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Chapter Eight

S hadow

I have no idea why I’m doing this. I feel ridiculous. For the last fifteen annums I’ve had zero decisions to make, maybe that was a good thing. It seems like every decision I’ve made since I’ve been freed has been a bad one.

Of course, I had no choice in helping Petra at the strip club or during her escape from the Volurians. But I didn’t have to fuck her in the medbay, or go to the mess hall so that I could see her last night. That was a fiasco.

And I certainly have no business doing what I’m doing right now. It’s ridiculous. All ten of us gladiators are sitting in a corner of the ludus sewing outfits for tonight’s party.

We found a vast assortment of black market goods crammed into the cargo bay when we took over the ship. There was a full carton of contraband endangered animal hides from all over the galaxy. They are prohibited from sale, which has created a significant black market demand. It feels dirty even using these beautiful hides. Oh well, the animals have already given their lives, they might as well serve some purpose.

We’re all pretty good with a needle, after all, we’ve been sewing each other up for annums . None of us own anything but the clothes on our backs, which had been loincloths until we confiscated the dracking blue jumpsuits which we all find restrictive, uncomfortable, and undignified. We aren’t being forced to practice in the ludus every day now that our slave masters are gone. So with our newfound free time today we’re putting these hides to good use.

The males are all excited about tonight. Their females bought pretty clothes they’re keeping hidden until the party. It seems the males want to impress their women as much as the females want to look good for us.

“I’m not happy that the women want to sleep without us,” Dax says, his eyes squinted in concentration as he threads his needle. “I got used to having Dahlia’s back pressed into my chest every night.”

“I’m sure that’s not all the pressing you’re missing,” Stryker’s lewd comment gets a laugh from all the others.

“Why do you think we’re busy sewing these dracking hides?” Steel asks. “I, for one, am hoping to share my bed with Zoey tonight.”

This exercise is utterly ludicrous for me. First, I’m not going to any damned party. And second, even if I did, there’s no female I want to impress.

I can’t even think that thought without acknowledging I’m a liar. As a slave, I’ve learned to deceive and dissemble with the best of them, but I’ve always tried not to lie to myself.

Drack, I’ve poked my finger with the large needle I’m using. I find a scrap of pelt to wrap around it so I don’t get blood all over my garment. I know this is a fool’s errand, but in the back of my mind I also know that despite my good mind and sound reasoning I am going to the party tonight, and there is one particular female I do want to impress.

I ’m an idiot, I know. Not only did I spend the better part of the day fashioning a garment to wear to a party I don’t wish to attend, but now I’m on my way to the mess hall to get a haircut I don’t particularly want.

With all of this focus on the party, it’s hard not to think about the last party I attended. It was fifteen annums ago.

My mind slips back to my last night as a free male. My parents and I were on Bellumar, a state-of-the-art space station built entirely for gladiatorial games. The event was the premier tournaments of the annum . The richest people from all over the galaxy traveled to watch the games, buy and sell gladiator stock, and most importantly mingle with other immensely wealthy people.

Many sizeable deals are struck during the week of the Septus games. And that is why my parents and I were in attendance. We had wealth, I don’t want to imply that we didn’t, but we had nowhere near the credits of most of the attendees. There were kings and queens and presidents at these games.

We were merely of the merchant class. My parents made their living connecting prosperous people with other prosperous people with the intention of making even more money. My family would collect a modest finder’s fee and move on.

The money we could make during the one week of the Septus games could pay a middle income family’s bills for two lifetimes.

My parents were the real movers and shakers of the family; I was simply window dressing. In my early twenties, I was a handsome youth. I had a wardrobe that was the envy of my peers. Females flocked to me. And I had all the time in the world on my hands because I had no real job. All I had to do was catch the eye of wealthy older females as directed by my mother when it suited her purposes.

