a no-brainer. Elbowing her legal proxy, she glanced at him. Her legal proxy appeared on the verge of fainting. “Say something,” she whispered under her breath.
“I…I…must protest.”
That was it? “I must protest”? Great, I’m so farden frigged it’s not funny. The tension infusing the artificial environment grew heavy. Shar’ia felt tears gather in her eyes, but she blinked the wetness away. She wasn’t about to start crying like a baby, no matter how dire her circumstance or how hideous her punishment. Pursing her lips, she clenched her teeth.
“Leanderus, show Ms. Shar’ia to her quarters while I discuss the situation with her legal proxy.” Supreme Commander Fis Cand fisted his hand.
The thud of a body hitting the floor sounded next. Shar’ia stared at the unconscious figure of her legal proxy. “Wait,” she cried when a firm hand took possession of the six-inch long metal bar separating the metal cuffs circling her wrists. “I’ll lodge a formal protest with InterGal.”
“If that is your choice, so be it,” the one named Leanderus informed her.
Another pattering of sand fell from overhead vents to sprinkle down on her head and shoulders. Fear combined with lust to make her an emotional mess. The conflicting emotions oddly charged her body while the realization the Navorains were going to exact the ultimate punishment from her had her nearly in panic-induced tears. “Can’t we talk about this?”
In the back of her mind, she knew she’d do just about anything to keep herself alive. Anything and everything. She considered escape for a split second but disregarded the notion. The only way she could pull that off was with help from a member of the crew. You’ve lost all your senses if you think a Navorain warrior is going to break whatever code it is they follow and help you off this ship. Sadly, Shar’ia recognized the wisdom in her thought.
There was no escape.
A few more options shot through her head. She came up with a few scenarios she thought might fit with her limited knowledge of these types of cultures. It didn’t take her long to realize her only option was to beg for mercy and relinquish her freedom but keep her godforsaken life by becoming one of the warriors’ slaves.
She slid her gaze to the side and took in Leanderus. Small talk seemed to be the only way to open the lines of communication. But, I don’t want them to grow suspicious.
This is a farden friggin multi-spacecraft wreck on the I-995 galactic byway.
Her musings went from acceptance of what she had to do to how she needed to pull off her notion to downright disaster in the blink of an eye. Her gaze followed Leanderus’ strong fingers working the control pad outside a room. An involuntary shiver of sheer terror racked her body. And the damnable desire surging through her body ratcheted up a notch. “Is this the brig?”
“No,” Leanderus responded simply.
Her heart surged upward and seemed to lodge in her throat when she took in the accouterments of the room. Spartan was the only word to describe the space. She could count the contents of the room on one hand. Her gaze roamed over the low-to-the-ground bed, a desk, a dresser and another door, which she was almost certain led to a personal care compartment. If anything, the minimal furnishings, even the layout of the furniture, reminded her of her quarters aboard her ship. That was due to the nature of her craft’s duty. It was a Warbird. Physical space was at a premium for the sole purpose of maximizing the number of crewmen needed to keep her in tip-top shape, man her guns, and pilot the ship.
Audibly gulping, Shar’ia bit her lower lip when Leanderus escorted her to the bed. Her femininity clenched when he released his hold on the shackles and caressed a hot path up her arm. She gasped when he cupped her head in one of his huge hands.
Over the hard thudding of her heart, she heard her breathing turn to short pants. The soft strains of a song
“I…I…must protest.”
That was it? “I must protest”? Great, I’m so farden frigged it’s not funny. The tension infusing the artificial environment grew heavy. Shar’ia felt tears gather in her eyes, but she blinked the wetness away. She wasn’t about to start crying like a baby, no matter how dire her circumstance or how hideous her punishment. Pursing her lips, she clenched her teeth.
“Leanderus, show Ms. Shar’ia to her quarters while I discuss the situation with her legal proxy.” Supreme Commander Fis Cand fisted his hand.
The thud of a body hitting the floor sounded next. Shar’ia stared at the unconscious figure of her legal proxy. “Wait,” she cried when a firm hand took possession of the six-inch long metal bar separating the metal cuffs circling her wrists. “I’ll lodge a formal protest with InterGal.”
“If that is your choice, so be it,” the one named Leanderus informed her.
Another pattering of sand fell from overhead vents to sprinkle down on her head and shoulders. Fear combined with lust to make her an emotional mess. The conflicting emotions oddly charged her body while the realization the Navorains were going to exact the ultimate punishment from her had her nearly in panic-induced tears. “Can’t we talk about this?”
In the back of her mind, she knew she’d do just about anything to keep herself alive. Anything and everything. She considered escape for a split second but disregarded the notion. The only way she could pull that off was with help from a member of the crew. You’ve lost all your senses if you think a Navorain warrior is going to break whatever code it is they follow and help you off this ship. Sadly, Shar’ia recognized the wisdom in her thought.
There was no escape.
A few more options shot through her head. She came up with a few scenarios she thought might fit with her limited knowledge of these types of cultures. It didn’t take her long to realize her only option was to beg for mercy and relinquish her freedom but keep her godforsaken life by becoming one of the warriors’ slaves.
She slid her gaze to the side and took in Leanderus. Small talk seemed to be the only way to open the lines of communication. But, I don’t want them to grow suspicious.
This is a farden friggin multi-spacecraft wreck on the I-995 galactic byway.
Her musings went from acceptance of what she had to do to how she needed to pull off her notion to downright disaster in the blink of an eye. Her gaze followed Leanderus’ strong fingers working the control pad outside a room. An involuntary shiver of sheer terror racked her body. And the damnable desire surging through her body ratcheted up a notch. “Is this the brig?”
“No,” Leanderus responded simply.
Her heart surged upward and seemed to lodge in her throat when she took in the accouterments of the room. Spartan was the only word to describe the space. She could count the contents of the room on one hand. Her gaze roamed over the low-to-the-ground bed, a desk, a dresser and another door, which she was almost certain led to a personal care compartment. If anything, the minimal furnishings, even the layout of the furniture, reminded her of her quarters aboard her ship. That was due to the nature of her craft’s duty. It was a Warbird. Physical space was at a premium for the sole purpose of maximizing the number of crewmen needed to keep her in tip-top shape, man her guns, and pilot the ship.
Audibly gulping, Shar’ia bit her lower lip when Leanderus escorted her to the bed. Her femininity clenched when he released his hold on the shackles and caressed a hot path up her arm. She gasped when he cupped her head in one of his huge hands.
Over the hard thudding of her heart, she heard her breathing turn to short pants. The soft strains of a song
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