Loving a Stranger, Page 2

  When her father had sold her to Harryx as a bride, it was with the understanding that Pitta and Patta would come with her for company, at least until she was blessed with children after her nightly sexual supplication to her new husband.

  The arrangement had lasted only one solar month into their marriage. One night when Nallah was pouring their food into a bowl and Pitta and Patta were mewing and curling themselves around her legs, Harryx had strode into the food-prep area and seized Pitta by the scruff.

  “Too much noise,” he’d snarled at the startled Nallah, who hadn’t yet learned of her new husband’s rages or how to prevent them.

  Wrapping his big fist around Pitta’s slender neck, he had squeezed until she screamed and Nallah heard a horrible cracking sound. Then the little furry body went limp in his hand and Harryx had dropped her to the floor, like trash that needed to be swept up. He pointed a finger at the stunned Nallah.

  “Keep it quieter in here or you’re next, wife.”

  He never called her Nallah or Nalli or any other pet nickname as she’d been called as a child. It was always just “wife.” And his eyes were so cold when he looked at her—it chilled her to the bone…

  “Oh, are you well, my dear?” The concerned voice of the sister-nurse who came around to check the comatose patience in the House of Healing startled Nallah out of her painful memories.

  “I thank you, sister—I am well,” she said quickly.

  “Oh, I just thought…you’re crying, dear. In public.” The sister-nurse was old and her ancient, faded blue eyes looked anxious above her black veil. “I just don’t want you to get into trouble,” she whispered kindly.

  “Oh…of course.” Surreptitiously, Nallah used her own white veil to dab at her eyes. It was hard not to cry when she thought of her poor Pitta’s fate, but it must not be done in public or, indeed, in the presence of any man. Her people believed that a woman’s tears made a male weak—the ultimate sin as far as most were concerned. “Forgive me,” she whispered to the kind sister.

  “It’s all right, my dear.” One wrinkled old hand came out from beneath the voluminous black robes the sister wore to pat her own. “I’m sure it’s hard for you, seeing your handsome young husband in such a state. And him so far up the ranks too! I heard he’s a General in the Forces of our glorious God-King.”

  “An Arch-General,” Nallah said, nodding. “Thank you for your concern.”

  “He’ll come around, dearie.” The sister-nurse patted her hand again. “You just wait and see if he doesn’t.”

  I hope not! Nallah thought and then felt bad for her unworthy emotion. Then a kind of defiance rose in her and she curled her small hands into fists. Why shouldn’t she feel that way when Harryx acted as he did? After what he had done to Pitta and all the other small and large cruelties he had visited on her, which went far beyond home discipline…

  She had been shocked to tears by his horrible act when he killed her pet—but somehow she managed not to shed those tears in front of her husband. She looked at him with new eyes from then on and fear began to fill her like cloudy water.

  The next day, while Harryx was at work, she’d gone back home to see her father. She’d been certain at least that Papa would understand.

  Her father was a kind man—doting on his daughters in a way that most men didn’t. He’d had sons as well to carry on his name, so he could afford to be caring to the females in his family. He hadn’t forced their mother to get rid of either Nallah or her sister, even though it would have been well within his rights to demand she abort the female fetuses. Instead, he had kept them and raised his daughters with a gentle hand.

  But even Papa could not help her now. Since the articles of marriage had been signed and she had been sold to Harryx as his wife in the sight of her family and the great God-King who watched over all, she was legally his property. She had no recourse against him—no way to better her situation.

  “You must have angered Harryx,” Papa had said sternly. “You must not anger your husband, Nalli. You have only yourself to blame if he is cruel.”

  “But I wasn’t doing anything Papa,” Nallah had explained, trying to speak though sobs threatened to choke her. “Poor Pitta was just mewing for her food—as she always does. As she always did, I mean,” she added, fresh tears rising to her eyes.

