Page 111 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER ONE

Lorna

I t was a common game among the inmates of Mercenia State Correctional Facility for Deviant Women to talk about what we would do if we had our freedom restored.

A way to while away the long hours of mopping floors or whatever other menial duty we were allocated that day, or whispered between cellmates at night to fight back the sense of hopelessness that always seemed worse when the lights went out.

“I’d sit by an open fire,” Rosa, my cellmate, would say.

“A glass of wine in one hand, a bar of chocolate in the other. I’d listen to the crackle of the fire, breathe in the bouquet of the wine - notes of blackcurrant, just the right amount of oak.

I’d take a bite of the chocolate and let it melt on my tongue, sweet and creamy and smooth, before taking a sip of the wine.

On the floor, a man with long, dark hair and rugged features smiles up at me, his honey-coloured eyes full of admiration and lust. He takes my foot in his hand, removing my shoe. ”

“What kind of shoe?” someone would inevitably ask, and Rosa would spend ten minutes describing the patent leather, the exact shade of red, the height of the heel, the point of the toe.

“He has big hands, this man,” she would continue, shoe detour done with for now. “Warm, not sweaty. Those big hands cup my dainty little feet and begin to massage…”

Rosa was a master at the game. She never just said ‘I’d have a drink and eat something nice.

’ It was always a multi-sensory experience - sounds and smells and tastes conjured just by words.

She could make even the girls most lacking in imagination feel like they were somewhere other than where they were for a little while.

We’d beg her to play, especially on the days when the rainstorms outside leaked through the roof and we were confined to our tiny little cells for endless hours with nothing to do but listen to the clink of water against tin buckets.

She’d always protest a little, but I think she only did it to buy herself a bit of time to think of something good.

And she always thought of something good.

Rosa had been in prison a long time. She’d had plenty of practise. Plenty of time to hone her craft.

My own imaginings were not so evocative or wild.

Mostly, I’d dream of a cottage on my own.

A rustic little place in the countryside, miles from anybody or anything.

I didn’t need a handsome man rubbing my feet in my vision of freedom - nor doing any of the other things Rosa could sometimes be persuaded to describe in torrid detail.

I pictured my day starting at a wood-burning stove, boiling water for a cup of tea in a pan, cooking myself breakfast. After breakfast, I’d go out for a walk - partly to gather more firewood, but also just because I could.

Freedom for me was fending for myself, living a simple, isolated life.

It’s funny how close my reality has come to that vision, though even my rustic cottage with its wood-burning stove always had running water in my imagination. I never pictured having to refill a large clay sink every morning for fresh water.

I stare at the sink in question. Rachel’s been taking care of it for us, lugging it out to the edge of the village to empty it into the trees, then carrying it over to the central fire to have it refilled with the fresh water the elders fetch from a nearby brook each morning.

But Rachel left the village with Vantos yesterday to travel to a nearby tribe.

She’s not here to do the heavy lifting that I can’t do, my arm still strapped.

Weak and stiff after I broke it in the crash landing.

I’m about decided that I don’t need to change the water anyway - it’s only for washing, and only I’ve used it, it’s not so dirty that I can’t use it again today - when there’s a knock at my door.

There are no locks on the hut doors. Anyone could barge in at any time.

But there’s a code of politeness and privacy amongst the raskarrans.

A closed door is a locked door to them, and no one would enter uninvited.

With Rachel gone for now, that makes this hut, this space completely mine.

It’s a novelty. I’ve never had ownership of a space before, complete control over who I allow in.

I head to the door, pulling it open to find Shemza staring down at me.

My heart flutters in my chest at the sight of his tall body.

He’s not as big as some of the other raskarrans - slighter in frame, not as hugely muscular - but compared to my five-foot nothing, he’s still enormous.

A tower of masculine gorgeousness, topped with well-defined cheekbones and a pair of beautiful brown eyes.

He smiles, full lips curving upwards, making heat pool between my legs.

“Hi,” I say, keeping my voice light and breezy, as if his proximity doesn’t make my whole body jittery.

“Help?” he says, pointing to my bad arm and then behind me to my sink.

