, Charity made a grim promise to herself. She would either find freedom or death. Whichever fate all owed, it would be on her terms.
Chapter Eleven
Melmanon strode down the corridor, a man possessed. The last of her thoughts still echoed in his mind, and the pain in her body ghosted through his. Hai! He was such a fool! At the platform that morning, he had heard her thoughts clearly. He felt her yearning, her hope. She wanted a man like her, a child of her own. It was almost understandable, considering her civilization, but it was a slap in his face.
He had spared her from a terrible death. She repaid him by forgetting her place the moment she saw a puny member of her own race! She was a slave -- his slave -- and he knew she would not forget it again. That was his sole reason for the harsh punishment meted out.
Melmanon had released his fury, and the rational part of him wondered why he was so angry. Unable to answer, he snarled at the voice in his head until it stopped.
In the rec room where warriors trained, he snatched up a card for the imager and threw himself into a simulated battle. After more than an hour of intense physical exertion, he stalked out in disgust. Even the war games couldn't get his mind off his slave!
At the elevator, Melmanon paused when he remembered her slight form bent over the rack. The welted skin on her back had blazed a fierce red as he hammered away at her. Even now, thinking about how he had taken her simultaneously made him hard and caused him regret. In the heat of his anger, he had thought only of imprinting his ownership onto her, and forgotten how fragile she was.
Suddenly worried, he reflected on how cold she had been, her lips white as she came away from the wall. What if she was still where he'd left her, unable to move? He rushed the last few steps to the door of his quarters, but hesitated a moment before opening it and stepping inside.
The rack remained where he had placed it, but she was not on it. All of the tools he had used were there, along with the ones he hadn't. Looking at the weapons of torture, he felt ashamed as he realized she would have seen them. He wondered if she thought he intended to use them again. Concerned, he crossed to the lavatory, and opened the door.
She was curled up on the floor of the shower. The water was off; Charity was soaking wet. He stepped closer and saw her face pressed to her knees. Hard shudders shook her, punctuated by muffled sobs. An unnamed emotion tightened his chest. Before he could analyze it, he took a clean cloth from the rack and stepped to the shower door, pulling it open.
Her strangled scream at his first touch stopped him cold, and he again saw her back, a mass of raw skin and deep bruises. He steeled himself against her pain and lifted her by gripping her upper arms then setting her on her feet.
She didn't meet his eyes, only stood frozen, hands clasped to her stomach. Her hair hung in wet ropes on either side of her head. With brisk motions, he toweled her arms, legs, abdomen, and lastly, her breasts, where he mentally
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