I allow myself to feel safe.
Just for a little while.
Chapter 8
Quinn
She's going to kill herself.
She's going to abso-fucking-lutely kill herself, and at this moment, I'm happy knowing humans can't smell emotions the way aliens can. I'm happy knowing she has no idea just how pissed I am that she tried to escape.
What the hell was she thinking?
I should have known better. I should have known she's a fighter, should have known she'd figure out a way to get out of the room. I should have known she'd feel like she had to try to escape the moment I turned my back on her.
I really can't blame her. Wouldn't I do the same thing? If I was trapped on a planet with no hope for escape, wouldn't I try anyway? I think I would. I think I'd try. I think I'd do anything if it meant getting away.
Instead of taking Fiona back to her room, I find myself going to my own bedroom. Despite the fact that I have an entire warehouse to hide out in, I always sleep on the ship. It still feels more secure to me, still feels safer. It feels comfortable and a little homey and even though I'm going to have to turn over the ship eventually, I like sleeping on it.
I like my bed.
By the time we get to my room, Fiona is passed out in my arms. The little waif has no idea just how dehydrated and starved she is. I don't know how long they kept her locked up before the auction, but she needs food and water and she needs to be cleaned up. I had gotten all the medical supplies to her room before I realized she'd escaped. As soon as I saw she was gone, I dropped everything and ran, trying to get to her before she left the warehouse.
I hadn't counted on her passing out on the ground.
I just thought she didn't know what she was running to.
If she thinks I'm bad, she's going to be shocked with the outside world. It's so much worse. I wouldn't wish Dreagle on my worst enemy: let alone a scared little girl with nowhere to go.
She needs a bath, so I lay her on the bed and go to draw one. As soon as the tub is full, I go back into my room and wake up Fiona.
"Come on," I tell her. "Let's get you cleaned up."
"No," she protests, lightly pushing against me. "No. Leave me alone."
r /> "I'll be gentle," I tell her, and somehow, that seems to change her mind because she allows me to help her into the bathroom and into the water.
"Wow," she says, relaxing back into the water. "That feels nice."
She keeps her eyes closed and doesn't move or protest as I gently wash her hair and her hands. The clear water turns muddy as I get the dirt and grime off of her body. The bruises I find beneath the dirt piss me off. I already knew she had a few, but there are more than I expected.
What the fuck did those slavers do to her? I get that she tried to escape, but there's no excuse for this. There's no reason they had to hurt her this badly. There's nothing anyone could say to convince me otherwise.
She was in danger, and then they hurt her.
She was scared, and then they caused her pain.
Fiona stays still as I use a washcloth to gently clean the cuts on her hands. At one point, she sucks in her breath, and I know she's fighting the pain. I know she's trying not to cry.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm trying to be gentle."
"It's okay," she says, but I'm still a little more cautious, a little more careful as I move the cloth over her body. I wash her arms and her chest. Then I move to her breasts. Gently, I wash away the dirty from her nipples. My dick hardens when I touch her, and I feel ashamed. She's a victim. I shouldn't be aroused by the fact that I'm touching her, but I never said I was a hero.
I never said I was a good guy.
I'm not.
I'm a thief and a coward. I'm not the type of guy who saves women, who rescues them from terrible fates. That's not me. That's never been me. I'm not interested in wooing the girl, in sweeping her off her tiny little feet.