Aithon and Phobos. Parseons did not normally bestow cognomina upon animals, but he had a fondness for the beasts, having acquired them as foals, and the names of two of the fire-breathing horses of Ares, a god in Terran mythology, had seemed to suit them.
The outside air had acquired the chill of the night, but the stable was much warmer. He found the beasts abed in their stalls. No straw could be laid to soften their slumber, for their fiery exhalations would ignite it.
He watched them for a moment, then turned to leave. His ears detected a sniffling. He grabbed his dagger from its sheath on his right thigh and spun around. “Who goes there? Show yourself.”
A naked Omra stepped out from a stall. The flashes of flame from the beasts’ respiration glinted off her pale skin, which was additionally tinted by moon glow spilling through the window. The embers of lust he’d managed to bank flared to life.
He sheathed his weapon and stalked toward her. “Explain yourself. Why are you here? Why are you not in the domicile?”
She bowed her head. “Corren has instructed I am to sleep here now.”
He glanced into the spartan stall and spotted her pallet on the stone floor. Her shift hung on a hook used for tack. He recalled the cell at BCF. Dismay and anger added to the heat of desire that licked at him. He wanted to push her onto the pallet and slake his ravenous need, haul her over his lap and paddle her buttocks in retaliation for the hunger she provoked.
“You shall not sleep here,” he bit out. “Bring your shift. Come inside.” He did not wait for a response but marched toward the exit.
“Should I take the pallet?” she called out.
“No.” He did not slow his pace, and the patter of feet signaled she trotted behind him. Upon entering the domicile, he strode down the corridor to the guest wing and pushed into the first room.
Clutching her shift, Omra crept in. The night chill had hardened her nipples to thick, long peaks. He eyed the ring marking her as his property. His subcommanders cared too little for the welfare of the breeders, but he disgraced himself by expending too much concern for the welfare of this one.
“You will sleep here.” He swept his arm in an arc. “This will be your room.” He was breaking Protocol. Breeders slept on the floor near their alphas and betas in case their services were required, but given Corren’s animosity, it would be better for domestic harmony if she slept separate from them. Better for him if she wasn’t too close. But he could not exile her to the stable with the animals. She might be female, but Parseon blood ran in her veins.
As he gazed upon her, he noted her bruises had disappeared, and her smooth, pale skin radiated health, though she was still skinny. Contrary to Sival’s assertion, she’d demonstrated no resistance to bathing. Her eyes resembled the moon itself as she gawked at the sleeping chamber, which contained a round cushioned sleeping platform, restful tapestries of bucolic scenery, and carved armoires to store one’s possessions, not that she owned any. Everything—even the smock she clutched—belonged to the male who owned her. To him.
She studied the floor beside the bed. “I don’t have a pallet.”
“You won’t need it. You’ll sleep there.” He pointed to the platform.
“But…but Corren…”
“I will speak to him.” He pointed. “Lie down. I want to change lock-rings.” He’d had a new device forged. She belonged to him and would wear his lock-ring. He’d intended to change rings before now, but he’d selected the most senior master craftsman to design, forge, and code the ring. The man did not work quickly—nor cheaply, for that matter. She crawled onto the platform and stretched out in the center like a sacrificial offering. He tugged her so that her buttocks rested at the platform’s edge. Her legs dangled over the side. “Lift your feet,” he ordered.
She planted her heels on the platform, and he spread
The outside air had acquired the chill of the night, but the stable was much warmer. He found the beasts abed in their stalls. No straw could be laid to soften their slumber, for their fiery exhalations would ignite it.
He watched them for a moment, then turned to leave. His ears detected a sniffling. He grabbed his dagger from its sheath on his right thigh and spun around. “Who goes there? Show yourself.”
A naked Omra stepped out from a stall. The flashes of flame from the beasts’ respiration glinted off her pale skin, which was additionally tinted by moon glow spilling through the window. The embers of lust he’d managed to bank flared to life.
He sheathed his weapon and stalked toward her. “Explain yourself. Why are you here? Why are you not in the domicile?”
She bowed her head. “Corren has instructed I am to sleep here now.”
He glanced into the spartan stall and spotted her pallet on the stone floor. Her shift hung on a hook used for tack. He recalled the cell at BCF. Dismay and anger added to the heat of desire that licked at him. He wanted to push her onto the pallet and slake his ravenous need, haul her over his lap and paddle her buttocks in retaliation for the hunger she provoked.
“You shall not sleep here,” he bit out. “Bring your shift. Come inside.” He did not wait for a response but marched toward the exit.
“Should I take the pallet?” she called out.
“No.” He did not slow his pace, and the patter of feet signaled she trotted behind him. Upon entering the domicile, he strode down the corridor to the guest wing and pushed into the first room.
Clutching her shift, Omra crept in. The night chill had hardened her nipples to thick, long peaks. He eyed the ring marking her as his property. His subcommanders cared too little for the welfare of the breeders, but he disgraced himself by expending too much concern for the welfare of this one.
“You will sleep here.” He swept his arm in an arc. “This will be your room.” He was breaking Protocol. Breeders slept on the floor near their alphas and betas in case their services were required, but given Corren’s animosity, it would be better for domestic harmony if she slept separate from them. Better for him if she wasn’t too close. But he could not exile her to the stable with the animals. She might be female, but Parseon blood ran in her veins.
As he gazed upon her, he noted her bruises had disappeared, and her smooth, pale skin radiated health, though she was still skinny. Contrary to Sival’s assertion, she’d demonstrated no resistance to bathing. Her eyes resembled the moon itself as she gawked at the sleeping chamber, which contained a round cushioned sleeping platform, restful tapestries of bucolic scenery, and carved armoires to store one’s possessions, not that she owned any. Everything—even the smock she clutched—belonged to the male who owned her. To him.
She studied the floor beside the bed. “I don’t have a pallet.”
“You won’t need it. You’ll sleep there.” He pointed to the platform.
“But…but Corren…”
“I will speak to him.” He pointed. “Lie down. I want to change lock-rings.” He’d had a new device forged. She belonged to him and would wear his lock-ring. He’d intended to change rings before now, but he’d selected the most senior master craftsman to design, forge, and code the ring. The man did not work quickly—nor cheaply, for that matter. She crawled onto the platform and stretched out in the center like a sacrificial offering. He tugged her so that her buttocks rested at the platform’s edge. Her legs dangled over the side. “Lift your feet,” he ordered.
She planted her heels on the platform, and he spread
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