In Consequence

SIXTEEN


What now?

Jack lay on her stomach on Riddick’s bed. One pillow was bunched into a big wad underneath her chest, and her legs were crossed loosely at the ankles. The feeling of having clothing on her skin felt alien, strange. She’d become accustomed to feeling the brunt of whatever she came in contact with. The lack of texture and temperature changes was disconcerting.

He wanted to know how she felt. She thought that how she felt didn’t matter. What happened to being a slave, to being just his… victim?

It was like he started seeing her as… not an equal, but as a companion, and not just a thing. She didn’t know how she felt about it. How was she supposed to feel about it? On the one hand, she was grateful. Somehow she’d gained status in his eyes. But on the other hand, she didn’t know where she stood. She almost preferred it when he was being an asshole—at least then she knew what to expect.

Riddick could make a career out of keeping me guessing.

She wondered about Imam. Suddenly the image of the holy man pressed down on her, crushing her with an onslaught of guilt. She hadn’t tried to get in touch with him, hadn’t tried to let him know she was okay. What was he going through? For all Imam knew, she was dead.

Jack wondered if she could risk trying to send him a message. Surely Riddick would have precautions in place, some way to prevent the signal from being intercepted by the law. She didn’t want him going back to slam, especially because of her.

At first the thought didn’t quite register with her. But as her mind wandered, meandering slowly but cautiously over the events of the past few weeks, the realization snuck up on her. She didn’t want to be responsible for Riddick going back to slam. Well, that would be a good way to be rescued, wouldn’t it? The mercs would come get him, he’d disappear—for a while, anyway—and she could go back to New Mecca.

She knew it was impossible. Oh, it was entirely possible for her to get him caught… but she wouldn’t go back to New Mecca. She was a slave. She kept forgetting that little fact. A slave. No rights. Riddick was her owner.

Technically, if he were arrested, the government could confiscate her along with the rest of his belongings. What would happen to her then? She wasn’t stupid. Nobody would let her go, nobody would release her. Slavery was so frowned upon that slaves were few and far between, healthy young women in particular. And definitely virgins. No, she’d get snapped up as a Senator’s plaything or by some traders before she could blink.

However, that frightening bit of information hadn’t been the first thing to hit her. It was only secondary to what her first response had been—she didn’t want Riddick to get hurt. She didn’t want to be separated from him. She didn’t know if she was giving in, if she was getting brainwashed, or if he was genuinely changing for the better. She just didn’t know.

~*~

Riddick sat thinking in the cockpit. Jack was on his bed, also thinking, or so he assumed. It’s what he told her to do. “Think. When you’re ready, come out to the main cabin.”

They had to talk, work something out. He didn’t know how not to hurt her, and he knew he couldn’t let her go. They had to come to some kind of an understanding… maybe a set of rules, parameters for both of them.

But he was in charge. He shouldn’t have parameters. It should be his way, all the time, with no questions on her part. Ideally, it would be perfect. But nothing was ever ideal, after all. She was too strong to be a ‘traditional’ slave. He knew that now. She wouldn’t bend… she’d stand tall until she shattered.

His old trader buddy would have applauded it. “The more bitches we break, the better,” he’d always said. Riddick hadn’t agreed with him, but held his peace. He’d done his part in breaking them, though, while staying with Barry Freed. He was certainly no saint, not even in the slave trade.

He’d loved it.

Smelling them, tasting their fear in the air, hitting them, raping them. Breaking them down, destroying any pride, any sense of self and reducing them to quivering whispers of people. He supposed it didn’t help that they knew who he was.

But Jack wasn’t like those girls. The fear scent was the same… delicious. However, she wasn’t bending. Whenever she faded, gave in, it angered him. He liked constantly overpowering her. He liked the challenge. He didn’t want to win, because he didn’t want this electricity between them to drift away. He loved the spirit inside her. The problem was that he didn’t know how not to destroy it.

It was a horrific selfishness, keeping her with him. He knew it and, quite frankly, didn’t give a shit. He didn’t want what was best for her. He didn’t even care if she was happy or not. Riddick’s ultimate goal was the same as it always was—keeping himself reasonably comfortable, considering whatever means he had at his disposal at any given time, and out of slam.

"Riddick...."

Her voice broke his concentration and he turned toward her. The sight of her beautiful body bound up in clothes grated him, but there was nothing else for it. If it made her relax a bit more, then it was worth it. Trying to communicate with a terrified girl, his terrified girl, was frustrating to no end.

“Sit down,” he grunted, gesturing to the seat beside him. She looked at it with apprehension in her eyes. Riddick groaned and reached up. Without giving her recoil a chance to actually make her move away from him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down roughly.

