If that means springing a convict, marrying him, and then having him get me pregnant? I’m game.
It’s clearly a lot for him to absorb, though. I’ve had weeks to process this, to cry, and then to grimly accept my fate. I’ve been working on this plan for sleepless night after sleepless night, trying to figure out the best way to move forward while staying under the radar. It was Chloe—the wife of an alien named Jutari—who alerted me to their friend and his situation. That Jutari knew an old friend from Haven, which was a prison planet. That the man had escaped and been lying low on Risda and doing odd jobs, but he’d gotten scooped up by bounty hunters looking to make a quick buck on the side. He’s been rotting in jail for days now, about to be shipped off world and back to the prison.
His situation is desperate. Mine, too. Luckily for me, I know there’s a lot of shady things that happen behind closed doors, so it’s a problem that can be fixed with the right amount of money. I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with the peace officers here if they’d known I was looking to get Vordigar specifically. They would have charged me a fortune and squeezed every last credit out of me that they could have.
So I played up the dumb, innocent human. I baked those fuckers cookies. I batted my lashes and pretended to be completely and utterly unsure of myself. I told them I needed a slave to run my farm, no questions asked, and they were all too happy to take my bribe. That’s how things go on the outer rim, I’ve learned. Credits pave the way for everything and laws can be completely circumvented with the right bribe. Now, Vordigar is mine.
Theoretically. Since it’s all under the table, my “ownership” of him is only going to last until he escapes. From the look of him, that won’t be long, either.
He rubs his wrist, silent, in the spot where he had the shock-bracelet on his hand. I try not to stare at him as my air-sled speeds over crop fields, heading toward my distant farm. I’m a few hours’ flight away from port, so I’ve got plenty of time to convince Vordigar he needs to stay with me.
“I know it’s a lot to throw at you at once,” I say. “But hear me out.”
“Oh, I’m listening.” He’s starting to recover, that sly grin returning to his mouth. He’s clearly the type that uses humor to deflect, but I don’t have time for fun and games. I notice he watches the countryside and eyes my air-sled’s control panel. He’s got a look on his face that tells me he’s already plotting his next move.
I don’t feel unsafe, though. I’ve been around murderers and all kinds of galactic scum in the past. You notice real quickly the ones that won’t think twice about killing you. They have a certain look in their eye when they watch you, like you’re an ant that they’re thinking about holding a magnifying glass over. They’re more interested in how to hurt you than anything else. There’s a coldness to their manner.
Jutari has that. Chloe told me he used to be an assassin, and I absolutely believe it. There’s a calculating, almost cruel look in his gaze when he studies anyone…anyone except his wife and baby, that is. With them, he melts.
This man—alien—doesn’t have that cold calculation in his eyes. He’s scheming, all right, but when he looks at me, he watches my face, glances at my tits, and studies my hands. He looks at me like I’m a person, not a thing to be disposed of. Whatever he was in prison for, it’s not murder. I’ve heard that a lot of mesakkah got shipped off to prisons when some war of theirs went awry, though. Maybe that’s the case here.
“You’re from Homeworld?” I ask Vordigar, trying to get him to open up. He’s clearly mesakkah, the blue-skinned race of alien that Chloe’s husband Jutari is.
“Me?” He snorts. “Not directly. Family is, but I’m just freighter trash. Wouldn’t say I come from anywhere in particular.”
I study him. He does have a hard look to his appearance. All of the mesakkah I’ve seen at spaceports here and there dress in flowing, elegant robes. They cap their curling, tall horns with shining metal and groom their thick hair into a flowing waterfall. There’s a certain elegance to the rich elite of the mesakkah Homeworld. This guy, however, is covered in tattoos. They crawl up his neck and down his arms, masking a lot of the brilliant blue of his skin. His horns are capped, but the metal looks dull and slightly scuffed. His face is a mess of scars on one side and pitted on the cheek. It’s clear he’s had some sort of injury, and Jutari said he was a soldier so I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s probably hideous to his people, but to me, he’s just another strange-looking alien. His mouth’s a little twisted when he smiles, and his clothes are tight-fitting and look as if they’ve seen better days. Elegant, he’s not. Easy on the eyes, he’s not. He does, however, look dangerous and just a bit overwhelming, which suits my purposes.