Famous poets summed up this work, long dead yet still remembered.
And it was right here, in a vacant room where all the furnishings were draped to protect from dust and light.
Aftershocks still quivered between her thighs, her confusion blending with relief… and also humiliation. She knew she should not have left that room.
One look at Alpha guards and this is what became of her?
No wonder Jacques thought she enjoyed his attention.
A light knock came to the door. “Madame, the Commodore has suggested you return to your room and rest. He says you will not be disturbed for the remainder of the day.”
Why she laughed, Brenya didn’t know.
Jules was gone by the time she found the energy to peel her body from the soaked floor. Padding barefoot across the hall, she went right back to her home in the Red Room.
Bernard Dome’s new Commodore returned at dark, stern as he asked her to take a seat across from him.
Glaring.
The very look of Jules Havel was so intriguing that she stared right back.
Tension did not exist between them, even though it was neigh an hour before he broke the silence. “Whatever training you received from Jacques Bernard is not a performance I expect from you.”
“What do you expect me to perform?” So far, the only thing he had ordered her to do was walk, and that had not gone well.
“The Queen of Greth Dome has asked my permission to exchange letters with you. She is a kind woman and someone I respect. The first arrived today, along with pictures of a painting she is creating as a gift. I believe it would be appropriate for you to create a gift in return.”
Sweat prickled Brenya’s brow at his tone, Brenya’s thoughts darting to the slick-soaked pants she had stuffed into a crevice in the bathroom.
Without missing a beat, Jules Havel continued, “You have a skill for clockwork, I understand. You dropped a cog in my ship.”
It was she who broke their extended eye contact, glancing to the side while scenarios flipped through her conscious. Make a clock? From random pieces? Not just take one apart and put it back together. “Yes, I would very much like to make the Queen of Greth Dome a clock.”
Very much!
Little tools and gears. Hours focused on the minutia. There would be so many glorious mistakes.
Twitching fingers were already working imaginary bits and bobs. Ships were relatively big. It could be as tall as Jules. No! A small clock would be more difficult to calibrate. More fun!
“Then it is settled. Everything you need to sketch out schematics will be waiting for you in the room across the hall. That will be your workspace. The fabrication department will queue your request behind daily necessities and emergency work.”
“Can I start now?”
“No.” A male who had glared so ferociously the moment before almost smirked. “I find myself at a place in life where I understand the need for balance between work and pleasure.” Jules said that last word as if he didn’t fully understand it.
Pleasure? Clearly, he was ready for her to perform, Brenya already sliding to her knees to pleasure the man as she had been taught.
Shooting to his feet, Jules roared, “Get up and sit back in your chair!”
None of it had been intentional, yet she had ruined her chance to make a clock. Sadness crashed, the wave breaking apart the brittle excitement she’d known.
“Hear me, woman!” Grabbing the glittering vase of flowers that came each day when the breakfast cart was outside the door, Jules Havel threw it to smash into a cascading shower of glittering crystal. The window he had aimed for solid as it had ever been. “You are not permitted to touch me unless you want to!”
Her eyes stung, but she refused to ruin this further by crying... or speaking. Rapid nods were offered instead.
The man actually ran his fingers through his hair, mussing the short ends in a very human gesture. “It’s not your fault.”
“Sometimes, I see things inside you that suggest something I felt constantly from Jacques. You don’t touch me, but you want to. I want to build a clock.”
“Do you want me to touch you?”
He knew the answer was no. The question had been a reminder that she slept deeper and deeper inside her circle of pillows.
From anger to hunger to longing, brief flashes of emotion each differing in their taste, and each fleeting. Vanishing from Jules Havel's mind as if they had never existed.
Their stare began again, only this time, the man seasoned it with words that she would never forget. “When you are ready, you will come to me, and though I promised once to hurt you, you have my word that I will not.”
Again, she was the one who broke their gaze, looking to the mess for something to do besides sit and grow warm.