She looked stunned, then resigned. Riddick felt smug approval blended intricately with irritation at her resigned expression well up inside him. He impatiently stamped it down and fixed his gaze onto hers. She was watching him with huge eyes. Open eyes, but haunted eyes. That haunted look wasn’t entirely his fault, but he knew damn well that he’d had a strong hand in putting it there.

“So?” he challenged, wondering what she would say. He swore to himself that he would just hear her out. He just didn’t know if it was an oath he would be able to keep. “Speak.”

“I….”

She shook her head. Riddick noted the frustration etched on her face. She tried again. “I… oh, hell. I don’t know.” She put her head in her hands.

“Tell me what you need,” Riddick finally said. He hadn’t counted on those words being that difficult to say. This was giving her too much. No, it wasn’t. Yes, it was. Fuck.

“I need…” her voice failed, but to his pleasure, she tried again. “I need to wear clothes all the time. I need to get in touch with Imam. I need to trust that you won’t put me in the dark again. I need you to be nice. I need you to treat me like a person. Just another person, Riddick.” She fell silent, but before he could try and respond, she went on.

“Why is that so hard? I mean, you say you don’t want to hurt me. But then you say that you want me to be a bitch. Isn’t that just an excuse to hurt me? It’s like you want me to provoke you. I’m so scared that you’ll keep hurting me, and then you’ll make me defy you again, and then you’ll hurt me again. I guess I’m scared that you’ll just keep doing that until there’s nothing left of me to hurt. What happens then? When I stop being… entertaining?”

Riddick stared at her. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

She wasn’t done. “If you can stop hurting me for no reason, if you can stop… torturing me… then I could see this working. Almost. I need….”

Her words finally ground to a halt. Riddick’s mind was working on overtime, trying to process the implications of what had just been said. She could see it working, if he stopped torturing her. But he liked torturing her. He didn’t want to stop.

Maybe sometimes… maybe he could tone it down. Get past this bullshit and get some structure. Maybe that would work. Parameters, guidelines, rules. Whatever the hell they were called.

“How about this,” he countered. “I’ll stop provoking you… mostly. I am what I am, Jack. Can’t change it. But if you quit being a smart-ass when you’re in trouble, then I won’t have to punish you.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. He normally didn’t speak this much, come this clean. “You don’t seem to get it. I don’t want a little carbon-copied whore. They’re a dime a dozen on the outskirts. I want you. I want you with me. And you’re going to stay with me. Seems we both want that.”

He waited for her nod before going on. “Clothes. Okay. Most of the time. When I tell you, strip. You got a major problem with it, say something. I don’t read minds. Don’t just stand there, don’t be a smart-ass. Say, ‘Riddick, I don’t want to for this reason.’ Maybe I’ll let you keep you clothes on. You never know. Imam. Not right now. Maybe later. Don’t push it, don’t ask again, don’t argue. When you can, I’ll tell you.”

What else? Being treated as a person…. “As for that other shit, Jackie, that whole being treated decent… I don’t beat you. I haven’t raped you. You’re fed, you’re taken care of. I don’t know what else you mean.” He knew perfectly well what she meant. But he didn’t know if he was willing to go that far yet.

“I need to be treated like an equal,” she said softly. “I need to feel… like I mean something.”

Riddick’s response was swift and ruthless. “No.” Seeing her hurt and confusion, he elaborated, “You’re not my equal. Never will be. Get over it.” The cloud over her face deepened even more. He added, more quietly, attempting gentleness and hating it, “You do mean something, though.”

Her face rose to meet his, and she whispered, “What?”

Well, fuck. What did she mean?

“You mean… you mean that… hell, Jack, why do you have to make shit so fucking difficult?” He clenched his fists, trying not to let his frustration get the better of him.

Her face darkened. “Why is it so wrong for me to want to know what I mean to you?”

The expression on her face pushed him over the edge. He was stretching his limits to the extreme, with this whole give-and-take shit. And she had to go and question him even more. Why couldn’t she just let shit go?

“I don’t fucking know what you mean to me! You’re my slave, you’re Jack, you’re… you. You’re mine. Trust me, you’re important.”

She didn’t seem content, not even pacified. But she quit pushing it. Riddick leaned back against his seat. He hated honesty.

Maybe it was getting time to fuck her. He sure as hell was ready for it. But was she?

He didn’t know if he wanted to fuck her for the sex, to make her his own, or just to hurt her. He had promised not to really hurt her. But what did that mean? Physical damage? Course, if he tried to fuck her now, it would probably be nothing but a rape.

He cursed himself again for making his life this complicated.