William leaned down, his hands on his knees as he put his face so close to hers their noses were almost touching. “You're here,” he growled in soft, deliberate tones, “because I own you.”
“I don't think so,” she growled right back, sharp white teeth flashing with every word. “You only own what you can control, and you will never control me.”
“You're my property,” he said in turn. “And I'm not going to argue with my property. Get in the crate, or I'll put you in.”
He pointed toward a large, plastic-covered metal box big enough to contain a human if they were to crouch on hands and knees. It was an undignified form of confinement, but regulations stated that untrained pets had to be restrained in the city confines. Wildlings had an uncanny knack for detecting energy ducts and breaking them too—along with everything else in their path. Pets could be trained, a few were even assimilated into society, but most, especially those captured later in life, remained under the care of their owners for their entire lives. This one glaring at him was at least twenty-five years old, far past the window where she would be compliant for training.
“I'm not going in a box.”
“In the box or on a leash. Your choice.”
“My choice is to leave.” She took a step back and crouched for a split second before leaping up, using his thigh as a stepping stone and bounding for the wall. She'd probably mistaken the ducts at the top of it for an escape route. There was no getting out that way, but William didn't have time to crawl around inside them in the hunt for a lost pet either. Damn, but she was fast. He admired her agility even as he jumped after her, catching her by the back of the tunic.
“Let me go!”
Wrangling her with one hand, he used the other to snap a collar around her neck. She squirmed and thrashed about like a fish out of water, fighting for her dignity as much as her freedom. He was secretly sorry he had to deprive her of both, but she was so defiant and resistant to good sense there was no other way of handling her. As she wriggled, he snapped a leash to the collar, getting her under effective control.
“Let. Me. Go!” She grasped the collar with both hands and tried to wrench it off her neck. It was a futile struggle, one which bought her to her knees. William did nothing but hold the leash as she thrashed around before inevitably tiring herself out in a fit of rebellion.
Finally, she sat on the ground, panting angrily, and staring up at him with an expression of pure venom. He could not help but smile. She was adorable, all the more so for the fact she didn't mean to be. He admired her spirit. She would be a fine hunter's pet once her training was complete. He could have taken her to the market and sold her for a thousand credits then and there. In six months, she'd be worth ten times that amount.
“We're going to my home,” he told her. “It's a secure compound on the west side of town. You'll be well taken care of there. Unless you want to be dragged through the streets on this leash, I recommend you step inside the crate.”
“No,” she snarled.
He was really going to have to work on her obedience.
“Won't go into the crate and won't walk on the leash? That means I'm left with one option.”
“Beat me until I bleed, I will not do as you say.”
He leaned down. “I'm not planning on beating you just yet,” he said, hauling her up to her feet.
She bit him. Hard. A ring of teeth blossomed on his hand, followed by seeping blood from where her canines had made contact. Fortunately, William had gotten all his shots before leaving on his hunting trip, including one which would protect him from the virulent flora in her mouth.
“We do not bite,” he said mildly, sitting on the crate. It was made of solid material and was strong enough to take both his weight and the weight of the spitting wild thing he pulled over his thighs. She was not wearing much in the way of clothing, which made his job easier. Her simple tunic looked like a very old t-shirt. Perhaps it had been colored once; now it was gray and mottled with dirt and grime. There was not much in the way of soap in the wilds. The tunic did not cover much of her body, and it covered even less when she was bent over in a prone position. The bare cheeks of her buttocks were vulnerable to his gaze and his palm as he began spanking her with a steady, measured pace designed to make a statement.