Page 13 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

Anske and Fawn returned to the Cargo Hold way later than Rosamma.

By then, she had spent a long time in her little room, staring at the galaxies with dry eyes until they burned. She hadn’t achieved the peace she was seeking, but she did feel slightly more grounded.

Fawn yawned.

“Y’all, good night!”

“And to you too!”

Gro called out snidely.

“We weren’t worried at all! We’re so glad you enjoyed your time at the Habitat!”

Fawn only shrugged.

“I was with Anske the whole time. We showed Galan the Holy Guide.”

From Fawn’s tone, it was clear she’d rather have done anything else, but the alternatives were scarce.

Rosamma was just relieved they were unharmed. Trying to befriend the pirates, even the placid ones like Galan, was like trying to pet a wild buffalo. If Fawn didn’t see that, Anske sure should.

Yet Anske saw something entirely different.

“Galan had no idea that hurting other people was bad,”

she shared with Rosamma.

“Nobody ever told him. His whole life, he’s thought it’s normal. Can you believe it?”

“They come from a rough place,”

she murmured.

Anske nodded, looking serious.

“At first, he didn’t believe me. Said I was making it up to mess with him—as if I would! He even threatened to thrash me.”

That, Rosamma could easily believe. That he hadn’t was more surprising.

She patiently waited for Anske to run out of steam and take a breath so she could ask about Phex. He hadn’t returned to the Cargo Hold, and it worried her.

“We called Tutti over to translate,”

Anske continued, oblivious to Rosamma’s wandering attention.

“It proved to him that my Holy Guide said exactly what I was telling him! All the answers, right here.”

She patted the Holy Guide tucked under her arm.

Her posture was straight, and her color improved—that’s how energized she was. Her gaze strayed to the provisions shelf, but she tore it away quickly.

“If there’s a closed mind in need of liberation, it’s Galan’s!”

she concluded.

“And does Galan agree with you?”

Rosamma asked, afraid her skepticism showed.

“Oh, he’s like a child.”

Anske waved her hand dismissively.

“Under the right guidance, he’ll see the light in no time.”

Losing a battle with herself, she grabbed a small item from the shelf to munch on. She’d already eaten, but Rosamma didn’t call her on it.

“We talked about beatings and how they’re not what he should spend his energy on,”

Anske said around a mouthful.

“He said he’d think about it. Already progress!”

“And the others? Will they also think about it?”

Rosamma couldn’t resist asking.

Anske frowned.

“I wish. The smoker listened for a bit, but mostly because Fawn pointed her nipples at his face.”

“Did not!”

Fawn denied hotly.

“Well, they were pointy.”

Anske swallowed her snack.

“It’s cold in here! What do you want me to do?”

Fawn shook her covers in evident embarrassment.

Sassa had peeked from her hidey-hole when Anske started talking, but disappeared again upon hearing about nipples.

Rosamma sighed.

“Did you see what happened to Phex, Anske?”

she asked.

“He’s still there. They chained him to the wall. It was actually the smoker’s idea,”

Anske added.

It was not great news, but at least Rosamma knew that Phex was still alive. That was something.

Chained…

“Where’s Alyesha?”

Eze asked, returning from using the “facilities.”

She’d gotten better, able to get up and move around. The swelling in her face had gone down, leaving vivid splotches of bruises all over it. Her jaw, she claimed, hadn’t been dislocated, after all.

Anske looked around.

“She left soon after you. Is she not here?”

“No,”

Rosamma stated the obvious.

“Oh. Well, I don’t know where she is.”

Once the conversation shifted away from the Holy Guide and Galan, Anske lost interest.

Rosamma glanced again at Alyesha’s empty spot, then at Gro.

“We’re not going to look for Alyesha,”

Gro said succinctly, catching Rosamma’s eye.

“She ain’t Daphne, and she’s not lost, believe me.”

While she agreed with Gro, Alyesha’s absence made Rosamma uneasy.

Like petting a buffalo.

The women turned in, but it was a while before Rosamma dozed off.

*****

She woke up in the middle of the “night”

again, shivering.

Sounds of partying drifted in from the Habitat.

She tried not to listen, but against her will, she recognized Xorris’ crazed laugh and Nud’s voice, raised over Galan’s sick hacking.

The lurching bass thumped. The cloying smell of the never-ending synthetic weed seeped into the Cargo Hold.

Same old, same old.

