That wasn’t a name I’d heard before. I didn’t know what Sitar meant, but it sounded sinister. It sounded like a group of people I had no chance of getting along with.
“Like I said,” I began, applying the most serious tone to my words, “I am a Martian, and I follow Martian law.”
We sat in silence for the next several minutes as I cleaned the dirt from her face. I didn’t find any new injuries until I began cleaning her neck. She’d been choked. A lot. I gritted my teeth at the sight and did my best to stifle a curse. I was concerned that if she sensed my anger, she might become afraid of me. Or, because of my new strength, I might accidentally hurt her. I didn’t want either to happen.
“My people are called Ish-nul,” she said. “It means The People. We also have our own laws. We do not keep slaves. We farm. We gather. We make war with the vrak when we can. But mostly, we hide from the Sitar.”
“Who are the Sitar?” I asked.
The question became irrelevant when she stretched her leg out and pulled up the end of her robe. Her leg was bruised, just like her arms. The vrak, at least one of them, seemed to take great pleasure in beating humans. I didn’t know how many were slavers, but I wondered if beating them like they beat their slaves wouldn’t be more than fair. Then I reminded myself that I was a Martian, and though revenge was acceptable, torture was not. I’d end them, but I would not beat them to death.
Her legs were unshaven. It didn’t look like she’d ever shaved, but the hairs were short, fine, and soft. I was as gentle as I could manage. Her legs weren’t as dirty as the rest of her, and I couldn’t help but admire them. She didn’t appear to be a warrior, but she was used to hard work.
I stroked her leg as gently as I could and noticed she wasn’t flinching anymore.
“You are different from most men,” she whispered. “You’re a warrior, but something else, too. The warriors of my people —”
I’d grown distracted by the sound of her voice and her soft, strong leg in my hands. I’d been too rough with her. “Sorry,” I said. “Tell me more.”
She offered me her other leg but didn’t pull her robe back down over the first. I wasn’t sure what it meant in her culture, but in mine, the message was loud and clear. I tried not to get my hopes up. She’d been through a lot, and it might have just been a reaction to the stress.
What could I do? I obliged her request to clean her other leg. I took my time, teasing it out as I rinsed the dirt from the cloth and wet it again, absently wondering if something else might be getting wet at the same time.
Her other leg was just as badly bruised as the other. Horror flickered inside of me again. There should be no slaves—ever. Human history was festooned with bad examples, but we’d learned. We’d overcome the primitive thinking of one person owning another. I’d read about it. I’d even witnessed it once among some pirates who were trying to revive the practice. But I’d never seen such violence against an innocent, one considered property by another. And honestly, one so beautiful and stoic as the woman before me.
A thought struck me. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“I am called Enra,” she said. “It means—”
“Morning,” I finished.
The way she’d said it—the way her mouth moved and how she rolled the syllable—nearly caused me to grasp her legs tightly with both hands. I resisted and was glad for it. I was stronger now. I had to be gentle. And with Enra, I wanted to ensure she felt safe in my presence.
My self-imposed chastity had ended with Reaver before the mission had begun. The emotions and feelings that Reaver and I had shared had awoken something inside me. So many years without the pleasure of a woman had bubbled over on that day.
But I couldn’t exactly fulfil my desires now. Not with a woman whom I’d just rescued from her alien owner.
Except Enra seemed like she wanted me. Maybe more than that. It seemed like she needed me. She must not have felt comfort for some time, and it made sense that she would seek it out with the man who’d rescued her.
Still, I wasn’t entirely sure of her intentions. Before Reaver, it had been a long while since I’d engaged in flirtatious behavior with any woman.
I needed to know if I was understanding the unspoken words between us, so I got on my knees and scooted closer to her. She spread her legs wide. She was receptive.
I rinsed the cloth out again, found the knotted string holding the top of her robe closed and began to work at the knot. As I did, she studied my face. I pretended that I didn’t notice her heavy breathing, the way she licked her lips, and the way her breasts pressed against the tattered robe.
I didn’t want to ruin the only piece of clothing she had, but if the knot had been tied purposefully that way, I had no idea how to undo it. She must have noticed my frustration, because she took my hands in hers, brushed them against her cheek, and deftly untied the knot herself.
The lusty look in her eyes, how hard she was breathing, and the sheen of sweat on her top lip told me she was eager. I’d barely touched her, but the trembles of pleasure in her limbs were unmistakable.
I set the cloth on her leg to keep it out of the dirt and pulled at the robe near her shoulders. I hadn’t known there were so few bindings. When I let go, the rags fell to her waist, revealing a perfect set of breasts, with pink, erect nipples, and