Older women of that class kept themselves beautiful with surgeries and potions. Seducing them was easy, and not usually a burden. A few hoaras “work” a few times an annum was a small price to pay to earn the lifestyle I had become accustomed to. I was happy even though I had no true friends, no female to love, no goals other than to live an easy life and buy anything I wanted. It seemed like I had everything a male could want.

It was the second-to-last night of the games when everything unraveled. I was dressed in my finest gala wear—the most trendy and expensive mourlot of the times. After that night’s games I planned to attend several balls and meet up with the beautiful four-armed Mordite female with the emerald hair.

My father was brokering a deal between Daneur Khour, head of the MarZan cartel, and a fine arts dealer whose sideline was rare stolen paintings. I didn’t know until later that my father wasn’t content to walk away with his usual ten percent finder’s fee. He’d inflated the asking price and was going to pocket the difference between the true asking price and what Khour would pay; this was in addition to the finder’s fee.

Khour somehow found out he was being swindled and was infuriated. The deal hadn’t even gone through yet, Khour wasn’t out a single credit, but he was enraged and wanted payback. I will never know what happened when he confronted my parents. What I do know is that when the two of them left that room, it had been decided that their twenty- annum -old son would pay the price. My parents sold my future, and for all they knew, my very life, in exchange for continuing their extravagant lifestyle.

Khour’s henchmen easily overpowered me and I was thrown into a cell where the gladiators were kept. The next night, the last night of the games, still wearing my now-grimy mourlot, I was thrown into the arena with a huge, seasoned Anthen gladiator.

Since I “made my living” with my body, I’ll admit I was in good shape from working out in a gymnasium, but I had zero fighting skills. They handed me a heavy three fierto sword and shoved me into the ring. Entirely focused on the huge gladiator I had to fight, I didn’t have time to scan the stands to see my parents’ faces.

If Khour had believed for a moment that seeing their only child slain before their eyes would be a greater punishment for my parents than going to their own deaths, he had seriously miscalculated. I have no idea why they even chose to have a child, other than to eventually use me in their money-making schemes. Looking back, it isn’t surprising they negotiated my death in exchange for their own lives.

The Anthen had been saved until the last night of the festivities for a reason. Usually, the strongest and most well-known gladiators were paired on the most prestigious night of the games. He was broad, well-muscled and fierce looking. He carried a net to cast over his opponent as well as a seven fierto trident with wicked blades on all three points of the tip.

Luckily, one of the other males in the cell block told me to take off my stiff, formal shoes before I went out into the sand of the arena. I should have taken off my clothes as well, they were quite constricting, but I didn’t have a clue.

My sword was heavy and felt unwieldy. I had no idea how to use it to the best advantage. I stood there for a moment, impotent, waiting to be killed. But my opponent knew he was being paid to put on a show, so he tried to drag things out. He kept throwing his net over me, capturing me with it, and pulling me down into the sand.

Since I was putting up no fight, he was doing the work of two. “Get up,” he kept calling to me.

“You have to resist.”

Although I was utterly demoralized, facing certain death, I finally heeded his warning and got up each time I was pulled to the ground. At one point I struck out with my sword and purely by accident managed to render the net useless.

“That’s right,” he said, “fight like a male!”

With his net shredded, my opponent had to come in for the kill. He couldn’t dawdle and drag things out any further. He gave me enough room to run, again trying to put on a show for the paying customers. I was trotting back and forth against the back wall when he threw his spear at me. I think he was attempting to miss me, but I stupidly switched directions at the wrong time and ran toward the oncoming spear instead of away from it.

That was how I got impaled in my left eye. Two of the three blades missed my face, but the third pierced my eye. The agony was searing. To this day when I think of it I can feel remnants of the pain as if it was happening this moment. The wound blinded that eye. But it was the pain that motivated me to fight.

Instead of waiting to die, I moved purely on instinct and plucked the spear out of my eye. I will never forget the awful suction sound that made, as well as the staggering physical torment. I rearranged my grip on the shank of the spear and threw it with unerring accuracy directly into the huge Anthen’s heart. It was a fatal blow.