Rosamma snuggled deeper under her ripped, crinkly blanket, careful not to make too much noise.

Oh, bother. Why did she care about making noise? Her rustling wouldn't rise over the background hum or wake anyone.

Even without the “music,”

this place was never silent. The persistent drone of the station’s seven systems had stopped being a distraction and had even become comforting. She had learned its variations and idiosyncrasies. For instance, here, the fan of the oar that serviced their Cargo Hold scraped against something in one place. It rasped every time a blade passed a small obstruction, like snorts of a great beast: chuff, chuff, chuff…

Gro was snoring quietly nearby, sleeping away with arms thrown over her head, oblivious to the noise. A prison-learned skill, she’d said. Who could’ve known it would come so handy in her golden years?

Behind Gro, Sassa lay motionless under her pile of rags, completely hidden from view. If only it were possible to hide from their captors like this.

Restless, Rosamma shivered again and tried to find a more comfortable position. Her head swam slightly as she lifted it, and her limbs felt heavy.

Her energy was slowly leaving her.

She licked her lips, noting how dry they were. That, at least, could be helped by drinking more, but a tiny nagging voice inside her mind whispered, Why bother? You’re going to die anyway. Soon. It will be a relief from everything…

The dim lights flickered again.

Rosamma blinked.

Phex was back, sitting against the wall.

Joy surged through her. They must’ve let him go in favor of some other debased entertainment.

From her spot on the mat, Rosamma let herself look, for just a moment.

It was too dark to see him clearly, so she traced the shape of him with her eyes. That proud tilt of his head, turned sideways to her—she’d know him anywhere.

He’d finally put his hair up, probably tired of it always falling into his eyes. With her gaze, she followed the outline of his long, strong neck sloping gracefully into wide, powerful shoulders.

Unbreakable.

At ease, he let his massive forearms rest on his bent knees. A man’s pose, alluring and a little indolent. So natural and attractive.

He was so still.

“Phex,”

she called quietly, trying to make herself heard over the oar.

“Are you awake?”

He gave a short nod, aloof. He must be hurting from the fight.

She rose and made her way to him, circling Gro and Eze’s sleeping bodies.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt.”

His voice was so low she could barely hear him.

She edged closer, straining her eyes to see his injuries.

“Let me touch you. I can spare some energy.”

A lie. She had precious little left, but all of it was his if he needed it.

“It breaks my heart to see you hurt,”

she whispered.

He heard her.

“Does it?”

He turned to her slowly, revealing the burn scars, the trisected brow, the hooded eyes…

Her heart crystallized in her chest.

She stared, unable to comprehend the shattering illusion.

How? How could she have made an error this monumental? To confuse, even in the semi-darkness, a proud defender with this animal?

“Finn…”

She meant to say Fincros, but his name broke in her throat, and only the first part emerged—a hopelessly misplaced endearment.

“Are you confused, weak one?”

He kept his voice soft, but that only made it more threatening.

She jerked.

“No, Striker. You’re Fincros.”

He cocked his head, giving her a better view of his ruined right cheekbone, now caught in the Cargo Hold’s stupid, treacherous, flickering light.

A cruel smile played on his mouth.

“Are you sure?”

His voice, when it was this beguiling, frightened Rosamma more than his hoarsely shouted orders.

She could barely force the words out of her constricted windpipe.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Let’s play a game.”

She hated his voice. She hated his games. The defender shirt he now wore filled her with resentment.

Her fingers went to play with the limp braid hanging over her shoulder.

“I want you to pretend I’m Phex.”

Surely she hadn’t heard him right.

Her fingers stilled, gripped the end of her hair.

He noticed.

“Come closer.”

Oh, that low, raspy voice. The stuff of nightmares. What would he do if she refused?

Almost paralyzed with fear, she took two small steps toward him.

“So skittish. You think we’re now close enough to… touch?”

“Yes, Fincros.”

He made a sound of displeasure.

“I’m Phex now. What should I do to make you play?”

The last trace of saliva dried up in Rosamma’s mouth.

She forced herself to edge a tiny bit closer.

He was gazing at her from his huge Rix eyes. His full regard, close and intense, weighed heavily. Rosamma started shaking.

“Why are you shivering?”

“I’m nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?”

It was a trick question.

Phex. He was Phex, she had to remember that, or he would make her suffer. Worse, he could make her friends suffer.

“Yes, Phex.”

She had trouble concentrating. The man in front of her was so potently wrong for the name he’d ordered her to call him.

