by Claire Kent
Riana giggled as Cain released her, and she stretched out to try to ease her tight muscles. She’d become accustomed to the lack of privacy far sooner than she would have expected. She was occasionally hit with self-consciousness—if one of the other prisoners caught her in an unusual position. The other day she’d been fucking Cain as he’d sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his arms. She was on his lap, facing away from him, her legs folded beside his thighs, bracing herself on his knees and bouncing on his cock as frantically as she could. She’d been naked, her breasts jiggling wildly, while Cain had held himself perfectly still. She’d come three times, riding him with shameless eagerness. For some reason, when she’d noticed there was an audience of several gawking prisoners, she’d burned with mortification—although she’d come a fourth time, knowing she was being watched.
But usually she could shrug off the lack of privacy.
It was amazing what familiarity could accomplish.
Cain collapsed beside her, breathing heavily and stretching out beside her. He didn’t reach out to pull her against him. He wasn’t the cuddling kind. But she felt his eyes on her in the dark.
“I suppose you’re pretty proud of yourself,” she said in a dry voice.
He grunted. A sound she understood as agreement.
“I just screamed to feed your enormous ego,” she lied. “I thought you needed some encouragement.”
He grunted again. This one sounded amused.
“It wasn’t that good,” she continued, pleased with her success. Cain wasn’t an open or easy man, and it always gave her a thrill when she managed to connect with him in a way other than sex. “But you’re making good strides. Keep at it, and I’m sure you’ll get better.”
Her teasing got a more dramatic reaction than she’d expected. Cain rolled over on top of her—hot, heavy, and damp with perspiration. She could feel his warm breath against her flushed cheek and—although she still couldn’t see his expression only inches away from her—she could sense his predatory smile in the dark.
He adjusted until he could slip one hand down between her thighs. His fingers explored her groin, stroking the hot, swollen flesh and her pussy, sloppy and wet from his fluids and hers. “Is that right?” he said, the gravel in his voice making her shiver.
“Yes.” She tensed as she felt his thumb close over her sensitized clit, but she managed to say in a somewhat wry voice, “Don’t be discouraged. You’re still learning.”
He lowered his face until he could murmur in her ear, “How’s this for a lesson?”
Then he began to rub her clit in firm circles with his thumb.
She tried to resist—willing herself to keep control of her reactions so she could keep the upper-hand in their teasing conversation.
But it was no use. Her body was already overly stimulated, and now it was primed and ready for his touch.
It took less than a minute of his massage for another climax to coil and release inside her. She bit down hard on his shoulder to keep herself from choking out the pleasure that pulsed through her.
“Forty-seven seconds,” he drawled, stroking her pussy as the lingering spasms died away.
“Arrogant bastard,” she replied without any heat. “That one was fake too.”
He actually laughed—a low, throaty sound she almost never heard from him.
She experienced a flush of pleasure at the sound.
He was so hard to figure out, and she had no idea how he felt about her.
She knew he loved to fuck her—she had ample proof of that—but that might be because she was the only available, willing female in his present circumstances. They fucked a lot, sometimes three or four times a day. But they didn’t have much else to do, and at least it was an enjoyable way to pass the time.
She knew he tolerated her pretty well. She did her best to make herself accommodating—even when he was silent and bad-tempered. She tried to be helpful and interesting, and did her best to be a good companion.
But she didn’t know if he actually liked her. If he had feelings for her beyond lust and easy tolerance.
And she wanted Cain to like her. Desperately.
So much she thrilled at every small sign that he might.
She supposed it wasn’t entirely healthy. She’d latched onto him with unnatural neediness, since there was absolutely no one else to bond with in the hell where she was living. Under normal circumstances, she might not have even liked him. Much less developed so strong an attachment to this rough, silent loner.
But she spent a good portion of her endless days brooding about Cain, wondering what made him tick, dissecting every comment he made to her, and hoping she was growing on him too.
Sometimes she daydreamed about escaping the prison, and in those daydreams she and Cain always left together.
And they stayed together even after they were freed.
Other times she had nightmares about a freak accident occurring and Cain getting killed. Her horror in those imaginings wasn’t just about what would happen to her. It was also about losing Cain.
Most of the time, she tried not to think about either of those things. She tried to just live in the moment, since anything else was almost unbearable.
Right now, she wanted to roll over and snuggle with Cain. She wanted him to put his arms around her and hold her close. She didn’t make a move though. The last thing she wanted to do was make Cain feel uncomfortable about anything connected to sex.
Sex was all she had, and it was the only thing keeping her safe.
* * *
When the lights came back on in the Hold, Cain rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom—just as he always did. She stayed under the covers. Other prisoners often strolled by Cain’s cell first thing in the morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of her cleaning up or getting dressed. Because of this, she always waited until the early meal, when Cain left to get them food, to clean up as best she could.
There was only so clean she could get here but she did what she could—grateful she at least had use of a sink.