  “Well, Pitta is gone. And you must keep Patta quiet if you wish to keep her,” he father had answered, frowning. “And you must stop these tears. I have been too lenient with you all these years—you know a woman must not cry in front of a man.”

  “I…I know.” Nallah had drawn her breath in tight and swiped at her eyes, trying her best to end her sobbing.

  “Perhaps it would be best if you sent Patta back home to live with your mother and me,” her father said. “We can take care of her for you.”

  But Nallah couldn’t bear to send her one remaining pet away—her father’s house was so far from her own. She would never see Patta again! And she needed company in Harryx’s house. It was so still there—so forbidding.

  In the end, she put her pet out to live in the overgrown wilderness behind the back of the domicile. Patta knew to come home at mealtimes but Nallah fed her outside and the little lanna was safe, for she could climb a tree or a sweet-creeper vine before Harryx could get to her—assuming he wanted to. He mostly ignored her if she wasn’t bothering him—which was how he often treated Nallah herself, unless she made him mad.

  That night was the first time she learned what it was like to truly anger her husband—it was the first night he had beaten her, but not the last.

  She had come home later than expected from her visit to her father’s house—females were not allowed to ride on public transports and some of the footways had been blocked by a crumbled wall, forcing her to take a longer way.

  To her dismay, when she reached the house, her new husband had already been there, looming in the doorway. There had been a look like cold death on his handsome face. Of course she’d had no time to prepare dinner as a proper wife should but even that had not enraged Harryx as much as the fact that Nallah had left the house without his permission.

  “I only went to visit my father,” she tried to tell him. “Please, my husband—call him. He will vouch for my whereabouts all afternoon.”

  “Your father is part of the problem, wife,” he snarled at her as his fury turned from cold to hot. “He let you and your worthless sister go anywhere you wanted unaccompanied—let you run around like whores. Why should I take his word for where you were? How do I know you haven’t just been whoring yourself out to strange men while I’m at work?”

  The very idea had shocked Nallah.

  “My husband, please,” she begged, going down on her knees before him. “You know I would never do such a thing. You know I was a virgin when I came to your bed.”

  That was true and she knew Harryx knew it. It had been one of the few things she had been able to please him in—the fact that no man had touched her before him. It was evidenced by the way she had bled and cried out the first time he took her. He had not been gentle and the results had been painful and frightening though she knew well enough not to complain of it. A woman’s body was for her husband’s pleasure, after all—he could do whatever he chose with her.

  Nallah still shuddered when she remembered that first sexual submission. The thickness of Harryx’s shaft as he shoved himself inside her, the fierce, wild grin on his face as he sawed between her legs, battering her tender insides like a ram. He seemed to enjoy giving her pain and it was all she could do to hold back the tears that filled her throat like salty, choking seawater.

  Thank goodness he didn’t often take her that way.

  “Don’t want to put any pups in you—not yet,” he’d told Nallah roughly. Mostly, he was content to use her mouth which he did nightly when she sank to her knees and submitted to him.

  No more submissions. The very thought of it made her heart feel lighter. Of course, no wife was supposed to look
forward to her sexual submission—it was only for her husband’s pleasure and the purpose of procreation, after all. But Nallah had come to dread hers so much that the idea of never having to submit again made her feel like her soul had taken wing.

  Be careful, she warned herself. Don’t get too excited. He could still wake up. The healers said they don’t even know why he’s still in a coma—the blow he took to the head wasn’t that severe.

  Or Harryx could die—which meant she would be expected to die with him by either taking a slow-acting and agonizingly painful poison, or throwing herself on his funeral pyre when it was lit. The thought of that frightened Nallah. She wondered if she would be brave enough to die more quickly in the fire—or if she would choose the poison.

  If she did neither, she would become a social outcast, dependent on whatever crumbs her male family members might be willing to throw her way. She didn’t believe her Papa would disown her but he wouldn’t be able to take her in either, and the amount of food he could give her would be limited to a near-starvation level.