Right before I passed out, I happened to catch my mother’s face out of all the people in the stands. It showed shock. Not sadness, not pain for her son, but shock that I had lived. She had never expected her only son to survive that night.

I realize I’m standing in the hallway, a few fiertos from the mess hall door. That little trip back in time was unpleasant. I don’t think about it often, it does me no good. It’s as if I watched that in a vid, as if it was someone else’s lifetime. My name was Dakon then. I have a gladiator’s name now. I am Shadow.

I walk through the doorway and pause. Petra’s back is to me. Dax is sitting on a wooden box low to the floor so that Petra has access to his hair. Dahlia, the female who used to share his cell, is sitting on one of the benches, watching, her elbow on her knee, her chin in her palm.

Dax is the tallest of all of us, probably seven fiertos . His hair has always been shaggy, his beard scraggly. He’s a kind male, but I’ve never thought of him as being attractive to females. I’d wondered if Dahlia would even consider staying with him after we won our freedom, but she always sits with him at meals and seems to enjoy his company.

I can’t really see what Petra’s doing to him, but with every snip of her scissors, Dahlia’s face becomes happier.

I have an excellent view of Petra’s backside. She twists and bends to get at just the right angle. I’m enjoying the show. So is my cock, which has already taken notice and is kicking against its binding.

Petra finally moves around to stand in front of Dax and sees me. Surprisingly, her face lights in a smile.

“You’re next big guy. Have a seat.” She indicates the bench at one of the tables. Then she focuses on Dax’s transformation.

I see that although she’s given him a short cut all over, she’s left him some hair that artfully falls over his forehead. This camouflages the fact that his forehead slopes back. When she’s done with his hair and trimming his substantial beard, he looks attractive. Those must be magic shears.

She hands him a reflective piece of metal to see himself; it’s clear he’s astounded. If I’m not mistaken, Dahlia has tears in her eyes. They thank her many times over, then curtly say “hello” as they pass me on their way out of the room.

“I love my job!” Petra crows happily, raising her hands in triumph. Her hair is pulled back in a bunch low on her neck. She’s wearing the same outfit I met her in, except these aren’t the pants she peed in. A wide smile brightens her face; she’s proud and happy.

She’s beautiful all the time. She’s beautiful when she’s angry, she was beautiful when she was on that dracking rope, half-naked in front of all those eyes, she was even beautiful when she was in pain with a thick shard of glass sticking out of her foot. But now, knowing she transformed the way Dax looked, her beauty is luminescent.

I look around, wondering for a swift moment if we have enough time for me to mount her here in this common room. Even if we could, I find myself not wanting that. I don’t want stolen moments and a quick coupling. I want enough time and privacy to pleasure her until she screams my name.

Petra

Sooo, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about Shadow. A lot. Like all the time. I had wanted to speak with him last night, but that whole scene in the dining room certainly got ugly. I have so many questions about what’s up with him and Grace. Were they lovers? Did it end badly? And why does everyone on board seem to blame him? But it isn’t the right moment to pepper him with questions, and since I don’t get close to anyone it shouldn’t matter.

I glance over at him and for the hundredth time I’m caught by how masculine he is, how handsome. I was hoping he’d come to the party tonight, but after everyone was so hateful to him last night I haven’t been counting on seeing him there. And I never thought he’d show up for a haircut. But here he is and I’m inordinately happy about it.

“You came for a haircut?”

“If you can do half as much for me as you did for Dax, I’d say I’m a lucky guy.”

“Dax is a good-looking guy. He just needed some spiffing up and a little camouflage of his imperfections.”

“Well, you’re talented; that was quite a transformation. Think you can do as well for me?”

I motion him to sit on the box, then tie a flat sheet around his neck to catch his hair. “You don’t need a transformation,” I say as I turn to grab my sheers.

Oops! I probably shouldn’t have said that. ‘Never let ‘em know you’re interested’ has always been my motto.

