“Ow! I don’t care if I never see another needle.” Sitting crosslegged on the floor next to me, Sahra jabs her bone sliver into the edge of the giant cushion we’re working on, then she sticks her finger into her mouth.

“Well, if you can’t see the needle, sewing’s going to get a lot harder,” I tease.

“Ha, ha.” She stares at a drop of blood welling from the end of her right index finger. “Threading these things is a bitch.”

Outside, a cloud rolls over the sun, dimming the Sorority supply room where we’ve claimed a corner for our work. I hate cloudy days. I hope it doesn’t rain.

I don’t realize I’m pressing my hand to my stomach until Sahra clears her throat, and I look up to find her watching me. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” On quiet days, when the work doesn’t require much concentration, my thoughts tend to wander, memories of my life before prison rising like bubbles to the surface of my mind. Bitter, ugly bubbles. “What were you saying?”

She holds up the sliver of rabbit bone she was using to help me fix a massive rip in my cushion. Again. “I’ve been injured in the line of duty, due to subpar weaponry.”

Sahra’s description of sewing repairs as a battle is apt; it feels like we’re constantly fighting a war against barbarity and the decay of resources out here in zone three. Hell, I can hardly remember what climate control felt like, and hot showers have fallen into the realm of legend.

It’s hard to believe they were ever real.

But then, this is a prison planet. We’re lucky that our biggest problems have to do with comfort, rather than survival, and that’s only possible because so many of us have banded together to form the Sorority, for strength in numbers.

Before this, most of the women—including me—lived in zone two, where we were rented out as “companions” to wealthy tourists who came to visit Rhodon. To watch bloodsport on a prison planet, because they were evidently bored to death with all the normal luxury and entertainment available to them at home.

After our escape from the Resort into zone three, we settled down in this building because it was isolated and unoccupied. Which was because it had no running water and no furniture.

Since then, we’ve managed to restore water to two of the dozen or so bathrooms in our building, which used to be some kind of a dormitory, back before Universal Authority bought the whole planet and turned it into a prison.

I don’t know how primitive humans did it, back on prehistoric Earth. Sleeping in the dirt with a rock for a pillow. Or however that went down.

Animal skins. They probably had animal skins. Unfortunately, the biggest animals we’ve seen in zone three are foxes and rabbits. As helpful as larger game might be, for providing food and leather, I’m pretty grateful to the terraformers for giving us rabbits, at least. Though I still hate to see them die, even on behalf of our stews, and bone needles, and fur gloves.

We escaped forced prostitution at the Resort with a couple of laundry bags full of toiletries, a vinyl sleep mat apiece, and the clothes on our backs. Everything else, we’ve gotten from learning to hunt and fish, or from the supply crates the prison drops into zone three once a week.

Though, we women can’t actually go to the drop, because as plentiful as we are at the Sorority, we’re far outnumbered by men, zone-wide. So on supply drop days, we send two or three of our men—the good guys—to keep the rest of the zone three men—mostly bad guys—from finding out we’re here. That secret can’t keep forever. We know that. But we’re being as careful as we can. And we’re training in self-defense.

But mostly, we’re sewing. Altering clothing intended to fit large men, so that it fits smaller women. Crafting and stuffing big floor cushions to sit and sleep on. And making curtains.

Sahra thinks the curtains are a waste of time, because if anyone stumbles upon our building and sees covered windows, they’re going to figure out that women live here. But if they get that close and we don’t have curtains, they’re going to see women walking around in here through uncovered windows. So I voted in favor of curtains, because they make me feel civilized. As if we live here by choice, rather than because we were dumped here with life sentences by callous homeworld governments, courtesy of Universal Authority, the intergalactic corporation that runs this place.

“Here, let me see it.” I hold my hand out, and Sahra drops her bone needle onto my palm. Carefully, I poke a new thread through the hole in the wider end of the bone sliver.

Our friend Sylvie cut eyes into all the needles with her knife, when the bone slivers were soft from soaking. The thread comes from plant fibers, dried grass, and the inner bark from certain species of tree. Though sometimes bark is difficult to get to, with what few tools we have.

Sylvie and Audra are out right now, collecting fresh fiber. Normally, women don’t go out without a man in the group, but Sylvie’s as good as any man in a fight. Better, with her knife. She’s teaching the rest of us how and where to jab with our homemade spears, because eventually the rest of the men in this zone will find us. And we have to be ready.

I return Sahra’s threaded needle to her, and she goes back to work, mumbling about building up callouses on her fingers, so the needle won’t draw blood.

By the time Sahra and I join the others for a lunch of MREs in the lobby, my mind has begun to wander. I’m tired of needlework.

“Anyone want to check traps with me?” I ask as we store our leftovers in the supply room. The clouds have dissipated. It’s a bright, warm day, with no sign of rain. “Or go spear-fishing in the stream?” I expect Sahra to volunteer—she hates sewing—but she’s already heading out back, to help lay stone for the new fire pit.

