I spit the pill out the moment that my jailer closes the door and I hear the electronic beep of the lock. It is a giant thing—bitter and tasting faintly of soap.
I’m at the auction house, held in a small room—though cell is a more appropriate word for it. There’s a small bench that I could lie down on, if it had a pillow or blanket. There’s a small toilet and sink. And a bowl of thin, watery gruel. The gruel is actually the only good thing about this place. After seeing the fat squirming grubs that the protein bricks are made of, I’m not sure I want to eat one of those oily things ever again.
I know what this pill is for. It’s hard to keep it in my mouth for so long, the coating dissolving and bitter granules stinging the inside of my cheek. But I do it. I put it in my mouth, tucking it between my teeth and cheek. It’s so big that it feels like it’s protruding beneath my skin like an abscess, but the jailer says nothing. He only nods and leaves me.
Then I spit it out.
Maybe it’s the naive, immature, foolish part of me again. The foolish part of me that thought if Droka and I became bonded mates than his vows and my Mark would not matter. The naive part of me that didn’t really think that I’d be caged an auctioned off to some alien brothel owner. The immature part of me that didn’t listen to reason—that knew the consequences would be dire, but acted anyway, just because I wanted to.
Because I am foolish to spit out this pill. And naive. And immature.
After the peacekeepers bring me here, I’m processed by the staff. The first step is the doctor, who strips my clothes off and starts poking and prodding between my legs. Droka’s seed is still sticky on my thighs, still dripping from my sex. “Stupid female,” he mutters. “Impure.”
He tells me to sit up and he examines the rest of my body, giving me a vision test, a hearing test, inspecting my teeth for rotten patches. I feel like a horse at the market. Then, he says, he’ll send a pill to take care of my stupid mistake.
And even though the Zalaryns have a lot of technology, I don’t think they have a pill that will turn me into a virgin again.
It must be a pregnancy preventative pill. I heard about girls or wives sometimes brewing teas to prevent pregnancy when I was on Earth, but I was young and didn’t quite understand it. Now I do.
If I’m to become a brothel’s exotic human pleasure slave, my new owner will not want me impregnated.
But I spit it out. It seems criminal to suppress the natural outcome of an act… that felt so right.
Oh void, I was just going to say an act of love.
Was that it? Love? Do Zalaryns even feel love? More importantly, can I?
It’s foolish to spit out the pill. As if the possibility of a child kindling inside my womb would change my circumstances—that the brothel owner, after seeing my swollen belly, would have a change of heart. Yeah, right. Foolish. Because if there is such a life kindling, when the evidence becomes clear in a few months, there’ll be a much bigger price to pay.
Still. I can’t bring myself to do it.
These aliens Marked me when I was twelve years old. I became their property. And though I tried to hide, they found me, and I’ve been passed from one master to another. Stripped naked more than once—my body poked and examined and leered at, my entire worth boiled down to the holes that can bring a Zalaryn male a few moments of fleeting pleasure.
So fuck them. They can’t make me do everything.
I’m not sure how much time passes. There are no windows in my little room. The only way I can keep track of the time is by the bowls of gruel that one of the staff members, an alien who calls himself Osyr, brings me. But I don’t feel like eating, so it’s hard to say how long it’s been.
I mostly lie down on the bench, but the cold metal makes it impossible to relax. But maybe the fact that I’m about to be sold as a pleasure slave is the real reason I can’t relax.
Then suddenly, the door flies open without warning and I see Osyr standing in the doorway. He looks angry—but then again, that’s how he always looks. “Prepare yourself for auction,” he says. I don’t exactly know what that means. He has a metal tray with a small cake of soap, a towel and a metal razor blade. “You will wash and shave all your hair.” He stops to think for a moment, perhaps grasping for the right word. “From here, here and here.” He points to his armpit, his legs and his groin to illustrate. He wants me to shave my underarms, legs and pubic hair? That is so bizarre—but I’ve been through so much that this request is hardly the worst of it. When I don’t make a move for the tray, he adds, “If you do not do so willingly, I will get a few helpers to hold you down and do it. I rather think you’d prefer this task be left in your own hands?”
“Yes,” I say. I want to take that razor blade and slice open his neck. But, of course, I don’t.
I wash and shave, recoiling at the bare skin between my legs. I’m horrified at the fact that I will be inspected and ogled by these alien bastards—that they’ll be able to see my bare lips, my pink inner flesh. But that’s not my main concern as I look down and see my hairless sex.
I wonder if Droka would like it. And that’s surely stupid, because it doesn’t matter now. I’m never going to see him again.
Unless perhaps he patronizes the pleasure house where I end up enslaved.
Droka. The thought of him makes me tremble even harder, and I’m not sure if it’s longing or hate that I feel.
Did he report me? Was this his doing? Thinking they would find me eventually, did he decide that it was better to turn me over sooner rather than later? Because it wouldn’t be proper if the Captain of the Imperial Guard was found harboring a stolen Marked female. That wouldn’t be proper at all.
My heart knows that it isn’t true. That he would never do that. But if not him, then who?
Osyr comes back with a collar and a leash in his hand. “Come on,” he says. “He said to go ahead and auction you off. He’s not interested if you’re impure.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. I realize that I’m in no position to ask questions, but giving me some information is the least he can do.
“The male who wished to purchase you,” he says. “Females are almost always auctioned, but in special situations, a male can purchase a female directly. It requires considerable status and money, so it’s not common.”
My heart starts to pound in my chest. I can see my ribcage bulging under my skin with every beat. Who wished to purchase me? Was it Droka? He’s got enough status, doesn’t he? Except for that damned oath to take no mates. But then, Osyr says that the buyer isn’t interested anymore. That can’t be Droka, can it?
“Who wished to purchase me?” I say. I am surprised by the own anger and authority in my voice. It’s not the voice of the fugitive dirt-farmer on Yrdat.
It’s the voice of the bonded mate to the Captain of the Imperial Guard.
“You better not act this way in front of the customers,” he says, but I notice that his eyes are softer—that the corners of his mouth are raised in what might be a smile. “But I will tell you. Captain Commander Ingzan. He said that you were a fugitive. That he apprehended you, but you escaped. He notified the peacekeepers and told them to look for you at the fortress in the company of a certain guardsman. The facts seem to bear out his story, wouldn’t you say? He put a fair amount of coin down as a deposit for you.”
“But he changed his mind?” I ask.
“It was on the condition of your purity. Since you’ve been defiled,” Osyr says, sadness and irritation reclaiming his face, “He says to sell you off.”
My head is spinning. It was Ingzan who reported me? The sick bastard.
Osyr steps forward and puts a collar around my neck, and then binds my hands behind my back and tells me to walk. When I hesitate, he uses a thin, flexible switch across the back of my thighs. The pain is bright and white and I yelp in pain and confusion.
“I have spoken plainly to you, but do not let that cloud your thinking,” he says. “Never forget that you are second-class merchandise. You are the leftovers no one wants. You will listen and you will obey. You should hope someone is stupid enough to buy a dirty, used cunt like yours. Any coin you can get for it will be more than you deserve.”
I tremble with rage and frustration. But I walk. Oh yes, I walk. I don’t want him to use that switch on me again. I can’t help think that if Droka was here, he’d find a creative place to put that switch. Perhaps in Osyr’s eye.
My jailer tells me to stop when we get to the end of a long hallway. “Smile. Be nice. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Follow all instructions. Obey all commands. All commands.” He emphasizes this last part. Does he really mean all commands? He must, because he says it twice.
I hold my breath and step out onto the auction floor.