  Nor could he shelter her under his roof. Nallah would have to sleep on the street where she would be fair game for the bands of males who roamed at night—the Punishment gangs. They preyed on unprotected women who had lost their social standing when they refused to die with their husbands, as was right and proper.

  To force a sexual submission from such a woman—one of the Disgraced—was perfectly acceptable on Hascion Five. After all, it was a man’s duty to punish female impropriety wherever he found it. And improprieties were many—too many to count—which was one reason it wasn’t safe for a woman alone to be out after dark, lest they be mistaken for one of the Disgraced and inadvertently become one through male punishment.

  This had happened to one of Nallah’s friends—a laughing, happy girl named Gemmah who had always had a smile for everyone. Though her veil hid it, you could see the joy in her eyes. She was kind and sweet and funny, often making Nallah laugh out loud when they were together—though they took care to stifle the sounds lest they disturb any males who might be near by.

  But that was before. Before she had been punished.

  One night Gemmah had been caught out after dark by a gang of Punishers. Though she had begged and pleaded and explained that she was decently married and told them who her husband was, none of them would listen to her. They punished her anyway and afterwards Gemmah had never been the same.

  Her husband had found out about the punishment and though he had always been lenient and kindly to Gemmah before, he had suddenly grown cold to her. He had torn off her veil and drawn the shrive—the ceremonial three-bladed knife—across her cheeks, marking her for all to see. Then he cast her out, declaring her to be one of the Disgraced. Not long after, he bought himself a new wife just as though Gemmah had never been.

  It had broken Nallah’s heart to see her friend wandering the streets, begging for food and trying to find shelter for the night. She herself had dared Harryx’s wrath several times to smuggle some food to Gemmah, though she knew she risked joining her friend if her husband found out. She could still remember the hunted look in Gemmah’s lovely eyes when dusk began to fall.

  “I have to find a place to hide,” she told Nallah, her hands shaking as she took the scraps of food Nallah dared to bring her, hoping Harryx wouldn’t notice their loss. She had a ragged swatch of cloth across her face—not really a veil but it almost managed to cover her scarred cheeks. “I try and try to hide but they always find me, every night! They punish me every night!”

  Then she started weeping—weeping in public for all to see! Nallah had been horrified, torn between wanting to hold and comfort her friend and wanting to get her to safety where no one could see her crying.

  “Gemmah, please…” she began but Gemmah shook her head.

  “I have to go. I don’t want you to get punished too!” she blurted out. She turned and ran, dodging down the busy street and that had been the last Nallah had seen of her.

  Sometime later a body had been found in the river. No names were mentioned but the report did say that it was a female corpse with red-gold hair.

  Gemma had hair that color. Though no one said it, Nallah felt in her heart it was her old friend who had been found, floating like trash in the river. It was a fate which could easily become her own if her husband died…or if he lived.

  But if he continues on like this—stuck in this half-life, Nallah thought hopefully, I might be able to live my life in freedom.

  Not freedom like a man enjoyed—she would never be allowed to own property or vote on referendums or ride public transport or go out after dark or get a job. But even if all she did was go to the market on her own and visit her mother and father once or twice a week without having to ask permission, Nallah knew she would feel free.

  And being able to live without fearing that anything she did or said might result in a beating or another brutal sexual submission…that would be the sweetest freedom of all.

  Please, she prayed, though she didn’t know who she was praying to—certainly the God-King would never approve of such a prayer. Please, let it be so. Let Harryx never wake. Let him be unconscious forever.

  Just at that moment, her husband blinked his eyes. Then he sat up and looked at her.

  “Nallah,” he said. “Hello.”

  Chapter Three

  Being in a host that wasn’t fighting him was a completely new experience for Reeve J’lorn. Oh, sometimes he could sneak in—come into someone’s mind when they were sleeping and plant suggestions or dreams—but most of the time that woke them up and they started fighting. They sensed the other inside their skull at once and a soul’s immediate impulse when they felt a foreigner taking over was to fight—it was only natural.

