He released her almost as abruptly as he’d seized her.
She wilted weakly to the bed.
“Not even sort of.”
Too stunned even to gather her wits about her, Lena merely stared at him as he moved to the wall and punched it almost viciously. The door of another locker popped open. Pulling a pair of boots from it, he crossed the room, plopped down on the chair behind a desk, and shoved his feet into them.
When he stood up again, he caught the upper half of his uniform and dragged it upward, shoving his arms into the sleeves. “Just a suggestion,” he murmured when he paused at the door. “Find another place to sleep. The next time I find you in my bed, naked or otherwise, I may do something we’ll both regret.”
A shudder went through her when the door closed behind him, breaking the spell at last--sort of. She still felt rather as if she’d been blindsided. Lifting a hand, she touched her swollen lips gingerly with the tips of her fingers, tasting him as she licked the dry surface. It was enough to send another wave of need through her. Swallowing convulsively, she dropped her hand to her lap again.
Was he laboring under some strange misconception that she wouldn’t welcome anything he wanted to do to her, she wondered?
That thought brought her crashing back to reality.
What was she thinking? She didn’t know anything about him--except that the man was dangerous. Images flashed in her mind of the fight in the cell when the guard had thrown her in with him and the other men. The one the guard had called Black Stew was a mountain of a man, taller and broader even than Dax, and Dax was a monster--every bit of six foot three or four and as solidly muscular as a tank--and Dax had beat the man into the floor as if he’d been no more than a ninety pound weakling after Black Stew had mopped the floor with the others.
Men didn’t just naturally know how to fight like that. It took practice. If that wasn’t evidence enough, Dax’s body was a road map of violence. There were scars on his legs and arms, his back, his chest, even several small scars on his face; a long thin one on one cheek and two tiny, barely noticeable ones on his upper lip and chin.
Unbidden, the memory of Dax heaving and thrusting over her washed through her mind. Another shudder went through her, but she didn’t even try to lie to herself. Maybe, if she hadn’t been too drugged up to hardly know where she was, that incident would have scared her out of her wits, disgusted her. She wasn’t certain of it, though, because the moment she had finally realized it was Dax the entire complexion of the situation had changed, radically. Some part of her had relished it. Some part of her had felt nothing but frustration that the circumstances prevented him from doing more than he had.
Her belly clenched almost painfully at the memory of his flesh gliding along her cleft, her body instantly recalling the pleasure that had heated her core.
Covering her face with her hands as if she could block out the memory, she got up abruptly.
Morris hadn’t wanted her anywhere around his son--hadn’t wanted Dax near her. She remembered that from that time, so long ago she didn’t know why or how she still remembered it--except maybe because she had been terribly confused, disappointed, and scared. Dax couldn’t have been much more than a kid himself then, but to her eyes he was a man, and she’d never seen anything quite like him. He’d seemed almost god-like to her, a warrior god, a wondrously beautiful creature that was almost as scary as he was fascinating.
But then he and Morris had had a terrible fight. She couldn’t remember anything specific about the argument, only that Morris had told Dax he wasn’t welcome, that he wasn’t to come anymore and Dax--Dax had been hurt and furious because he was hurt. She remembered that, remembered seeing it in his eyes and wanting to cry for him.
He’d changed, and it wasn’t just that he was older, brawnier. There was no longer any sign at all of that vulnerability that had been in his eyes then.
He was a rebel. There was no longer any doubt about that, and he’d brought her into the middle of the conflict.
She didn’t want to be here. She wasn’t a rebel. She didn’t want to be one. She wanted the life back that she’d had before, but there was no way in hell she was ever going to get it back now.
Maybe there never had been. Most likely there never had been, because she’d seen something she should never have seen, the proof that the rumors weren’t just rumors. That didn’t mean she was ready to throw in her lot with the rebels, though. She didn’t want any part of fighting a war that there was no hope of winning.
Dax had made it pretty clear he was going to consider her lingering in his cabin as an open invitation. She took that to mean that she was free to leave, and she still felt really uneasy when she left the cabin. After standing just outside in the corridor for several minutes, looking around, she followed the corridor. The first door to her right opened into a large room with bunks stacked two tiers high and with little more than two feet between them on either side or at the foot where the narrow space formed a walkway.
There were maybe a half a dozen men sprawled on the bunks. Several of them glanced her way and looked her over with interest. Embarrassed to be caught gawking at them, she moved on.
On the left side of the corridor there seemed to be smaller versions of the captain’s cabin. Most of the doors were closed and she didn’t want to open them, but she caught a glimpse of one through a partially open door.
When she reached the end, she found a ladder leading up through a tube to another level. After hesitating for several moments, she climbed up it until she reached the next level. The smell of food wafted to her and her stomach growled painfully. Deciding to see if she could find something to eat, she stepped off the ladder and into the corridor, following the aroma.
This level seemed to be a collection of storage rooms, a gym, what looked like it must be a recreation room, and a large dining hall, or mess, and kitchen.
There were people grouped around some of the tables. Apparently, the crew worked and slept in shifts.
Lena stepped into the doorway uncertainly.
A woman that looked vaguely familiar looked up, spied her, and immediately got to her feet. “I’m Mel--or Doc,” she said, smiling as she extended her hand.
Lena felt herself relaxing fractionally. “I’m Lena.”
Mel’s smile widened. “I know. Nigel’s sister.”
Lena sent her a startled look. “You know Nigel?”
