Page 45 of Brutally Mated
She pauses for a moment, considering the offer. “Very well,” she says finally. “You can help.”
I roll up my sleeves and move around to the head of the tub. There is a bottle of hair wash placed there already, petal and twig scented, apparently. I set about washing her hair.
“Have you ever seen a man’s spine torn out through his neck and played like a xylophone?”
She asks the question with devastating calm, like she doesn’t understand or care about the horror of the mental image she is conjuring. She came from a very dark place, and things like these are not particularly stimulating for her.
“Can’t say I have. That would be difficult to achieve.”
“Not difficult at all. Sever at the pelvis, beat the flesh, and pull with enough force to dislocate and sever connections,” she says, closing her eyes as I massage the shampoo into her scalp.
“Of course. How silly of me not to imagine.”
“I don’t have to imagine,” she says, her voice cool and light and feminine. “It happens all the time back home.”
“I’m sure it does,” I reply.
“I’ve found some britches that might fit you, and…” A hearty female voice falls into annoyed silence as the door opens. “What do you think you’re doing here? You’re supposed to be under guard, you are!”
“I’m not,” I say, standing smoothly. “I’ll take the clothes, though. It’s time she was dressed.”
The woman hands the clothes over reluctantly. “I’ll be going for the conductor then,” she says.
“You do that,” I say as she rushes away indignantly to get a man who cannot help her because he’s several miles further down the track than she thinks he is.
“Alright, up and out of the bath,” I say to Tabby. “Things are about to get hectic, and you are going to want to be clothed.”
“What have you done?” She grins a little as she dries herself hurriedly, her cute curves dancing with little droplets of water that don’t quite get all the way dried before she starts pulling more contemporary attire on.
She’s got a pair of snug black leggings on that show the shape of her legs to great advantage. The top is a fawn and green knit that brings out her eyes and complements her hair. Her own boots fit well with the outfit.
“Very nice,” I say.
“It’s from the Lost Property,” she says. “Other people lost these somehow. Now I’m wearing them.”
“Yes. You are. Come with me.”
She follows me out quite obediently, which I find amusing. She put so much effort into rebellion and now she is doing just as she is told. Krall got her quite riled up. His overt dominance does not work well for her.
“What’s happening?”
“We are escaping.”
The train has stopped by now, and escaping is a simple matter of just getting off. Somewhat anticlimactic.
“What about all my things?”
“Which things?”
“The things in my bag and such.”
“Hopefully Krall and Thorn will have picked them up when they escaped. Otherwise they’re gone.”
“Not gone, just where the rest of the train is,” she says. “I’ve got to go get it. It’s important. I had all my things in it. And I need my dress. I don’t want to leave anything behind.”
The dress was folded at the end of the tub. She picks it up and makes her way out of the train. There’s a general air of confusion from the passengers and such, helpful in making our escape, which doesn’t feel much like an escape.
The night is getting quite dark now as she sets off down the tracks in the effort to reclaim her belongings. I know better than to argue with her. Krall and Thorn will be long gone by now, so I don’t mind. The train conductor and such will have more to worry about than arresting me if they happen to see me. Their train is in two, after all.
