though.”
She allowed him to continue. “Thomas
Dumas?”
“He was the PD of the Directorate. Prime
Director or something like that. Really, it just means he was the
leader of the world.”
“And he died in... 2200.”
“He was assassinated.”
She frowned.
“Murdered,” Ben tried again.
“Killed on purpose, you mean?”
“That’s what murdered means,” Ben said.
Dahlia pressed her lips together. “I suppose
the next question then is why?”
“So you guys could switch over to this
system,” Ben replied.
Frowning, she pursed her lips. “You think
women killed him?”
“You weren’t always in charge, you know.”
She studied him for a long moment. “Well,
it’s an interesting story if nothing else.”
“It’s not just a story, it’s true.”
“Even if it is, I’ve never heard of it.”
“No offence.” He smiled. “You haven’t heard
of a lot of things.”
She stiffened. “I’m better educated than
you.”
“About some things, maybe,” he said, paused.
“Some things, definitely, but not in everything.”
She stared at him for a long moment before
shaking her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”
Ben didn’t try to stop her from moving around
to finish getting ready for bed.
Chapter Five
It had taken twice as long for her to fall
asleep as normal. Despite her large bed, another body made Dahlia
self-conscious. Then at eight, like every morning, the chimes went
off jerking her awake, bad night of sleep or not.
She frowned, her stomach feeling oddly heavy.
Sometime during the night, Ben had turned over and now had his arm
resting just below her ribs. Turning her head, she studied his face
for a second before pushing his arm off and slipping out of bed.
Unlike all the women she knew, he didn’t wake, just shifted
slightly and continued sleeping.
Dahlia crossed her arms and studied the old
scars on his chest. One on his shoulder ran almost directly along
the top, down from his neck, snaking back and forth, as if it had
been cut purposefully, or at least he had been relatively still
when it was cut. The men cut each other enough over in the camps so
it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility that someone had
held him down and cut just to inflict pain.
“Don’t you know staring is rude?”
She started, lifting her eyes to his
face.
He didn’t seem to have his eyes open. “Should
I be flattered?”
“Why would you be?”
He stretched lazily. “You were staring at my
chest.”
“The scar on your shoulder, technically.”
“Ah,” he said.
“It’s sort of oddly shaped, don’t you
think?”
He frowned. “What shape should a scar
be?”
She moved to him kneeling on the bed to look
at it closer. “See? It sort of looks like a snake from this angle.
The body goes along the top of your shoulder and the head’s here,
at the acromion.”
“The acromi―what now?”
“The part of the scapula that hooks over to
meet where the clavicle ends,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment. “I got about
half of that at best.”
“Scapula.” She placed her hand on his
shoulder blade, put the other on his collarbone. “Clavicle. Your
scapula goes up here and curves to meet where the clavicle stops.
That curved part is the acromion.”
He watched her follow the curve of his
shoulder blade to a part directly above his armpit.
“There,” she said after a moment. “Feel that
bump? That’s the acromion. And the scar goes just about there.”
“And you think it looks like what?”
“A snake.” She ran a finger along the
scar.
He shrugged with his left shoulder, letting
her study it.
“How did you get it?”
“Same way I got the other ones,” he said.
“It looks smoother than the others.”
Ben watched her studying his shoulder, and
then catching her chin, kissed her.
She froze in shock, pulling back at last, her
eyes wide. “Why did you do that?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to.”
She stared at him for another moment
She allowed him to continue. “Thomas
Dumas?”
“He was the PD of the Directorate. Prime
Director or something like that. Really, it just means he was the
leader of the world.”
“And he died in... 2200.”
“He was assassinated.”
She frowned.
“Murdered,” Ben tried again.
“Killed on purpose, you mean?”
“That’s what murdered means,” Ben said.
Dahlia pressed her lips together. “I suppose
the next question then is why?”
“So you guys could switch over to this
system,” Ben replied.
Frowning, she pursed her lips. “You think
women killed him?”
“You weren’t always in charge, you know.”
She studied him for a long moment. “Well,
it’s an interesting story if nothing else.”
“It’s not just a story, it’s true.”
“Even if it is, I’ve never heard of it.”
“No offence.” He smiled. “You haven’t heard
of a lot of things.”
She stiffened. “I’m better educated than
you.”
“About some things, maybe,” he said, paused.
“Some things, definitely, but not in everything.”
She stared at him for a long moment before
shaking her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”
Ben didn’t try to stop her from moving around
to finish getting ready for bed.
Chapter Five
It had taken twice as long for her to fall
asleep as normal. Despite her large bed, another body made Dahlia
self-conscious. Then at eight, like every morning, the chimes went
off jerking her awake, bad night of sleep or not.
She frowned, her stomach feeling oddly heavy.
Sometime during the night, Ben had turned over and now had his arm
resting just below her ribs. Turning her head, she studied his face
for a second before pushing his arm off and slipping out of bed.
Unlike all the women she knew, he didn’t wake, just shifted
slightly and continued sleeping.
Dahlia crossed her arms and studied the old
scars on his chest. One on his shoulder ran almost directly along
the top, down from his neck, snaking back and forth, as if it had
been cut purposefully, or at least he had been relatively still
when it was cut. The men cut each other enough over in the camps so
it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility that someone had
held him down and cut just to inflict pain.
“Don’t you know staring is rude?”
She started, lifting her eyes to his
face.
He didn’t seem to have his eyes open. “Should
I be flattered?”
“Why would you be?”
He stretched lazily. “You were staring at my
chest.”
“The scar on your shoulder, technically.”
“Ah,” he said.
“It’s sort of oddly shaped, don’t you
think?”
He frowned. “What shape should a scar
be?”
She moved to him kneeling on the bed to look
at it closer. “See? It sort of looks like a snake from this angle.
The body goes along the top of your shoulder and the head’s here,
at the acromion.”
“The acromi―what now?”
“The part of the scapula that hooks over to
meet where the clavicle ends,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment. “I got about
half of that at best.”
“Scapula.” She placed her hand on his
shoulder blade, put the other on his collarbone. “Clavicle. Your
scapula goes up here and curves to meet where the clavicle stops.
That curved part is the acromion.”
He watched her follow the curve of his
shoulder blade to a part directly above his armpit.
“There,” she said after a moment. “Feel that
bump? That’s the acromion. And the scar goes just about there.”
“And you think it looks like what?”
“A snake.” She ran a finger along the
scar.
He shrugged with his left shoulder, letting
her study it.
“How did you get it?”
“Same way I got the other ones,” he said.
“It looks smoother than the others.”
Ben watched her studying his shoulder, and
then catching her chin, kissed her.
She froze in shock, pulling back at last, her
eyes wide. “Why did you do that?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to.”
She stared at him for another moment
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