I turn to look at him and he has a surprised look on his face. Crap, he totally noticed my little compliment. That gave him an opening to say something sarcastic, a sly put-down to let me know he’s aware of how attracted I am and that he has the upper hand.

But he doesn’t pounce on me with a sardonic comment, he just holds my gaze for a long moment. I find myself ignoring the creepy left eye and focusing on the sexy right eye. The one that looks warm and inviting and kind and interested.

I’m not sure how we got here. When did we progress from pounding, fast and furious sex in the medbay to these long, lingering, seductive looks from across a room?

“What were you wanting?” I ask.

“That’s a loaded question,” his voice lowered an octave and he’s looking intensely at me, almost smiling.

“Hair. What do you want me to do to your hair?” What is this, seventh grade? My nipples are hard, and heat is pooling between my legs. We haven’t even touched and I’m ready for sex, which is becoming my new normal. My body must be wonky from all the endorphins, or fear hormones, or space travel amino acids or something scientific and technical like that.

“It’s been a long time since I got a professional haircut. I don’t know what’s in style, you decide.”

“We’re in space, Shadow. Do you think I know what’s all the rage on the third moon of Antares? I can give you what I think will look good on you, though.”

“Snip away.”

He closes his eyes. I get the distinct impression he does not trust easily. So the fact that he’s closing his eyes when I have a sharp object inches from his face speaks loudly to me.

I step in front of him and put on my professional hat. I size up his facial shape, his assets (many) and his liabilities (just the one, the eye) trying to decide what will look good on him. For half a nanosecond I consider a diagonal bang to feather over the bad eye, then decide he would hate that. He told the doctor the other day the eye is part of who he is; I don’t think he wants to hide it.

He’s so hard, so military; I decide to give him a high and tight cut. It’s almost shaved above the ears, with more length at the top. It will hide nothing. It will accentuate his strong jaw and high cheekbones. Unlike Dax, he needs no improvements, but it will look good on him.

He looks comfortable there; he doesn’t seem to wonder what’s taking me so long. “I’m still figuring out what to do,” I lie.

He looks calm, so I decide now is the time to steal a moment to inspect that eye. I never wanted to stare before, but I’m going to seize this opportunity. The black metal prosthetic surrounds his eye with a flange that butts up against his skin. However, you can still see the remnants of whatever damaged him. The skin that protrudes from beyond the metal prosthetic is puckered and creased with jagged, red lines. You can see the flesh had been shredded pretty badly. That skin is grisly. Whatever happened must have been pretty catastrophic and also must have hurt like hell.

I realize time’s wasting. I don’t want him to catch me staring. I move behind him and start to work. It’s pretty difficult to do a great job without a mirror or clippers; I’ll have to do the best I can.

“I thought you hated those blue jumpsuits. I notice you’re wearing one.”

He doesn’t answer, just pulls the zipper down several inches and slides the fabric over his shoulder far enough for me to see my bite mark plain as day.

“Holy shit! Sorry. I…” I don’t know what to say, it was done in the heat of passion in the shower.

“I didn’t want the others to see,” his tone is low, straightforward.

It’s obvious he doesn’t give two shits about what the others think about him, so this must be his way of protecting me.

“That’s very thoughtful.”

“You’re a good person, Petra. I don’t want them thinking badly of you.”

I just keep cutting his hair. For a surly gladiator, that really was considerate.

“I stroked my cock last night thinking of you.”

My breath huffs out of me all at once. My core clenches. How can one sentence from this guy get me horny like that? I peer over the top of his head and see the corners of his mouth are definitely tugged upward in a hint of a smile. I stop cutting and stand in front of him to get the full effect. This man is devastatingly handsome. And now he’s smiling wider.

“Want to let me in on the joke?”

“No joke, I just wanted to smell your arousal. It worked.” He shrugs. Cocky bastard. I understand now. It’s not exactly a smile, it’s smug self-satisfaction.

“No one ever warned you that hairdressers can be crazy? I have a sharp object inches from your face. Don’t fuck with me.”