“I’ll come.” Danna pushes frizzy blond hair back from her forehead. She swears it was once smooth and wavy, but that the heat and humidity on Rhodon has it out for her. “Let me get my stuff.”

We’re not supposed to go out alone, so she asks Warren—who has a huge crush on her—to come with us. He’s still busy with the new fire pit, but he promises to catch up with us in a few minutes. So we head off.

“Do you think you’d be okay going back on your own?” Danna says, as we break through the tree line and head toward the woods. She’s using her spear as if it’s a walking stick, but I resist that urge, because the tip of my spear is split, and I hate getting dirt and leaves stuck in it.

“Now?”

“No.” She rolls her eyes at me. “When we’re done fishing. I’d… Well, I thought that if Warren and I could walk back to the Sorority together he might…” She shrugs. “Make a move.”

“You’re going to have to make the first move, Danna.”

“But what if he turns me down?”

“He won’t. Everyone knows he likes you, but he’s not going to break the rules and risk getting kicked out.” Or worse.

Men at the Sorority aren’t allowed to hit on the women—at all—to make sure we don’t feel threatened or coerced into a physical relationship in exchange for protection. That’s how it is for most women on Rhodon—sex, in exchange for food and protection—but the Sorority is a sanctuary. To make sure it stays that way, any relationship that develops has to be instigated by the woman.

So far, that rule has existed only in theory, because Warren’s the only single man in our group. Which means Danna has to be the first woman to make her interest known. For weeks, she’s been mired between the fear that he’ll reject her and the fear that if she doesn’t act soon, someone will beat her to him.

“I’ll be fine walking back alone,” I tell her. “If you promise me that you’ll use the time alone with him to make something happen! He’s not going to turn you down, Danna.”

“You’re sure?”

I roll my eyes. “He watches you all day long. He finds reasons to be wherever you are. Put the poor man out of his misery, one way or another.”

“Okay.” She gives me a nervous nod. “I will. Today.”

Soon, we hear the stream gurgling, and we veer in that direction. I sit on the bank to shrug out of my pack and take off my shoes, then I wade into the cold water in my cutoff pants. Danna is right behind me, spear in hand.

I love the idea of catching fish with a sharpened stick, but the truth is that most of us are bad at it. Very bad. Abysmal, even. The surface of the water deflects light, so the fish you’re after is never really where it looks like is. And those fuckers move fast.

I’ve caught a grand total of three, since we started the Sorority, and two of those were hardly more than a mouthful. But I won’t get any better without practice. So I take a better grip on my spear and stare down at the water, on alert for any movement from beneath the surface. Which is tough to see sometimes, considering that the whole stream is flowing—

Suddenly something rears up from the deeper water a few feet in front of us, arms waving. Droplets flying.

I screech and scramble backward onto the muddy bank, dragging Danna with me.

It’s a man. He was lying fully clothed in the middle of the stream, and now he’s staring at us, still sitting in the water. Soaking wet. He has pale, almost silvery eyes and a deeply cleft chin. There are dark rings beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted. Or sick.

For several seconds, he stares back at us, while I try to slow my racing pulse, hoping against hope that he’s one of the good guys. Because there are so many of those on a prison planet.

I change my grip on the spear from “fishing” to “stabbing,” wondering if Warren is close enough yet to have heard us scream.

The man blinks at us, water droplets streaming down his face. Hanging from the tip of his chin. His gaze seems to take a minute to focus, and I’m afraid to move. He looks so tense that I’m worried that any sudden movement will make him…I don’t know. Pounce.

As if he were more animal than man.

“We’re gonna run right?” Danna whispers. “He doesn’t look…normal.”

“I think he’s sick,” I murmur as I grasp for her hand, pulling her behind me.

The man sniffs the air, his head actually bobbing with the action, and again, the gesture feels animalistic, though “canine” doesn’t seem right. Neither does “feline.” All I can pin it down to is “predator.”

This man is a predator.

As if he’s heard my thought, he suddenly leaps to his feet, water sloshing all around him. Silvery eyes flashing in the bright sunlight.

Danna and I backpedal again, and my left heel catches on a root sticking up from the ground. I go down on my backside, and mud squishes through the seat of my pants.

“Are you—?” She starts to help me up, and the man darts onto the bank, impossibly fast, throwing up more splashes from the stream. Danna scuttles away from me, clutching her spear with a white-knuckled grip, her other hand clenching and unclenching in my peripheral vision. She’s terrified. But the man doesn’t even seem to realize she’s here.

He stands several feet in front of me, drenched shoes sinking into the mud. Weird silver gaze glued to mine. His wet clothes cling to him, and there’s nothing special about his build, but those eyes…

Danna clears her throat, trying to get my attention, and on the edge of my vision, I see her toss her head in the direction of the Sorority. Urging me to back away from the strange man and come with her. And she’s right. That’s what I should do. But every muscle in this man’s body is tense. Tightly wound. And he’s fucking fast. As I watch him watch me, I suddenly know that if I run, he’ll chase me.

And he’ll damn well catch me.

