In Consequence

ELEVEN


Jack couldn’t believe it. In retrospect, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Riddick was a cold and heartless bastard—he had kidnapped her, after all. But when he brought the indifferently glinting shiv toward her pale skin, she begged and pleaded in her terror.

“I’m sorry! Riddick, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but please, Riddick, don’t! Please, please….”

And the blade grazed her skin. The cold instrument, which had doubtlessly heralded the end of several lives, danced across her face. Riddick’s goggles remained trained in her direction, but who knew what was going on in their opaque recesses?

The flat of the shiv scraped her skin. She flinched and tried to jerk away, eyes shut tight. Riddick’s only response was to squeeze at her jaw, where he still held her firmly. He seemed to hesitate a moment. After an agonizing heartbeat or two, the blade trailed down her stiff neck toward her right shoulder. It traced her slender collarbone, glanced lightly the hollow of her throat.

~*~

Much as Riddick was getting a heady enjoyment from torturing the girl, he didn’t want to disfigure her. That angular face was much too pretty to cut. And as for that throat, that delicate, fragile throat, which he could crush without a second thought, it was too enticing. He didn’t want to cut her throat. No, he wanted to bite it, bite deep enough to taste her hot blood, before licking the wound clean… only to be reopened later.

He flicked his wrist. The blade bit into the flesh above her right breast with clinical precision, and she gasped. He was careful not to go too deep. He had no intention of actually hurting her. This would leave a stinging reminder, one that would be visible forever. Nothing more, nothing less. Some things he might agree to be removed in the way of scars and such in the future, but this one, a record of her first punishment, would always be there.

The shiv seemed to hum in his hand with bloodthirsty glee. This was what he did, this was what he was meant to do. The scent of her blood, the sight of it trickling down to gather on her areola before spilling down in a thin stream, the force of artificial gravity making it writhe down her torso like a sadistically seductive serpent... it was beyond words for the man. It could only be expressed in feelings, emotions: control, lust, triumph.

He became aware of a powerful erection pressing insistently on the careworn materiel of his pants. This girl, this beautiful half-wild, half-broken girl, drove him to distraction. The scent of her blood, her life, made him pound with a sudden, unfathomable desire to possess her, to own her.

“Who do you belong to, little girl?” he growled, fighting the impulse to throw her down, cut her and fuck her, lick salty blood from saltier skin, and heal her to do it again. Again. And again.

Her fear and pain was enveloping him twofold, the scent of her anxiety teasing him in the air, the alluring way she trembled in his grasp speaking to him on a purely twisted, carnal level. He forced her face up to look at him. “Open your eyes! Anwser me!”

Her clear green orbs gazed at him with a hurt betrayal, and that delicious fear flickering uncertainly inside made her all the more attractive. “You,” she spat out in reply.

Riddick brought the shiv to his lips, licked the blood from it luxuriously, slowly, like a lover. Or a murderer. “That’s right. Me. You disobeyed me, yes?”

When she didn’t answer, he asked again, voice never breaking its teasing monotone. “Yes or no? Better answer.”

More tears trickled down her face. He brushed them away with the back of the shiv. “Yes,” she answered reluctantly.

“And do you think this will remind you not to do that? Will this make you remember who you are, and what you are?”

Jack nodded rapidly, her lips pressed together into a thin, severe line. Riddick laughed, not unkindly—at least, not as he saw it. “We’ll see. Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

~*~

He kept a hand on her left shoulder as he steered her toward the kitchenette. He wet a towel and wiped her blood away. Some of it had dried, and he scrubbed it stubbornly. Jack marveled.

This man—this horrifying, terrifying hulk, an animal of a man—was as unpredictable as the New Meccan sun was steadfast; of course being outside would give you a sunburn if you weren’t careful. Of course a psychotic murderer would cut you and then clean you up with a kind of insane, brutal tenderness. Of course.

He said, “Stay here.” Jack shrugged assent, and when he left her alone, she used the moment to examine the wound more thoroughly. It was about an inch-and-a-half long, and the skin had split open in a teardrop-shaped slit from the weight of her breast pulling on the skin. Blood still seeped out of the cut, along with a clear fluid that she could remember from childhood cuts and scraped. She touched it gently with her forefinger. It stung on top of the steady throbbing she felt, and she gasped.

“Don’t touch it. I haven’t cleaned it yet.”

