Resistance: Hathe Book One by Mary Brock Jones

they
reached out to grab her clothes, and the overtunic was roughly torn
from her.
    She
brought her gaze sharply back to the present, her eyes questioning
the Terran officer in stunned denial. It was no use. He lay back in
his chair, his eyes smiling in wicked delight.
    “ Is
this necessary?”
    “ Absolutely. The boots, Sergeant.” Her feet were lifted and
soon she stood barefooted, with only the protection of her shift.
For the first time, Marthe considered begging.
    “ I
am concealing nothing. Why resort to this?”
    “ My
apologies, madame, but my colonel did order a full
search.”
    “ And
you are always so obedient.”
    “ Certainly. Especially when it suits me so well, I have waited
a very long time for this moment.” His smile widened. “Continue,
Sergeant.”
    Again,
she felt the hateful fingers pulling at her, and the coarse
material was torn apart and slithered to a puddle at her feet, to
be kicked to one side by a heavy boot. Her gaze had switched back
to the horizon, but her usual mantra was no use here. Never would
she let Maman’s memory be sullied by a moment such as this. Held
tight by the grip of the portafield, she could not even bring her
arms forward to cover herself. Nor could she avoid seeing the smirk
of the guard, thoroughly enjoying the sight of her.
    Hamon
saw it too and shuffled restlessly, angry somehow at what he saw in
the soldier’s eyes. A nervous finger pulled momentarily at the
fabric of the chair, and there was regret in him. She was
everything he had ever imagined, and to gaze at her as he had
dreamed of for so long affected him far more powerfully than he had
expected.
    He
should not have seen her first like this. He forced himself to
remember years of frustration and a jeering Hathian—this lady’s
twin brother—as Hamon lay sprawled in the roadway outside their
house. He let the cold mask of his face settle in place again. Then
he adjusted the field strength and ordered her to turn fully
about.
    She
could feel the heat rush over her face as she obeyed, too conscious
as she turned of the two pairs of eyes examining every inch of her.
Radcliff refused to look her in the face. Gruffly, he stepped
forward with a cloak, wrapping it around her naked body. She
reached up to pull it close. Then suddenly felt her wrist grabbed.
She looked up, to be held by the slate green eyes of the secret
service Major.
    “ This patch, what is it?” He was staring intently at a
slightly shiny patch on her inner wrist.
    “ I
spilt some broth there. It’s only a dressing to cover the
burn.”
    “ Oh?” His hand rubbed over the patch, felt a loose edge and
quickly peeled back the soft film. “You heal remarkably well. Not
even a scar. His eyes rose questioningly. “What exactly is this,
and I want the truth.”
    “ Find out for yourself. You think yourself such an expert on
my people!”
    “ I
will, never fear,” He stared searchingly at her for some time, and
she battened down hard on the dismay she felt at the loss of her
communicator. After a short, intent challenge, he shrugged and
passed the patch over to the guard. “To the analytical lab
immediately, Sergeant. As for you, madame, you will come with me.
It’s about time you were restored to something nearer your former
self.” He pulled her towards the bedroom, removing the cloak and
shoving her into the cleansing unit in one, undeniable
motion.
    She
gasped, stunned into silence by the microjets of tingling hot
water, and by the sudden, repeated disrobing. Yet it was glorious
to feel the scrubbing spray of the jets. Too many days had passed
since she last felt truly clean. In her pleasure at it, she almost
succeeded in ignoring the Terran major, standing just outside the
unit and watching her, his infernal enjoyment obvious, both at her
predicament and at her nakedness.
    There
had been a moment when she had sensed a softening in him, but it
was gone. Now, there was a smirk of thoroughly masculine
satisfaction on his face. But she