Page 64 of The Space Between Stars

Jamad leered as he lunged for her. She screamed, running for the door. This had to be a test.

“Mesu Thacklore!” Jamad caught her. He pinned her arms to her sides. She kicked. Flailed. “Mesu Thacklore!”

It became abundantly clear that it was not a test. She’d seen Thacklore make his fair share of idle threats—and she’d also seen him impart consequences. Resistance was useless.

But if she was to be made an example of, she was going to make it very, very difficult. She screamed and fought up the two flights of stairs into Thacklore’s rooms. Jamad hefted a set of chains—as casually as any other man might keep a purse—from his satchel. He threw her to the floor like she was a sack of sand. Not sentient. Not a fragile molding of connective tissues that could break nearly as easily as it could breathe, that could feel pain at the slightest piercing of skin. He chained her hands to the footboard at the end of Thacklore’s bed.

“No,” she screeched at him. “No, no. NO.”

And then he stalked away. She shuddered a sigh of relief. Not torture, then. Thacklore was not going to torture her.

Yet.

Her thoughts fled to Thedexemore. Had he heard her scream? “My brother. Where is my brother? You can’t keep me here. He needs me, please!”

Jamad did not speak her language. Even if she hadn’t been blubbering through tears and snot, her words were desperate gibberish to him, and Jamad was not swayed by desperation. In fact, for a man who she knew caused people pain for a living, the way he’d handled her was downright chivalrous.

“Jamad,” she tried. Maybe if she was calm, he would listen. She tilted her head towards her bound hands. “Let. Me. Go.” She mustered all of the moderation she could. She even used the Nelfinden term for “go.” “I can make you a very wealthy man.”

The corner of Jamad’s mouth lifted. The motion turned her insides to slime. On his way out, he held a key up for her to see and set it on Thacklore’s dresser, just meters away. A taunt.

Then he left her alone in the room to wait.

Thacklore’s room was exactly what one would expect it to be: the epitome of opulence and refinement. Even the dowaga mounted on the wall was enameled and adorned with script—a token of the man’s Blue Wing accolades.

Attilatia was mired. The bed’s wood was harder than bone, so breaking free could only be accomplished at the cost of self-mutilation. And her dexterity was her only bargaining tool.

She wriggled her wrists painfully for the tenth time since Jamad’s departure. She’d only been in Nelfindar a few months, but one thing was certain: it was impossible to be a woman here without someone looking at you like you were their next meal. With this dinner party forthcoming, she didn’t need to interpret what the evening held in store for her.

Perhaps she would make Thacklore his weapon when she got out of this—then fry him with it. What she would give to see this manor burn to the ground…

Futile thoughts. She needed Thacklore; she and Thedexemore were under the double-edged blade of his protection. The Nelfinden authorities did not see kindly to Azadonians. Neither did the streets.

The time in Thacklore’s rooms passed sickeningly slow. The maid usually returned Thedexemore to Attilatia after her work sessions. Not today. The child might be hungry. He might be terrified. Worse yet, he might not have noticed anything had changed.

Light faded behind the windows. That usually brought her comfort, but tonight the passage of time was not in her favor. She was sure Thacklore’s guests had arrived by now, but sound didn’t carry in the manor. When a man had many secrets, walls became a powerful investment. She needed a miracle to get out unscathed. Even if she survived the trials of the night, Thacklore—his basement, his insults, his bed—would await her for the remainder of her foreseeable future.

Slavery was illegal in Nelfindar, she knew that much. It was the one thing that separated this country from the pure barbarism of the Tera’thians. But Thacklore played by his own rules. She owed him. For that, he owned her.

Attilatia bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut to stem the flow of tears. She hated that she actually appreciated Thacklore’s brilliance in forcing a weapon from her. Only fools believed money and power were of the same cloth. True, they formed a symbiosis and were rarely seen in isolation. But when power existed without monetary crutch, it was in its most dangerous form. She was far more valuable to Thacklore if she created weapons. And what he was doing to her to get it? Well, men killed for far less.

Her only option was to be enough of a problem to him that he would rather sell her than deal with her. And because power was worth more than wealth to him, she’d need to depreciate the one thing with more value to him than power: reputation.

The semblance of a plan had only started to form in her mind when the door to the room burst open. A tall man of middling age and more hair on his arms than his head stumbled in.

Stumbling was good. In spite of her revulsion, the man’s condition could be advantageous.

“Good. You here,” she tried in Nelfinden. Who knew whether anything she said was intelligible. “Thacklore leave you key.”

The man stared at her, swaying slightly. Ever so slowly, he turned to look at the key sitting innocently on the dresser. His fingers fumbled for it, then clutched it triumphantly.

Attilatia scarcely believed her luck as the scraggly sot in gentlemen’s attire knelt beside her. He tried to stick the key in its hole—if his finesse was any indication, he might not know where to put his prick anyway, given the chance. Words she didn’t understand slurred from his mouth until one of her hands was freed. Then the next. Before she could leap away, he was on top of her, lips and hands and pelvis pressed against her.

The man swore as her knee collided with his groin. She maneuvered away and lunged for the exit, but he scrambled to his feet and barred the door. He shouted something obscene, his teeth bared.

Fury took her until she was shrieking back at him. She’d been cornered—exploited. For information that belonged to her. They’d taken Thedexemore’s family for it. They’d taken everything she had for it. But not this.

She kicked at his groin again. He caught her foot and brought her to the floor. She tried to crawl away, but he clawed his way up her leg. She slammed her elbow down: once to the nose—something cracked—and once to the throat. He reeled backward, face covered, roaring in pain.