Page 7 of Prima
She resumes her naked, prone position at the edge of the raft, one hand in the water. The boy has come all this way; he should get an eyeful.
But after a moment, she drags over the dress she tossed aside earlier and covers her bottom—no need for him to see everything. But more importantly, she needs the dress to conceal a weapon close at hand. The boy is beautiful and keeps his distance, but Dawan is not a good place for women. Husbands are assigned, rather than chosen. Financial independence scarcely exists. And women can only derive power from fathers, husbands, and sons, rather than make their own way in the world.
If the boy should dare to take anything that is not freely offered, she will not hesitate to mar or even destroy all that beauty.
Her body vibrates with both anticipation and tension. She relaxes a little when the orca splits off a klick out and comes no nearer. She and her raft can take on the orca too, but itwouldbe more troublesome. The boy she can handle on her own.
She sensed no ill will in him the night before. Her mother, however, has always warned her not to be overly reliant on this ability. Circumstances change, minds change, and someone who simply passed you by the previous day might harm you in untold ways twenty-four hours later.
That said, does she look alluring? Does she look draped and sexy or is she a tangle of strained limbs, an ungainly marionette?
He surfaces fifty meters away. She relaxes a little more at the obvious splash—at least he’s not trying to sneak up on her.
Then, a silence so deep and sustained she can almost hear the nuclear rumble of the stars overhead. Her nostrils fill with the earthy smell of the damp coir rope that binds together the logs of the raft. Her fingers under the dress tighten over her hidden weapon.
The possibility of sex and the possibility of fatality mix uneasily, yet fervidly. Her breaths echo sharply in her ears. Can he hear her? Does he feel the same whiplash of danger and arousal?
A rippling sound—he approaches her in start-and-stop stages.
And now he is close enough to “see” in her mind’s eye.
Ill will shows up as colors in the warmer spectrum, from a barely visible fuzz of beige for a pickpocket to the glowing red she experienced for the first time on this trip, in the war zone. She clenches her hand, waiting for the boy to render a verdict on himself.
The backs of her eyelids remain resolutely dark. No ill will on his part.
No readable ill will, as her mother would remind her.
Now he’s only ten meters out. If she opened her eyes, she’d be able to count his eyelashes. Does he see her as clearly?
Water ripples again. Seismic waves of agitation propagate through her—he should not come any closer.
Not without an invitation.
And he doesn’t. He makes a slow circle around her, then halts on her right side, a little beyond her shoulder. A well-chosen spot: Her weapon is near her right hand but her head is turned to her left and it will take her a fraction of a second longer to shoot someone at her two o’clock.
Stillness. No movement except the current on which her raft gently bobs. He watches her. Patiently? Warily? Hungrily? She wishes she weren’t pretending to be asleep. But then again, if she didn’t have her eyes closed, would he come this close?
Her breaths echo again. No, not just her breaths, his too. The rapid intakes; the unsteady exhalations. Heat pulses in her. Her heart pounds. Her skin, caressed by night breeze, becomes all too sensitive.
She wants to exist forever in this razor-edged delirium. She can’t stand another second of it. Something must happen.
Water churns. But, no, he is not coming closer. He is leaving.
Relief tumbles through her—relief, and a disappointment as jagged as broken glass. She turns onto her back and opens her eyes to a galaxy of cold, indifferent stars. Slowly, very slowly, she sits up.
He, already a hundred meters away, turns around. They stare at each other across the midnight sea. Then he dives under and disappears.
ChapterThree
The present
You are now mine to do with as I wish.
The light overhead falls softly upon Lady Sun. Her dress still glitters with restless sparks. Ren’s gaze is drawn to the hollow of her throat, the shadowy depth of that triangle, while her words burn in his blood. They should burn like poison, dark and angry, but he only feels an urgency that borders on intoxication.
He leaves the table and returns with a small bottle of rice liquor and two tiny glasses. He pours for her first, to the brim, and then the same for himself: Potent spirits are better suited to the discussion at hand.
“What do you wish to do with me, my lady?”