She washed out her clothes as often as possible, although she had to be careful since they were already getting threadbare and stained. Despite her attempts to stay clean, she knew she must smell a lot of the time. After the first week, however, she’d stopped letting that bother her.
Her own senses had grown accustomed to the smell of the Hold. So much so that she hardly noticed it anymore, unless she got close to a particularly reeking man. Cain had a distinct smell. One she actually liked now, since it had grown so familiar to her.
She kind of hoped he felt the same way about how she smelled. They had sex so often she sometimes wondered if most of the time she smelled like Cain anyway.
Her hair was basically hopeless. Cain had found her something that resembled a comb, and she spent hours trying to work it through her snarled mass of dark hair. She washed her hair in the sink sometimes, but there was no soap or shampoo. She’d given up hoping that her hair would ever look attractive again.
Cain had offered to shave it off for her—the way he shaved his own scalp with the blade he kept hidden behind the toilet. But Riana couldn’t yet bring herself to give up her hair completely.
Maybe later she would get there. But not yet.
She had let Cain shave her pussy. Two weeks ago. Initially, it had been for purely practical reasons, but the act had ended up being intensely erotic. And when he’d finished the delicate procedure, he’d had her hold herself open intimately so he could pleasure her with his lips, tongue, and teeth.
She’d come three times—the last time screaming.
Just the memory of it still made her wet.
Since Cain had left for the morning mealtime, Riana got up to go to the bathroom and get washed up.
She’d never actually seen the mealtime madness, since it went on beyond the sight of the cell, and she had no desire to do so. She had taken to observing people during the downtimes, more than she’d done at the beginning, whenever t
here weren’t men hanging about the bars to ogle.
She’d never grown fully inured to violence, so there were some things she just couldn’t look at, but occasionally it was quiet enough for her to look through the bars and observe life in the Hold.
She grew to recognize certain people—even though she never learned their names. There was one elderly man who seemed to spend all day making slow laps around the prison, darting out of the way of anyone who looked like a threat. He must have lived on scraps, since he never participated in the mealtime rush. She mentally christened him the Tortoise. Another guy must have been a kleptomaniac, since she would often see him snatching things that belonged to others—not with brute force the way the alphas did, but with quick, covert movements, as if he just couldn’t help it. He would sometimes get beat up, but he never stole anything important enough to get killed over. She called him the Snatcher.
Then there was the Player. He’d arrived just over a week ago. She’d noticed him immediately because he was very good-looking. He wore expensive clothes, and he walked with a kind of swagger that made it clear he was used to getting what he wanted. He was definitely a ladies’ man, which was why she’d named him the Player.
She’d expected him to be dead before the first night was over, since his clothes were so much better than anyone else’s and because there were men here who would take his confidence as defiance.
She’d been shocked when she continued to see him—still in his clothes, never beat up. Then he claimed his own cell—not a good one, but better than nothing—and no one tried to take it from him. He was in good shape, but in a lean way. He wasn’t nearly as big as Cain or Thorn. There was no way he could have taken on some of the men here through brute strength.
She wondered how he was surviving. His cell was across from hers and Cain’s, and no one seemed to bother him. He didn’t appear to have made friends or alliances or given himself as a lover to an alpha who could protect him.
Because she was so curious, she would sometimes watch him when she was alone in the cell and he was in her range of view.
He was an anomaly. He didn’t make sense.
This morning, the Player hadn’t gone for food in the rush. He didn’t always, although he clearly managed to eat enough to stay healthy. It seemed more like he couldn’t always be bothered. Right now, he was in his cell, sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.
As if he’d sensed her watching, he opened his eyes and met her gaze across the distance.
This guy wasn’t like most of the other animals in the Hold, but she had no idea who or what he was.
After a minute, he got up and walked toward her.
When he reached the bars of the cell, he gave her a breathtaking grin, one that literally made her breath hitch. “I don’t suppose you can spare one of those blankets.”
She found herself reaching down for one automatically before she caught herself. What the hell? So he had a good smile—that didn’t mean she lost her mind over him. “I don’t think he would like that.”
She never spoke Cain’s name where anyone else could hear it. He’d given it to her as a gesture of goodwill. He hadn’t given it to anyone else.
“Probably not. But would he even notice?” Again, the man was so charming and persuasive that she wanted to just cave and give him what he wanted.
“Yes. He would.”
“What has he done to deserve such loyalty?” This seemed more like a genuine question rather than a ploy to persuade her.
She met his gaze evenly, noticing his eyes were a remarkably vivid green. “What do you think?”
He sighed. “Best cell. Best woman. I might be jealous.”
Cain had told her how he’d taken this cell from the prisoner who’d had it when he arrived. The man had been strong—so strong Cain had been seriously injured after the fight—but Cain had beaten him and taken the key. He’d die before he gave it up now.
She said, “I wouldn’t challenge him, if I were you.”