As sick as he looks, I’m outmatched. I need another approach.

“Hi,” I say, and he cocks his head to the side, as if he’s studying my voice. Not just processing the word, but analyzing the sound itself. Sampling it carefully, the way we try unfamiliar berries, to see if they’re edible. “We…um…didn’t see you there. Because of how you were completely submerged in the water. Fully clothed. I mean, it’s none of my business how you do your laundry, but the more common technique involves taking your clothes off before you wash them.”

He stares at me for a minute. Then he reaches for the hem of his soaked shirt and starts to pull it off.

“Whoa, no, wait a minute. That was advice, not an invitation.” My hands curl in the mud I’m sitting in, and distantly I notice that my right palm stings. “We’re gonna go and let you have nature’s laundry room all to yourself. Since you’ve probably scared off all the fish, anyway.” But when I try to push myself up, he lunges at me.

I scream, my fingers scrabbling for the spear I dropped when I fell, and an instant later, I’m flat on my back in the mud, with this man’s body hovering over mine. His hips between my thighs.

Danna screeches again, but I’m too stunned to make a sound. I blink, and the face over mine comes into focus, silvery gaze boring into me. My heart pounds, and when I try to fit my hands between us, to shove him off, he starts to make an odd sound. A…thrum. Like the sound of a small fan, it’s a soft oscillation, like a throaty hum. That sound echoes through me until I can feel it resonating in my bones. Relaxing my tense muscles. Quietly undermining the fight-or-flight instinct that is supposed to keep me alive in a situation like this.

I know I should be kicking and screaming, but as crazy as it seems, this sound coming from him makes me feel…safe.

He’s not tearing at my clothes. He isn’t even touching me; he seems to be holding his weight on his hands and feet, as if he’s doing a plank, hovering less than an inch above me. But he’s dripping water all over me, and his body is so close to mine that I can feel the heat pouring off it.

I think he might have a fever.

He lowers his head until he’s sniffing my hair, just beneath my ear. Then he starts rubbing the side of his face against mine, like a cat demanding attention. He’s getting water all over my cheek. And he’s still making that odd sound.

“Um...” I begin, and he lifts himself briefly, then begins methodically rubbing his face against my other cheek, moving slowly toward my temple. “As normal as this total invasion of my personal space might seem to someone who bathes in his clothes…this is pretty weird, and I really have to go. So if you could maybe—”

He lifts himself just as quickly as he pounced, rising to his feet with startling speed and grace. Then he wipes his muddy hands on his pants and offers me his left one, to help me up. But it’s his right hand that holds my attention.

It’s blank.

While Danna, and Sahra, and I—and every other convict I’ve met—have a prisoner number tattooed on the heels of our right palms, this man’s palm is completely unmarked.

Clearly unaware of my confusion, he extends his hand even farther, and I accept his help, because it doesn’t seem smart to be rude to super-weird strangers in the woods. Especially super-weird strangers who have no prisoner number and move like lightning, despite obvious illness.

The man with the cleft chin pulls me up, but rather than let my hand go, he…sniffs it. His dark brows furrow, then he takes the sopping wet tail of his shirt and wipes the mud from my right palm. Blood wells immediately from a puncture wound on the heel of my hand, where a twig broke the skin when I fell.

The man pulls my hand close to his face, and for a second, I’m afraid he’s going to take a big bite. We haven’t run into any cannibals in zone three, but truthfully, that’s about the only flavor of degenerate not represented out here, so it wouldn’t surprise me if—

But he only sniffs the blood. His frown deepens, then his tongue darts out—faster and longer than should be possible—and licks the drop of blood from my hand.

I gasp and pull away, and at first, he just blinks at me. Then his strange silvery irises seem to shrink as his pupils expand. He growls at me and grabs my wrist again, in a grip I can’t break, and he starts licking my palm. The scratch of his rough tongue against my skin feels oddly soothing. Less like he wants to take a bite than like he wants to get to know me through this weird tasting ritual. Like one dog might sniff another dog’s scent.

His tongue moves toward my wrist, just beneath his fingers, and it flicks over the veins visible there. He’s making that noise again, that thrumming sound, and this time it feels like an apology. Like a…reassurance. Over the fact that he’s not going to let me go.

Shit.

On my right, I can feel Danna moving closer, each step tense, but nearly silent. “Um…we should go,” she says, and I nod. I pull firmly on my arm again, and again the man growls. But then he lets me go. I take a careful step back, and when he doesn’t pounce, I take another.

“It was super weird to not-quite meet you,” I say careful not to look away from him as I squat to pick up my spear. Hoping he doesn’t read aggression in that. “Thanks for…not eating us.” Then I spin and grab Danna’s arm, and I practically pull her back into the woods, listening carefully to make sure his footsteps don’t follow us.

“Thanks for not eating us?” she whispers, when we’re far enough away from the stream, and there’s no sign that we’re being stalked.

I shrug. “That was weird, right?”

“Super weird.”

“And I swear to god, for a minute there, I got the distinct feeling that he wanted to…devour me.”