“Do I have to draw you a map? All I want to do is fuck with you, Petra.” His voice is gravelly and sexy and intimate. He’s spearing me with his molten gaze.

Crap, all sorts of things are happening below my waist. My belly is doing tight little flip-flops, and an electric zing goes straight to my clit. This man has way too much power over my body.

“No talking!” I go back to cutting. “Or I’ll make a tragic mistake on your hair and you’ll be the laughingstock of the galaxy.”

He’s silent for a moment. I hate working without a mirror because I can’t see his expression at all.

“Can I come to your room tonight?” his tone is direct.

“Mighty presumptuous of you.”

No response. He’s just letting the request hang in the air. It’s working.

“Will I see you at the party?” I ask, trying not to sound needy.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Then if I feel like it after the party, yes.”

I don’t need a mirror to know he’s smiling.

“You’re not well liked on this ship. Won’t it be awkward to mingle with all the people who despise you?”

“I’m not well liked at breakfast or in the ludus or at dinner all day every day. Why should it suddenly matter at the party, especially when I have a date with the prettiest female on the ship?”

Another tummy tremor in response to his compliment.

Without thinking I launch into my thoughtless question. “What’s the deal with you and Grace?”

A long pause. I realize not only shouldn’t I have asked, but he’ll never tell me. He’s too private— and too angry.

“She was my cellmate after she was captured. The Urluts forced us to mate daily. I was angry. Angry at everyone and everything and especially myself. I wasn’t thoughtful of her or her feelings. I was deep in a cave of rage where I’ve lived for a long time. I may have hurt her physically by being abrupt. I’m sure I hurt her emotionally by being quiet and distant. I was an asshole. I want to apologize to her, although she has no reason to accept it.”

That sums it up in a nutshell. “What changed?”

A really long pause. A pause so long I decide he’s definitely not going to answer. I gird myself, ready for him to say something sexual and erotic to change the subject.

“I think…” he’s searching for something. I think he’s hunting for the truth. “I believe it was the moment in the alley on Numa after I killed the Volurians. I turned around and you were still crouched behind me. You were terrified, yet you looked up at me with so much trust. You trusted me to take care of you, to save your life. At that moment I decided I wanted to be the male you believed me to be.”

I’m oh-so-glad there’s no mirror now. If there was, he would be able to see my expression. His answer floored me. This big, tough gladiator just opened a window into his soul to me. I know, without knowing how, that I need to nurture this.

“You have been, Shadow. You’ve been that male.”

We’re silent for the rest of the haircut. Way too much emotion for either of us to handle. I pull off the sheet that covers him and grab the piece of metal for him to check out the haircut, but he turns his head and waves me away.

“I trust you, Petra. I’m sure it looks great.”

He stands up, glances around to make sure we’re alone, and leans down to kiss me. Not the wild claiming kisses of the medbay, but one single, soft, warm kiss. At first, it’s just lip to lip. I feel him release his breath, relax a bit. My hands move to his shoulders as if to keep him from moving away.

His tongue peeks out from between his lips and slicks against my lips. The touch is so soft it tickles and arouses at the same time. I sink back into the enjoyment of his tongue sliding softly back and forth against the seam of my mouth. We could do this for hours, but I want more. I open to him and his tongue enters gently.

The tip of his tongue explores the slickness and the taste of my mouth, just as I’m exploring him. The soft rasp of his tongue tickles the roof of my mouth, then plies longer strokes on my tongue.

I don’t know how long we kiss. I’m not aware of my hands moving higher into his now-shorter hair, nor am I aware of how tightly I’m pressed against him until my nipples harden as they strain against his chest.

He pulls back, his tongue slicking my lips again. Then he bites me ever-so-softly on my bottom lip. Pulling at it. Sucking a bit. And then he pulls away. I sag against him a moment, weak and needy, then stand.

“May I dance with you tonight, Petra?”

“Oh, we’ll dance, Shadow. We will dance.”