I’m so full of gratitude I could kiss him.

I could kiss him anyway, but that’s probably just my hormones going wild being around guys who aren’t assholes for the first time in… well. Ever.

“Please,” I say, smiling at him as I step aside.

He nods, then comes into my hut, picking up the heavy sink with ease, then heading out. I trot alongside him, taking three small steps for every one of his loping strides.

“Morning, Lorna,” Hannah calls as she passes us on her way back toward the central fire.

“Morning,” I answer, smiling cheerily.

Hannah’s eyes dart up to Shemza, a wariness in her gaze.

I get the wariness of the raskarrans in general.

They’re so much bigger than us, and so absolutely, unapologetically masculine - raw power and dangerous sex appeal in their big, green frames.

Not one of them has done anything bad towards any of us.

They’re gentle and considerate, and mostly big teddy bears.

But they can be intimidating - especially the biggest warriors, Gregar and Vantos.

Liv has the ferocity to handle anything.

I’m not at all surprised she already has Gregar wrapped around her little finger.

But I am surprised Rachel has opted to head off into the woods alone with Vantos.

I thought she’d be a little more afraid of him.

Shemza, though - I can’t see how anyone would find him intimidating.

He’s younger than the others, I think, a little more boyish in his features.

Not in a bad way - I’d just describe his face as beautiful, rather than rugged or handsome.

He doesn’t have the hard edge of the warriors, or the intensity of the hunters. He’s calmer, more measured.

But Hannah is wary of everything and everyone.

It’s not her fault. She’s been plunged into an impossible situation - stranded on a strange new world, expecting rescue from the corporate overlord she’s worked for all her life, only to be told that the promise they gave her of a better life on Alpha Colony doesn’t extend to rescuing her when things go wrong.

That the ‘better life’ was probably going to be a shit show, anyway.

It’s a lot to get used to, without adding aliens into the mix.

She’ll settle in after a while, I think.

Relax into her new situation. I hope so, anyway.

The other girls deserve every happiness they can find.

Their lives on the bottom tier were a long miserable slog, working their fingers to the bone knowing they wouldn’t have much life left in them past thirty.

It doesn’t escape me that even the most basic of fantasy scenarios Rosa imagined for us in prison were more than these girls ever could have dreamed of.

Grace is by the edge of the village, pouring out her water when we arrive.

“Good morning,” she says as we approach, smiling up at Shemza as well.

Grace has been working with him, training to be a healer the raskarran way, so she doesn’t have Hannah’s nervousness around him.

“I was going to come by to help you after doing mine.” She swipes her curly hair out of her face. It’s early, but the air is already warm, and the effort of carrying her sink has made sweat gather on her temple. “I’m glad Shemza’s taken care of it for you.”

Shemza pours away my water, then takes Grace’s sink from her, stacking it on top of mine, lifting the two as if they weigh nothing. Grace shakes her head, but she smiles.

“Wish I could make it look that easy. It’s going to be a while before these noodle arms are as strong as Khadija’s.”

“I suppose being a medic didn’t give you much cause for heavy lifting.”

“Not really, no. What did you do, Lorna? I don’t think we’ve ever spoken about it before.”

She gives me a guilty look, like this is an oversight on her part and not deliberate avoidance on mine.

I try not to talk about my old life. The secret to lying is saying as little as possible.

The more webs you spin around you, the easier it is to become tangled in them.

Fortunately, I have an answer for this question.

“Laundry,” I say. “It involved a bit of lifting, but I’d say the thing it prepared me for best was the weather.”

So my workplace was the prison laundry, not the enormous factory-like laundries that operated on the bottom tier.

Those laundries serviced mostly the upper tier restaurants and other industries - tablecloths, towels, bedsheets, that sort of thing.

In prison, we laundered our towels, clothes, sheets, uniforms. Everything we used, we washed.

But the basic parts of it were the same.

Massive industrial washing machines, driers, rotary ironers and handheld ones for the delicate things.

A hot, steamy room full of damp clothes and sweating workers.

There’s enough truth for me to lean on if anyone’s ever boring enough to ask for more details.