I nod, but instead of putting it on myself, I lift my hair and turn, presenting him with my neck. His hand grazes me, and I can feel a strange glove covering his fingers. The moment it brushes over my skin, I shiver. Why is that a turn-on? I should be grossed out by this whole situation, but for some reason I'm not. Maybe it's because he's being gentle? That I'm fascinated by his touch?
But then the collar clasps around my throat and I remember why it's there. I swallow hard, resisting the urge to claw at my throat. I have a vague memory of this. Very vague. And I hate it.
Straik's big hand slides down my back, a comforting gesture. "Are you all right?"
I nod, but I'm not sure I feel all right. "Give it a spin, make sure the damn thing works."
"Very well." He holds his hand out in front of me, and when he flexes it, the collar shivers. In my peripheral vision, I can see a small light flash. "Satisfied?"
"Not sure that's a word I'd ever use to describe this," I manage, touching the thing around my throat. Old memories flicker through, none of them good. "C-can we have a safe word?"
Straik takes me by the shoulder and turns me toward him. There's a fierce frown on his face as he studies mine. "Safe word?"
"You know, in case it becomes too much? A word that lets you know I'm freaking out? Something that wouldn't come up in conversation, like 'help' or 'take this off me.'"
"I've changed my mind," he says darkly. "You're staying."
"No!" I grab his hand, squeezing that glove. "Please. I can do this. I want to go out. I haven't been anywhere but your ship and the Star in the last three years. I need to see what it's like out there."
He stares at me, eyes narrowed.
"I can hold my shit together. I promise."
Straik nods. "Your word is 'needle.' If you mention that, or sewing, I will know you are struggling and we will return immediately. Understand?"
"Yes. Thank you." I give his hand another squeeze and then drop it.
Straik runs a hand down his dark clothing and then straightens, an imperious look moving over his features. "Walk one step behind me at all times. If I sit down, you either stand behind me or sit at my feet, but only with permission." He leans in, his gaze moving over me in that oddly possessive way of his. "I know and you know that you are not obedient, but you'll have to pretend."
A little huff of laughter escapes me. This is all pretend. "Can I be a naughty slave?"
His mouth twitches on one side, breaking that icy demeanor he's wearing like a mask. "I would expect nothing less from you. Come on, then." He turns and heads out of his quarters, and I trot behind him, my hand on the strange-feeling collar.
We head down another side hall and a big portal has been opened up, leading to a covered ramp not unlike the one you take to get on an airplane back home. This one leads down, though, and as we approach, I notice all of the a'ani crew are waiting nearby. They all have on oddly colored uniforms with a patch that has something that looks like a feather, and all are sporting weapon belts loaded with blasters.
Straik pauses. "You all have your ship and ownership ID?"
The men nod, and one even pulls out a shiny-looking card, activating it to show a profile and a lot of scribbly writing I can't read. I'd forgotten that the a'ani are freed clones, when most of their people are enslaved. Just like me, they have to pretend to be someone's property, though they're probably safer because they're men.
Straik seems satisfied with the response. "Signal me if anything seems amiss, and return to the ship by curfew. I suspect I'll be having dinner with my friend Bist if you need me." He turns toward me. "Follow."
We head down the ramp, and I give a sheepish look to the a'ani. Dopekh gives me a thumbs up as I pass, which means I must look the part, I think.
At the bottom of a ramp, a figure comes into view. Then another. A few more men with furry, cat-like faces, all wearing the same livery surround what looks like a square table swathed in expensive, flashy fabrics. A moment later, one of the men deposits a…thing on the table, and they all bow to it.
It's not a man. It looks like a four-foot tall pillbug, feelers and all. I swallow hard, trying to fight the disgusted feeling in my throat as the thing rears back on its myriad arms and legs and waves them in the air.
"Bist," Straik says in a crisp voice, speaking to the bug. "Good to see you again, friend."