Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series) (19 page)

“The Alliance Federation? No, although close, bunny. Logan Stark doesn’t actually rule the galaxy, but he does come near at times.” He hefted the carrier of drinks. “Now go change your clothes and comb your hair, and we’ll go out, have supper and watch some quasiball.”

She stared at him, perplexed.
 

“What?” he demanded. “You having trouble understanding me?”

“No, but…can’t we speak with these medics now? It’s important.”

“No, we can’t do it now. Quasiball trumps any problem, don’t care how big. And problems have a way of staying put until we get to ‘em. Yours’ll still be there in the morning. Now go change your clothes.”

“Change my clothes?” She touched the tan shirt, her stomach sinking. “You said that, but—I haven’t anything else to wear. There is nowhere to shop here.”

He nodded toward the bedroom. “Yeah, you do. Got some things for you from one of the women. Go change, and hurry up. I want my supper.”

Zaë hurried into the bedroom. There, she stopped to stare in surprise. On the side of the bed away from where she’d slept lay a top and leggings the blue of Frontieran skies. The top had elbow length sleeves, lace inset in the low vee of the neckline, knots of beads sewn in a design around it. She dashed into the lav and changed quickly, tiptoeing up to see her reflection in the mirrors.
 

The clothes were very snug, which was disconcerting, as her breasts seemed to stand out from her body, and she was sure her hips and bottom were highlighted in the same way. Better than the humiliating costume the slavers had put on her, but still not what she felt she was used to.
 

But the color brought out the blue of her eyes, and the pink of her lips and cheeks. Hurriedly, she washed her face and tidied her hair, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. There, she looked better, although she wished she had cosmetics to enhance her eyes and her lips, like the other women here. Just to help her fit in.

She also wished she could wear her hair down. She touched the collar and grimaced. Everyone would see it. But at the same time, it made her feel safe. He had claimed her, that meant he would keep her safe...she hoped.
 

“Zaë!” He sounded impatient.

“Coming,” she called back. She hurried out into the bedroom, stepped into the soft flats, and then paused before leaving the bedroom. She squeezed her eyes shut, and then opened them, took a breath and blew it out.
 

Her master stood by the open door. As he looked her over, something changed in his eyes, something that she felt like a physical touch, something that made her face and throat hot again.

“There now,” he drawled. “That’s more like it.”

“They’re too tight,” she said, pulling at the top. “I think I should change back to the other clothing.”

This did not please him, judging by the way his eyes narrowed. “That’s skrog shit. A woman has a body like yours, she should show it off. Give a man somethin’ sweet to look at.”

“I thought you didn’t want men looking at me.”

“They can look at you with your hair bound up and most of your soft skin covered.” His gaze rested on her throat, and the collar seemed to burn against her skin. “And with my collar on you, they know better than to touch. Now come on. And stick close to me. We like to party, and it can get wild. Gets too wild, you’re back in here.”

“Wait,” she blurted.

“What?” he asked impatiently, his hand on the door.

Zaë touched the lace bodice of her top. “These things—are they stolen?”

Chapter 12

Zaë held her position, but with difficulty, as Joran Stark’s silver gaze hardened and cooled, his hand tightening on the door.

“Are those things stolen? Maybe they are,” he drawled. “You want to take them off, that’s fine with me. I don’t mind a naked woman in my tont. But you won’t leave it, that’s for certain. Now, do you have any more questions, or are you ready to get on with the evening?”

If he had been another man, less wild, less dangerous, and one who had not just acknowledged with no shame that he was a thief, she would have thought his feelings hurt. But of course that couldn’t be...could it?

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

“To stick close and mind what I say,” he repeated, his gaze already out the door.

“I’ll stick close,” she promised. No problem there—she was afraid of his volatile moods, but she was even more afraid of losing his protection.

Outside, it was darker, the fire crackling higher in the darkness, limning the beings around it in warm, red-gold light. The whole camp seemed to be there, the tonts emptied out. A party mood was evident. Most everyone had a drink in their hands. Children darted amongst the adults. Ringi sat with a stocky man, light hair bound back with a headband, his arm around her shoulders. A cradle floated beside them, their little one sleeping in it.

The redheaded woman, Qala, laughed with a voluptuous, dark-haired woman in an embroidered gown that glittered in the firelight. Zaë recognized her with a jolt as the woman Stark had gone to in the morning.
 

The Occulans sat to one side, sipping drinks and watching the party around them. The tall, handsome man with the wild hair—Haro, that was his name—was telling a story to a group of other men. He sketched something in the air before him, a woman’s form, and the others roared with laughter.
 

The huge man Var sat with the small blonde woman on his lap. They were kissing, his big hand in the myriad of small braids trailing as she leaned into him, oblivious to the crowd around them. He held her small, lithe body carefully, as if she was precious.

Watching them, Zaë bumped into Stark when he stopped. He reached back and pulled her to his side, his heavy arm looped around her shoulders. Zaë’s face and throat burned as everyone’s gazes zeroed in on her, frankly speculative and assessing. This was a thousand times worse than earlier in the day.
 

Now, several women were watching her. Women who wore their hair loose and flowing, over tight, brief clothing, with heavy, glittering cosmetics enhancing their faces, and jewelry glinting from their ears, noses and dripping from hands and throats. Women who wore their sensuality openly.One blonde glared at Zaë as if she’d like to rip her away from Stark and take her place.

Ah, these were the women from whom Stark chose for sex. Not Ringi and her ilk, who Zaë now recognized as a valued partner, probably monogamous.

Zaë wanted to call to the group of women and tell them to examine the Storm’s body language, and realize that he held her with no affection, but instead the way one would hold onto a possession one had to keep track of in a crowded place.
 

