Stolen (Alpha's Claim 4)

The bruising on her wrists was beginning to fade, her health returning now that Jacques made a point of seeing she was fed regularly. Now that he was free to fuck her, his demeanor had greatly changed. He still seduced her at his whim, but he also doted… at least that’s the word he used.

Lavish meals, long baths that always ended with him penetrating her under the water.

Most days he left her alone for a few hours here and there to attend state business. When he returned, after he fucked her, he would invite her to play games, talk, ask a million questions she could not answer.

Sometimes he’d rub her feet. Sometimes he’d tell her to get down on her knees.

He liked to be rough, would make himself be gentle. And each new mating left her with new marks—a roadmap of where he’d been.

Brenya looked at the latest scuffs marking her knees, remembering a time when bruises were common but earned in a different sort of labor.

She missed fiddling with the mechanics of broken infrastructure, she missed being useful to the Dome. Now… what? She was left with little to do but dissect an ancient bedside clock while Jacques was away. Spread before her on a table nearest the window with the best light lay the cogs, dials, springs, the weighted pendulum, all the inner workings that when put in the perfect order, functioned seamlessly.

She could take it apart, put it together. Take it apart, put it together, over and over, and every piece would function seamlessly. It would always work so long as each component did their job. As she had done her job as a Beta.

Unit 17C had been a cog in the Bernard Dome machine.

Knowing that now, knowing how Centrist Alphas regarded the Beta workers, troubled her. All that effort, the peace of her previous life, the cohesion, what did it matter here? Was it okay that Betas lived so completely removed from the realities of the Dome?

Yes. They were safe that way.

Central was dangerous. Alphas were dangerous.

Brenya was beginning to suspect that Jacques was the most dangerous of all.

Look what he’d already done to her.

After that first night he’d penetrated and knotted her, he’d held her close and assigned her duties: perform for him sexually, bend over at his whim, learn the tricks that any Centrist female already knew. In return, he would cherish her with bruises and fluids, with ecstatic moans and orgasms.

When estrous came, he would teach her to love him. All would be well. Trust in your Commodore. Obey.

She was still a cog. A cog who knew things she wished she didn’t.

Even the most menial engineering task had been more fulfilling than whoredom.

But was she a whore when the anticipation of his return had… marked the soft chair where she sat? There was little he had to do to prepare her body now. A rich purr when he set eyes on her and her underthings were ruined.

If he growled, slick dripped down her leg.

In her weeks in Jacques’ care, he’d trained her well enough.

Well enough that she knew he would not be pleased to find his clock in pieces. Still she took it apart every time he left, fingering the bits as if they held the answers she lacked.

It was always completely sound before he returned, back on the bedside table and ticking softly.

There was nothing she could not take apart and put back together. What did that matter now?

Serve the Dome with advanced skills, or learn to suck Alpha cock practicing exactly how to squeeze a knot in your hands as a male shot gobs of sperm down your throat.

That she had yet to master, choking both times he’d drawn her head to his lap.

Absently her fingers went about their business, rebuilding the clock because it was almost time for the Commodore to return.

Setting the clock back in its home and tucking away the tools she’d used to take the thing apart: a nail file and a pilfered fork. She smoothed her skirt just in time to hear the click of the door.

She was supposed to greet him in the foyer, even pretend to smile just as Annette had practiced with her. She was supposed to put her hands on him, maybe press a kiss to his cheek.

These things she had tried, and each day performed better.

He had his arms open. Her body would fit there, tucked against him while he might kiss the top of her head and say hello. Sometimes it was nice.

If she closed her eyes hard enough as he murmured to her, it wasn’t so bad.

All she had to do was think of jasmine.

Turning her nose into his chest, Brenya inhaled deeply. She could practically smell the sweet flowers. In fact, all of him was drenched in sweetness.

She froze.