He thought it would be a temptation he would not know how to resist. But the thought of her—Hope—with her arms wrapped around him instead? The image brought enough warmth to satisfy him.
At least she wouldn’t make him paint over the mural on his ceiling. The one with all the twisted bodies enjoying each other. Even if the idea of it bothered her, well, she couldn’t see it, anyway.
He wouldn’t mention it.
“Hope. Oh, Hope. I wonder if you’ll like it here. I hope so.” He laughed. The puns were going to be endless. He ran his hand over his cheek where she had slapped him not once, but twice. What was it about his potential paramours slapping him? Rose had decked him. Only the once, though. All told, the little pilot hit harder ounce for ounce.
He traced his fingers over his lips as he slid his hand down his stomach, drifting toward his goal.
Just because he was now celibate for his new bride didn’t mean he couldn’t find his pleasure in other ways. And the memory of her lips—of feeling her against him, the smell of her, the press of her lush body—was doing terrible things to him. Terrible, wonderful things.
He was her savior. Her shining knight. Her valiant hero.
“I wonder if you’re dreaming of me too. I wonder if you’re lying there in that hovel of yours, wishing for tomorrow. I’m going to save you, Hope. I’m going to sweep you up out of that awful, mundane little life of yours, and I’m going to make you mine.” He groaned and arched, imagining her over him. Imagining her riding him. “Yes, Hope—oh, dream of me!”
Her dreams were plagued with nightmares. Of heavy iron chains around her wrists and her neck, dragging her to the damp earth. Of a foot across her back, pressing her into the ground. Laughter rang in her head.
His laughter.
She woke up in a cold sweat. She could hear Justine down the hall ringing the morning bell. It was time to dress and get ready. But today, she would not prepare herself for services and temple duties. She would not prepare the sacrifices or arrange the candles on the altars for the worshippers to light.
She would be packing her things. What little she had been given over the course of her life would fit into a single cloth bag. She would leave almost everything behind, as it didn’t really belong to her. Slaves had no possessions, after all. She envied the voluntary slaves—the ones who signed a willing contract to be as they were. It was an agreed-upon arrangement between two willing people. An indentured servitude.
But not her. Not a born slave. Not one who had no will of their own.
She donned her robes and clipped her bracers onto her wrists. She knew her way around her small room well enough that she did not need them to navigate, but she would not be returning to this room after breakfast. The bracers were the only items she had been gifted over the years that she would not part with unless forced. She was fairly certain Sidonia wouldn’t take them back.
As for the rest? The trinkets Sidonia and the rest had given her over her years of service? Those she wasn’t sure about yet.
Her hand rested on the handle of the hairbrush Sidonia had given her on her twentieth birthday. She was told it was “mother of pearl” and quite nice. But right now, it was a reminder of all the things she was about to lose.
She picked it up and ran her fingers over the bristles. She shut her eyes and with every ounce of her body wanted to hurl it against the wall in hopes the handle snapped off and it might blow apart into nothing but the atoms which comprised it.
Was betrayal the only thing that mattered?
Was the last act of dying loyalty more powerful than all the years she had spent in its embrace?
She didn’t know. It certainly was what burned the hottest right now. But what about tomorrow? Or the day after? If I live that long. Sidonia had raised her. Had taken care of her. She had, at least until yesterday, cared for Hope like she belonged here. Like she might have value to the world more than the gold that hung around her neck.
She slipped the hairbrush into her bag. She took another set of robes and her cotton sleeping gown. I doubt the South Wind will let me remain