The Player laughed. “I’m way too smart for that.”
He probably was. Maybe that was how he’d survived as long as he did. Some sort of razor-sharp intelligence and the ability to persuade people to take his side.
It had worked on her—so easily it was almost frightening. This man might look more like a player than a warrior, but there was something dangerous about him all the same.
She was about to reply, when Cain appeared out of nowhere. He swung a blow toward the other man, but the Player ducked out of the range of Cain’s fist just in time.
He was really quick—that was for sure.
“Get away,” Cain muttered, aiming an intimidating glare in his direction.
The man backed off, but he gave Riana a shameless wink in the process that made Cain growl.
She wanted to laugh. She really wanted to laugh. Who the hell was that guy anyway?
“What was he doing?” Cain demanded, entering the cell and locking it behind him.
“Just talking. I think he was bored.”
“Stay away from him. There’s something not right about him.”
“What do you mean?” She’d sensed something strange too, but she wondered if Cain had a better take on it. “What’s not right?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard rumblings, though. No one will challenge him.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Not worth my time.” He gave Riana a significant look. “Unless he tries to take what’s mine.”
She swallowed, feeling a little turned on by the words, but she managed to say, “Well, I protected your blankets for you, so I think they’re safe.”
That earned her an almost-smile.
When Cain gave her the food he’d brought back, Riana accepted her portion with thanks. She’d never gone with him to retrieve the meals. Cain wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on protecting her as well as claiming food for both of them. So he always left her locked in the cell, and Riana had never complained.
She didn’t complain about anything anyway. Even things that genuinely bugged her. She kept all of her annoyances—the inevitable result of living in such close quarters with a terse, stoic man—to herself.
She had no idea how many complaints it would take for Cain to get sick of her and banish her from his cell, but she wasn’t about to test his limits.
The meal always consisted of stew and bread, and sometimes Riana could barely swallow it because she was so tired of the stuff. But Cain always got grumpy and disapproving when she didn’t eat—the way he acted whenever she showed signs of not being tough enough—so she usually managed to force down enough to keep herself full.
She’d started working out with Cain—doing as many push-ups and sit-ups as she could and running at least a couple of laps around the perimeter of the Hold with him until she was too exhausted to keep up. He would lock her in the cell when she’d done all she could, and he would finish his run by himself.
Some mornings he ran for hours.
In the afternoons he would work on building his device. She still had no idea what it was, although she could now see how parts of it functioned and was pretty sure it would end up being some kind of primitive machine. There was absolutely nothing for her to do, so she would watch him until she dozed off.
If he was in an amiable mood—or what passed for amiable for Cain—they would talk as he worked. She told him about her childhood and her grandmother, the only person she’d ever really loved. And she told him about her schooling, her job, and the various digs she’d gone on over the years, how alone she’d been for most of her life.
Cain didn’t tell her nearly as much. He wasn’t an open or talkative person. But he told her about some of the trips he’d made—he’d traveled all over Coalition space. And once he told her about his dog.
Max.
It was the only time in the month she’d known him Riana had seen something like grief on his face.
At some point in the afternoons,
Cain usually went on the “hunt” for some object he needed for his device. Riana always went with him—mostly to get out of the cell for a little while.
This afternoon, when Cain got up from the floor where he’d been tinkering on his machine, Riana jumped to her feet immediately. She was restless today. Cain had been silent and brooding, and they hadn’t had sex since before the lights had come on. She’d washed out her camisole and hung it up to drip dry, but that was all she’d accomplished all day.
She needed to do something.
Cain didn’t question her joining him. He was used to it by now. In fact, he didn’t say anything as he locked the door behind him.
Sometimes when they returned, a prisoner was trying to break into the cell—either by force or by jimmying the lock. Cain usually just swatted them out of the way. It was always an act of hopeless desperation, since there was no way to get into the cell without the key. The bars were utterly impassable.
They started walking around the Hold, and Cain was clearly on the lookout for whatever it was he needed today. When they passed by a scuffle—evidently over a pair of shoes—Cain eased her toward the wall so she wouldn’t get struck with a stray blow.
She was forced so close to the wall that her shirt caught on a jagged edge of metal.
It tore, the fabric ripping at one of the seams so far that the gap exposed her bare breast.
Her camisole was still in the cell drying.
“Damn it,” she muttered, holding the torn fabric in place as a few prisoners who happened to see hooted or called out vulgar comments. When she realized the implications of the accident—one of her few pieces of clothing was permanently damaged—she felt vaguely sick. “Fuck, fuck, damn it.”
Cain had stopped when she did, but his expression looked mostly unconcerned. “It’s just a tear.”
Her teeth snapped together as she managed to hold back an automatic retort. It wasn’t just a tear. Not in these circumstances. And any idiot would have known that.
She couldn’t comfortably keep holding up the torn fabric of her shirt, so with a defeated sigh, she said, “I guess I need to go back.”