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“It would, Freya.” He squeezed her arms. “Would you like me to remove the plug?”
She nearly said yes, but held the answer in check. Would it hurt her to walk back with it in place? “No, thank you. Gellis can do it before I have my bath. If that’s all right with you, sir.”
“That’s fine with me, sweetness.” Before he reached the door, he turned and wagged his finger at her. “Be good.”
Chapter Eleven
Freya was singing in the shower. Marco didn’t understand the words. She was massaging shampoo into her scalp while he brushed his teeth. He’d not planned to sleep with her, but yet again, he’d dozed off with her in his arms. It was becoming a habit and not one he’d anticipated would happen so frequently.
His original idea, beyond the obvious need for sex, had been to keep her at arms’ length. He’d envisioned regular fucks, firm discipline, and a rigorous regimen of rules that would keep her mentally confined. Those plans had slipped to the sidelines as he simply enjoyed her company, especially the warmth of post-sex cuddles and relaxation. He’d never bothered with such familiarity with his previous women.
During those quiet spells, Freya always found a way to encourage him to open up about his life, his past. He’d described how he hunted fire rabbits and ice bears on the planet where he was raised. He’d spoken of his years in the army, then his transition into the imperial intelligence network, which was responsible for maintaining order across the Vendu empire of colonies.
Freya in turn had described her love of Earth and its natural beauty, which had been devastated by the invasion. “We hate you, you know that?” she’d told him.
“No surprise. Most aliens do.” It wasn’t something he thought about much, but it was a pity that the Vendu considered crushing a civilization a measure of success. However, he couldn’t bear the idea of Freya despising him for his role in the conquests, so he listened as she talked about her world, democracy and liberty, which amounted to more than the Vendu were permitted.
He put down his toothbrush. “What language was that? French or German?” he asked as she stepped out of the shower.
“Neither. Swedish. The language my mother taught me as a child. It’s kind of my mother tongue.” She wiped the droplets off her face with a towel.
“Impressive. Vendu require only one language in the empire.”
“Yet, you speak English.” She rubbed her hair.
“I like the sound of it. Obviously, we listen in on your communications.” He took the towel out of her hands and began to pat down her back.
The fire rabbit moved again. It took a few minutes to complete its circuit around her back. The tattoo artist had never inked a prisoner before. He was accustomed to soldiers, who liked new tattoos after a mission to show off their exploits. Animated tattoos were too expensive for them, but Marco had greater funds at his disposal.
She’d not fussed during the lengthy process. The artist had created a template in advance and it had taken time to reproduce it on her back, then the ink had been injected under the skin, filling the pattern in a moving sequence.
“Where is it?” she asked.
He tapped her left shoulder blade. “Here. She’s beautiful with her amber eyes glowing. Like you.” He nuzzled his nose in her wet hair. “What were you singing about?”
“The moon. An old Swedish folk song. The kind sung in the middle of the winter when the sun never rises.” She sighed and pushed her bottom back against his hardening cock. He wanted her again. She’d made him insatiable and created in him a passion for sex that went beyond the physical.
“Tagra has no moons.”
“No months either without a lunar cycle. I calculated, based on the time it takes Tagra to journey around the primary sun, that there should be eight months in a year and thirty days in a month. You should instigate a proper calendar instead of simply counting days.”
He smiled with amusement. “It’s of no consequence here on Tagra to divide time into dates, a month, or even a week. Time moves forward and schedule is based on the imperial calendar back on Halos. Today is the sixty-fifth day of the emperor’s nineteenth year. Someone calculated the length of a Tagra day based on the planet’s rotational cycle and that’s all that is needed for shift patterns. Day after day, nothing changes here.”
She pivoted and with the tip of her finger traced the first letter of his name, which covered his chest. “Don’t you think… and I mean this most respectfully, sir, that Tagra might benefit from a sense of time and purpose?”
“Meaning?” He raised one of his eyebrows. She’d already described, during one lazy session in bed, music, dancing, and the theater—things that humans liked to do in their free time. Vendu played competitive, somewhat violent sports or raced skyrockets across the sky. Not exactly activities suitable for prisoners.
“Books. You have no books. Don’t you think telling stories is important? It helps people understand each other, communicate and it can be entertaining. Don’t you have stories to tell?”
“We tell of our past by speaking of it. We have documents for reporting events and recording data. What’s the point in keeping alive a fantasy?”
She puffed out her lips and mused over her response. “I’m trying to suggest that if the prisoners were occupied with reading, music, and perhaps teaching each other things, then they wo
uld be happier.”
Marco frowned. “Happy? They’re being punished. They’re rebels, murderers—”
“They were. They might still be some of them, but now they’re living in a hell and have no hope. Why keep punishing them when they’ve nothing to live for? I think, and of course, who am I to tell you what to do, sir, I think if you gave them a purpose beyond the drudgery of work, they might not spend their time fighting amongst themselves.” She lowered her eyes, putting into practice the training she’d been given on meekness.
