Bought By The Zandians (Zandian Brides 2)

Neither of them answer, and I tug at the cuff. “Can you let me go, please?”

Benn leaves the console and joins Gorde; the two of them peer at the pod, then talk in a low voice. I tilt my head until I can hear. It’s a gift; all I need to do is turn my ear in the right direction and I can catch the softest sounds, if I really focus. I only noticed that I could do it since…I frown, unease filling me.

“He’s stronger. Look at his horns. They’re normal again. And the blood transfusion worked.”

“When will he regain consciousness?”

“Let’s telecom with Dr. Daneth. We need his advice on what to do next. Thank veck he created this med pod for our rescue missions.”

“Or else he would have died.” Benn gestures at the pod.

I sigh and lean against the wall. Then I look at the cuff and focus. Release. Let me go.

Nothing happens, so I try again, focusing harder, but only manage to make my head hurt.

I glance again at the Zandians. What did happen before? Maybe the cuff malfunctioned right when I wanted to leave...the other options really don’t make sense. Especially since I can’t replicate it.

Benn comes over and sees me pulling at the restraint. “I’m going to release you to clean up, wash, eat. You can’t overpower us, so don’t try.”

“I won’t.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” He gives me an even look.

I duck my head, thinking of how best to answer, but he just shakes his head, leaving me alone.

After I’m clean, have used the medikit and dressed in a flowing dress—apparently they no longer trust me with boots and camo gear, even though we’re in the middle of space—I sit quietly in the module chair while Benn and Gorde talk. They glance over at me from time to time, and although I can hear them clearly, I can’t understand now that they’re speaking in Zandian. I speak Ocretion, one of the most common trade tongues in the galaxy, and the language my master uses. Former master. I shudder.

From across the craft, the two Zandians notice. Gorde scowls and snaps something, and Benn shakes his head. “Are you all right?” he calls, out, then approaches me. His brow wrinkles. “Are you still feeling ill?”

“No. That passed. Thank you.” I glance at the pod.

“Your lungs are all right? Yo

ur breathing?”

I nod. “The inhaler worked. I’m fine, now. Just a little shaky from the whole experience, I guess.” I look again at the pod.

He follows my gaze. “A rescue.” He crosses his arms. “Since you clearly won’t stop asking until we tell you.” I think I see the slightest hint of a smile.

“Not a slave?” I bite my lip.

“No.” His expression darkens and he looks away. “A Zandian. Don’t go over there. Don’t touch the pod.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.” He scowls. “Safety. His and yours.”

“Fine.” I put up my hands. “I have experience dressing wounds. That’s all.”

“You do?” He narrows his eyes and tilts his head.

A cold shudder goes through me, as memories rush my mind: Akron lashing out with his claw-like nails, full of rage, but controlled. Always controlled. Slicing where it won’t show. Inner thighs. Belly. Leaving me to think about my transgressions, and to clean my own blood, tape up the thin, deep wounds correctly. Taking me to the medic to laser away the scars, only so he could have a fresh canvas.

I put my hands on my legs and take a deep breath. “That one on your forehead. You need to wash it and apply ointment. If you hold it together and affix the wound tape, you can line it up to make the scar thin, nearly unnoticeable.” But when I look closely, I see that although the dried purplish blood is still there, mixed with dirt, the wound itself looks smaller.

“Are you healing that fast?” I’m amazed. I reach out to touch his head and he lets me. “Still, you should wash it to avoid infection. Especially if it’s sealing rapidly.”

“We have more med kits.” He points. “I’ll use it later. I’m fine.”