“Why is that?”

Why?

“You’re bigger than me. Stronger. Different.”

“Yet you wanted to touch me,” he mused.

Was his soft tone suggestive?

She sucked in air.

“Not like… that.”

His finely traced eyebrows twitched, and Rosamma hated that he shared this Rix ethnic trait with Phex.

“How’s like that, Rosamma?”

It was the first time a pirate had called her by her name.

And he said it right.

He took it from her and owned it. He’d done it playing his vile game, making a mockery of it.

“Only your wrist,”

she meekly explained, betraying none of what churned inside her.

“For comfort.”

“And do you want to touch more than my wrist? Offer me more than comfort?”

He’d figured out she was attracted to Phex and was taunting her with it.

“You don’t want more from me,”

she whispered, nearly undone by the heavy pressure in her chest, the tightness his nearness caused.

“In this, you’re like all the other men. Phex.”

“Do you want that to change?”

Her eyes flickered to his impassive, scarred face.

What should she say? What answer was the right answer? He knew as well as she did that in denying her a man’s desire, her peculiar ugliness mostly shielded her from rape. Her curse and her protection.

He let the silence stretch. He hadn’t outwardly threatened or hurt her… yet. He hadn't even moved.

“Come closer.”

Closer? Her feet were already toe-to-toe with his rugged boots, which looked twice the size of hers.

She took a small breath and stepped into his space. She was now looking down at him as he stared back, unblinking.

That was the pinnacle of his difference from Phex. Not the size, not the well-shaped head on a thick neck, which she had to admit they shared, but the eyes.

His were not Phex’s eyes.

The way this pirate looked at her twisted Rosamma’s insides.

“Do you hate it here, Rosamma?”

Her shakes were increasing, and her vertigo with them.

“You know I do. And so do you.”

His eyes glittered. “Do I?”

She couldn’t play anymore. He wasn’t Phex.

“Yes, Fincros. This place brings nothing but pain. It will destroy you. It may already have.”

She felt his direct gaze leave her. His forehead furrowed slightly.

“You are not very good at playing my game.”

He surged to his feet so fast that Rosamma fell backward.

His body hadn’t come into contact with hers, but the suddenness of his movement unbalanced her.

Her head reeled. It was a miracle she stayed upright.

Gro mumbled in her sleep and turned over, drawing Fincros’ attention.

She’d bungled it. She hadn’t been able to concentrate. She’d been impertinent with him, and now he was going to harm Gro.

“I’m sorry, Striker Fincros! I will play your game. I’ll do better.”

His lip curled.

“You’re a weak creature.”

“Yes, Striker. I am. I’ve always been. And everywhere I go, I’m the weakest one. Do you know what that feels like? That helplessness? But I will play! Anything you want. Just don’t kill them.”

His breath hit the top of her head—he was so much taller.

He was looking at her again. His attention felt almost physical.

“Kill them?”

“I beg you…”

He interrupted, leaning down slightly. She could feel his slow, measured breaths on her forehead.

“I don’t kill my captives.”

“You don’t?”

She didn’t believe him.

One corner of his mouth lifted, just a little, revealing the tips of sharp fangs.

“That is, once I’ve decided to keep them,”

he clarified.

Then he turned and walked away, his booted steps light on the metal mesh floor.

A keening sound broke from Rosamma’s lips, so great was her relief.

She staggered to her sleeping pad on wooden legs, dropped to her knees, and then pitched forward, face down, onto the crinkly, dirty blanket.

Ren would’ve called what had just happened a mind fuck. Fincros was a pro at that.

He didn’t kill his prisoners, he’d said.

Right.

He only forced them into deadly fights and rapes and made their lives so unbearable that death seemed like a decent alternative.

She lay there, replaying the encounter in her mind, stunned at the cruel treachery of her brain. Mistaking Fincros for Phex?

She must’ve lost her mind.

He didn’t have to lay a hand on her to crush her. Evil, evil man. He fed on her confusion.

She hid her face in the blanket, trying to block the images and words replaying in her head again and again.

She was angry at him, but angrier at herself for being such a weakling in body and mind, no match for him in any regard.

She wished she could forget the disturbing encounter. Forget looking into his eyes that were like black holes, sucking away her free will. Forget his mouth, twisted in a cruel parody of a smile. His raspy, terrifying voice. Forget the dark warmth that had pooled inside her like an ink stain when she stood between his spread legs.