Total pages in book: 175
Estimated words: 166095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 830(@200wpm)___ 664(@250wpm)___ 554(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 166095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 830(@200wpm)___ 664(@250wpm)___ 554(@300wpm)
She flinches, and I definitely feel like I’ve kicked a fluffit. “Oh.” Dora swallows hard. “So you’re getting rid of me? At the next station? How long do I have?”
The frantic, hunted look on her face is back, and she looks as if she wants to flee. It annoys me, her fear. I understand it, but it still annoys me. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you just said there was nothing I could do to earn my passage on the ship —”
“No,” I clarify, and the bases of my horns still feel hot. “I said you can’t earn it in my bed.”
Dora tilts her head. Her mouth falls open and then she sputters. “I—what? When was that on the table?”
“What did you think you were offering when you said ‘Oh Bethiah, I’ll do anything if you’ll keep me’?” I mimic her voice with a simpering tone, tossing my braids.
Her hands fist at her sides. “I was thinking cooking! Or painting! Or singing!”
I stare at her. And then I laugh, hard. “Singing? Singing to pay your way on this ship? Are you keffing with me?”
The human’s face flushes and she gives me a withering look. Then, she ducks past me and stomps down the hall.
Oh, my little fluffit is mad now. I keep laughing, because I know it’ll rile her up, and follow after her. She ducks back into the holding cell that she’s claimed and tries to activate the door, but she’s not very good at that sort of thing. It takes her several angry taps before she presses down on the right spot, and I stand in the doorway before it can close, stopping the automated system entirely. I lean against the doorjamb, watching as she sits on the edge of the bed, all proper and flustered, her hands balled in her lap.
“You’re not going to ‘earn’ your keep on this ship, fluffit,” I tell her, still chuckling. “I brought you here so I could teach you how to take care of yourself. And rule number one? Never offer to do ‘anything’ to anyone, or else you’re going to find yourself dressed as a naughty praxiian, with your arm elbow-deep in some moden’s asshole looking to massage his sensitive spots.”
“Ew. I don’t even know what a moden is, but just…ew.” She gives me a disgusted look. “Why are you so awful?”
“Because you need to learn that this universe is awful, fluffit. And I’m not going to coddle you. You want to earn your keep? You learn everything you can about being a good corsair and how to handle yourself. You can take off on your own once you’re capable, and that’ll be all the payment I need.”
Dora gives me a betrayed look, her pink mouth pulled down into an unhappy line. “Is that why you were nice to me back on the other ship and you’re being awful to me now? Is this part of my ‘training’?”
Am I being awful? For some reason, that stings. Fluffit, I remind myself. She’s nothing but a helpless little fluffit that will get herself killed. Someone with her best interests needs to be mean to her. “Here’s another word of advice. Don’t pick the worst room on the ship. If someone offers you free rein, you take the best room possible. Understand?”
It’s clear she doesn’t. She looks around at her quarters, and then at me, her brows furrowing together. “This is the worst room on the ship? It’s the only other one with a bed.”
“It’s a holding cell,” I point out. “What stopped you from taking my bedroom?”
Her mouth drops open. “I…what? It’s yours.”
“Exactly. I said you could sleep anywhere. Why didn’t you take the best offered to you?”
She blinks, clearly startled by my question. “I…because…because it’s yours and I’m your guest.”
“You need to learn Bethiah’s rules for piracy, fluffit. Number one—you always take what you want. Understand? Don’t let anyone else come before you. You’re in charge of your life.”
The look Dora gives me is dubious, as if she doesn’t quite believe the words I’m saying. “Everyone else in this universe acts like I’m an object to be owned. It doesn’t matter what I think of myself if they’re bigger and have guns.”
“Not if you fight.”
She gets to her feet, her hands smoothing down the legs of the bland-colored bodysuit that she wears. It was given to her by someone on the Little Sister, and it doesn’t fit her quite right. The chest strains over the fasteners and it’s tight across her backside, and the color is all wrong. I suspect her shoes fit her poorly too, with the way she walks, but Dora hasn’t complained. That’s the problem. She never complains about anything. Never asks for anything. She just hides in the shadows meekly and waits for someone to rescue her.
But rule number one? You rescue your keffing self.