Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 52529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
I don't pinch myself, because I don't want to wake up.
The slavemaster babbles with how excited he is even as he counts my new owner's credits and scans them to make sure they're not trackable. Once he's satisfied, he gestures at the back door. "You should go out that way," the slaver says. "I don't want my other customers getting upset. As far as they know, Abuar changed his mind and decided to keep the female. I'll have the documents sent over to you in the morning, but for now, you can enjoy her company. And if you change your mind, I'll be here in the morning for a partial refund."
My heart goes cold at that. Partial refund? Oh god. What if he's going to fuck me and send me back? That might be even worse, because then I'll get my hopes up.
"No refunds," the big, metal-covered male at my side says.
He puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me out of the slave house, out the back door and into a cramped shipping tunnel. Condensation covers the metal walls in wet dew, and it's freezing out here, the station's air cyclers roaring. Under my bare feet, the floors are damp, cold and slightly muddy from the mixture of people-dirt and runoff water. The tunnel's not empty, though—no place on Three Nebulas is. There are piles of garbage heaped behind each of the shops, traders doing unsavory business, and small children with nowhere else to go huddled up against each other in the refuse.
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling exposed in a way I never did dancing in the window. I wish I had some clothing. Any clothing. Everyone stares at me as we emerge out of the slaver's hold, and I'm acutely aware of how vulnerable I am right now. I have no weapon, no shoes, no clothing. At least I was safe in the window.
As if he can read my terrified thoughts, the male at my side moves his arms and then takes off his tunic. He drapes it over my shoulders and puts a possessive hand against the back of my neck as he pulls me closer. "Stay close. Eyes down."
I do as he says, tugging his tunic over my body. It's not the most concealing of garments—I swear it's not more than a bunch of leather straps and some sleeves—but I'm grateful for anything. A flash of metal catches my eye, and I'm entranced at just how much metal is on him. It practically gleams under his skin, and his chest seems to be a mass of scars and metal plates. I've never seen anything like it. It's Frankenstein-like, but it doesn't scare me. Why should it, when I've seen so much worse in the universe? It just tells me that he's a tough motherfucker to have endured so much and come out the other side. It tells me that he's badass enough that no one will mess with him, and that's the kind of protector I fantasize about.
I glance up at his face. From here, I can't see the metal part of his jaw, just the plating covering the top of his skull down to his eye socket and just below it. I'm positive his eye—at least one of them—is cybernetic, though it matches the other. Doesn't make sense to have all that metal covering his eye socket and then have the real eye underneath. It—
"Eyes down," he reminds me in a low growl, pulling me closer.
Fuck. Right. With an alarmed little squeak, I move practically in front of him, his hand heavy on my neck. I can't believe he's been my owner for thirty seconds and I'm already pissing him off. Tessa, you idiot. Pay attention or he'll send you right back…after using you. With a little shudder, I do my best to listen to my new owner's commands.
He's silent, though.
The big male leads me through the tunnels as if he's gone through them a dozen times before. People watch us as we pass, but no one moves to confront us or even beg for credits, which is unusual for the station. I don't get to leave the cantina much—okay, ever—but through the window, I've seen all kinds of shenanigans in the crowded halls of 3N. No one can walk ten feet without getting accosted by the station orphans, asking for handouts or to do odd jobs. Or some ambitious black market vendor will approach with wares that can't be sold in a shop, and they'll sell them to you for a steal. Or you get knifed for looking too rich. I've seen that happen, too.
But no one bothers us at all. I suspect it's because my new owner is so scary looking and impossible to miss. Even with me—an expensive, half-naked slave—at his side, no one gives us a second glance.