Instead, she forced herself to stand quietly, shoulders back, face serene. That part felt natural, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. Although not with a man’s arm heavy on her shoulders. Before, it had been different. She’d stood with other people, but...
 

Pain throbbed, and she flinched, bringing herself back to the now. Thankfully, it worked. If she stopped
trying
to remember and just let memories come, she could avoid most of the pain. Although she didn’t want to think of how long that might take.
 

Better to focus on the now. Some of the warriors were watching her, too, as if they were wondering about her. Their gazes said most were doing so in a purely sexual way. At least with Stark’s arm around her, she felt safe. These men might look, but they wouldn’t touch her, not as long as she was at his side.

“Boss is here,” Haro called. “Let’s get this party started!”

Raucous approval roared from many throats. “Half hour til match time,” another man yelled. “Let’s eat.”

Music started up, a rollicking piece with the solid beat of drums, qitars and a raspy horn. It was loud and cheerful, music that made Zaë’s feet want to tap and her hips want to swivel.
 

She followed Stark over to a long table groaning with food, accepting the plate a woman handed her, and the mountain of food that was dished onto it. Her stomach growled again, but at least now it was drowned out by the loud voices and the music. The food smelled heavenly, spicier and more flavorful than Nera’s plain cooking.

Plate in hand, Stark walked to the center of the chairs grouped before the fire. He sat in a large chair, and yanked a low stool to him with one booted foot. “Sit,” he told her.
 

Zaë hesitated, certain that a lady sat
beside
her escort, not at his feet. She had never sat at a man’s feet, at least she didn’t think so.

She frowned down at him. Words formed on the tip of her tongue, a polite but firm reminder that she was a guest here, not a servant or his ‘pet’.
 

Stark raised his brows at her. “You want to eat, sit. Otherwise, go back inside.”

He may have rescued her, but he was an obnoxious tyrant to remind her of her lack of choice. Chin high, back straight, face burning from the amused or unfriendly stares of those watching, Zaë sat, her legs folded gracefully to one side. She held herself away from Stark, gaze on her food, not on him or any of his crew, who she was rapidly deciding might be tough and frightening, but they were also obnoxious, and busybodies.
 

He promptly pulled her back so she leaned against his knee and the edge of his seat. “Now eat.”

Even angry and embarrassed, she was hungry. She’d done little except eat and rest here, but her body craved calories after the days of being hungry. She focused her attention on her tray and ate, using her spork and her fingers. There was some kind of hot seasoned grains dripping with butter, a cold creamy salad with crunchy veg, more of the fresh camp bread, and some kind of meat, so tender it fell apart, and dripping with a tangy, sweet sauce, smoky from the fire. Delicious.

The man Haro claimed the seat next to Stark, and Qala the seat past him. Haro winked at Zaë, while Qala glared at her. Zaë nodded, then avoided both of their gazes.

She sighed with pleasure, and licked her fingertips. Since there were no napkins, she wiped them surreptitiously on the inner hem of her shirt.

“Ale,” someone called. Two bottles flipped through the air. Zaë ducked, and Stark caught them, opened them with a twist and handed her one. Zaë took a cautious sip and licked her lips. Then she grimaced. The flavor was strong and sharp, and the bubbles prickled her nose.

“Come up here and lick my lips like that,” Stark suggested with a grin.
 

A rumble of laughter sounded from across the fire. “Now there’s a fine service your little immi can give you, boss,” a deep, rough voice called.
 

Zaë looked to where the voice had come from and froze. A huge, dark man with a mop of black braids grinned ferociously at her. He looked like he wanted to devour her for part of his meal. She shrank back against Stark’s knee.

“Mako’s a good man,” Stark said. “Tried to save a bunch of your fellow auction victims.”

Stark’s choice of words penetrated. “He
tried
? Was he the pilot who was shot down?” She eyed the huge man with new eyes. When he turned his head, she saw a bandage protruding from under his hair. He sat stiffly, as if injured.
 

“Right. They died, and he nearly did. If you don’t like ale, go get yourself a berry wine.”

That sounded better. She rose and looked around. “Where is the wine? And what do we do with our dishes?”

Stark handed her his. “In the recycler, by the end of the food tables. Give me your ale.”

“But I drank from it,” she pointed out. “Sharing a bottle is unhygienic.”

He leaned forward, took the bottle from her hands, and drank, his gaze holding hers. Then he licked his lips. “Mm-mm.”

Zaë hurried away, his chuckle following her. He’d done that on purpose. Again, rude—a gentleman should do his utmost to make a lady comfortable, not the opposite.

As promised, she found bottles of berry wine in the cold tub. She chose one and opened it. Looking around, she saw no one paying attention to her for the moment. She sidled back to stand in the shadows at the edge of the crowd as she sipped her wine. It was smooth and heady, with just enough sweetness.
 

From her quiet nook, she watched Stark’s crew and their families with fascination and dawning amusement. They were loud, raucous and rude, yelling insults at each other and laughing with abandon.
 

But she saw no one being mistreated, and the children were well-cared for. One little blond boy fell, burst into noisy tears and was immediately righted by a tough, ebony-skinned man who picked him up, said something that turned tears to a smile, and sent the boy on his way with a grin.

Even thieves had a hierarchy, it seemed, like a tribe, a rough and wild one. Each partnership had an alpha, who sat back and let a mate wait on him or her. The alpha protected the other, and thus expected to be served in return.
 

And Stark was the alpha of all of them. Lounging in his chair, he was the center around which the others revolved. They leaned toward him, listened as he spoke and nodded respectfully, laughed when he joked, sobered when he gave an order.