Riddick’s voice was like water flowing through thick gravel. She turned and looked at him, surprised, as he set a first-aid kit on the sink. “This’ll sting,” he said, opening a packet of something and taking out a small, damp towelette. The scent of disinfectant stung her nose. Probably rubbing alcohol. “Don’t flinch,” he added shortly.

And sting it did. Jack bit her lower lip and exhaled in a smooth hiss, closing her eyes. After a moment she felt a sharp pricking, and saw Riddick suturing the edges of the cut together.

“Why are you doing this?” she found herself asking, trying not to focus on the steady motion of the curved needle as it altered and rearranged her flesh.

“What, fixing you up?”

Jack nodded.

“Said I wanted to punish you, not fuck you over. You don’t know a damn thing about this, do you?”

“About what?” The question took her by surprise. A damn thing about what, indeed?

“I’m your Master. Not your jailor, not your own personal torturer. Go sit in the main cabin.”

Puzzled more than ever, and if not burning, well, smoldering with a gentle curiosity, she did as she was told.

He joined her in a few minutes and examined his handiwork mutely. He seemed satisfied, because he nodded and looked at her. “What do you know about the slave trade?”

A smart-ass retort sprang to mind, but she had enough sense now to stifle it. She didn’t want the humiliation of another cut. “Not much,” she said honestly. “Just that it’s damn near impossible to be set free once you become one.”

Riddick was silent for an eternity that lasted a couple of seconds. When he spoke, his voice held the faintest trace of… respect? Sentimentality? Surely not.

“Master and slave is one of the most complex and complete relationships possible. Trust between two people more profound that that of husband and wife. Most times it’s sexual, but sometimes not. Jack, I’m a sick, fucked up man. I’m barely a man, even. But being a slave means that you’ll be protected and treasured. Just because I punish you doesn’t mean that I’ll really hurt you. You need to learn to obey me completely and without fail when we’re in public. You won’t listen to what I say, but I’m pretty sure you’ll pay attention to what I do. Now, here’s the truth: I like seeing you afraid. I like watching you bleed. But I will not damage your body. I will not kill you. I won’t rape you. Why is it so fucking hard for you to understand that I want you, damn it?”

It was, by far, one of the longest speeches he’d made in her presence. It started out in a reasonable tone, but as he’d gone on, his voice had risen in evident anger. She shook and quailed as he yelled the last few words.

The echoes of his curse faded as swiftly at they had come, and she closed her eyes briefly. He had to be telling the truth. There was evidence to support it, all right. He still hadn’t hurt her. He physically cut her. He watched her bleed, and enjoyed it. But he hadn’t raped her, though he’d had plenty of opportunity. He hadn’t beaten her, though she knew that she’d provoked him close to that point numerous times. He must want her.

It didn’t add up. She put her head in her hands, ignoring the flare of pain from her injury. She didn’t understand, and told him as much.

“Riddick, you may be a sick man, but can you try to see it from my point of view? I mean, you kidnapped me, played with my mind like it was some kind of game, then took me to God knows where, had something done to me—I don’t even know what—”

He interrupted, “Birth control implant and some immunity boosters. Good for three years.”

His voice and blunt honesty interrupted her tirade just as it began to gather steam. It amazed her that he listened for as long as he had. “Riddick, you kidnap me and do all this shit to me, and then you cut me when you get pissed off at me? Do you really expect me to understand you, or what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it? You expect me to feel treasured and protected, when the one who scares me the most is you?”

“No. I don’t.”

Jack sighed. The man was unreachable, as remote and inhuman as the stars through which they traveled.

~*~

She didn’t understand. He was a fool for expecting her to understand. At the very least, she seemed resigned to her fate. That was a starting point.

He was doing the best he could. Sitting down and trying to explain things to her was something he rarely did with anyone, and it had turned out to be a total disaster.

Her anger was delectable, her fear a passionate turn-on, but he was getting sick of fighting with her. “Here’s what you got to figure out. I thought we'd gotten this far, but apparently I overestimated you. I’m in charge. I won’t hurt you. Obey me and you can trust me. Disobey me and you can trust me, too, but you’d better be trusting that I’ll punish you for it. You’re not going anywhere, and I went through a lot of shit to get to you. You’re staying. Quit making both our lives miserable, got it? Just fucking accept it. You’re my slave, and I’ll take care of you, but damn it, you piss me off sometimes.”

Shit, it was a fucking compliment that he was paying her, really. Going through this drama was worth it, but barely. She was his, and he would keep her, but he didn’t know how to break down her walls.

Back to square one, and hopefully some training. “Lights off."