  Harryx Parokk’s mind felt like the mind of someone who is deep asleep—so deep Reeve could hardly even feel him. He poked gently at his host but Harryx didn’t even stir. Good. Reeve felt a cautious surge of optimism—this was going to make his job so much easier.

  All he had to do now was give a passable imitation of the real General Harryx Parokk, get into the inner war room to destroy the wormhole plans and device, if they had built one, and then fly back to his own body, which was being guarded and nourished in a locked room inside the main med center of the Mother Ship, several light years away.

  Easy money, Reeve told himself. And a whole fucking lot of it. Commander Sylvan had promised him a king’s ransom for this little plot. Apparently the other Kindred, really didn’t want the Hascions spreading to the rest of the universe. Could they really be that bad? Reeve supposed he would find out.

  But first things first—he had to convince the healers he was well and get out of their med center—or “House of Healing” as the Hascions called it.

  He stopped perusing his host’s mind—which resembled an orderly bank of computers with a single view screen and keyboard—and came forward, taking control of the body.

  Looking out through Harryx’s eyes, the first thing he saw was a beautiful young woman. Although how he could tell she was beautiful, Reeve would have had a hard time explaining.

  She was swathed in long white robes which covered her from neck to ankles and she wore a veil which hid most of her face—a lacy white thing which concealed all but her eyes and hair.

  But what hair it was—long and waving, it flowed down her back like a waterfall of gold and silver. Reeve thought he had never seen hair like that—it looked like silk—like someone had taken sunshine and moonbeams and woven them together in a glorious mass.

  The next minute he had to mentally shake himself.

  What the fuck is wrong with you, Reeve? Get hold of yourself and figure out who she is, he ordered himself.

  Going back to his host’s mind, he accessed the keyboard and began to type an inquiry.

  The setup of Harryx’s mind wasn’t at all unusual, in his extensive experience. Most people had some kind of information filing system—he was just grateful that the Hasci
on general didn’t have a bunch of untidy boxes filled with scraps he’d have to dig through for answers. The computer set up was much preferable.

  Still, it did mean he had to ask the right questions. He tried searching for a list of people who might visit Harryx if he was sick but nothing came up. Then he tried cross-referencing that criteria with any women Harryx might know with gold and silver hair.

  At that, something did pop up—a list. But it wasn’t a list of people, Reeve saw, frowning—it was a list of possessions—things Harryx owned.

  Domicile, vehicle, clothing, appliances, wife…holy shit, was this beautiful little female Harryx’s wife? If so, why didn’t he have a separate listing for her instead of just jamming her into a list of things he considered to be his?

  Reeve tried inputting “wife” as the search criteria. A surprisingly small list rose to the viewscreen in Harryx’s mind.

  Name—Nallah. Bought 3 years ago. Rebellious—must be constantly put in her place.

  This last item made Reeve frown. He might be a black-hearted pirate who was reviled and virtually exiled from the rest of his kind but he was still a Kindred. Which meant he didn’t believe in cruelty toward females or in trying to force them to feel lower than a male. Only a small, petty male did such a thing in his estimation. Was Harryx such a male?

  Further searches turned up nothing on this subject except that Harryx felt justified in doing whatever it was he did to his wife—to Nallah. He was, after all, the head of the household with the God-King given right to rule it as he saw fit.

  Lessons from the Patriarchy, Reeve thought dryly. He had heard that Earth females called Kindred “feminists” but the word wasn’t exactly the truth, as far as Reeve was concerned. A male shouldn’t consider himself a feminist just because he felt a female was his equal—that should be the normal state of things in the first place.

  Males who could only feel big and important by making females feel frightened and small were lower than dirt. Insignificant and insecure, as far as Reeve was concerned. Why else would they feel the need to puff themselves up and act better than their female counterparts?