Episode Thirty-One The Document

E ldar

For perhaps the first time, I wish Zoron had human legs. It should be him doing this, not me. I don't want to be here. Don't want to be alone with the female. And I definitely don't want to spend an extra fucking second in this forsaken compound. But I told my mate I'd be on the team , and I'm climbing the stairs on whatever ridiculous mission the human desires.

Hopefully, we'll be out of here in a minute. If she brought us here to retrieve a pretty hat or piece of clothing, I'll find a way not to rip her carotid from her throat. Coming back here is fucking me up and there had better be a damn good reason.

Her steps, always tiny, have slowed. I should have compassion for her. I, better than anyone, have a good idea of the atrocities perpetrated upon her behind her front door.

The place is sparsely furnished. A couch, a small table with two chairs, and a vid screen adorn the front room. Down the hallway is a bedroom. Please, God, don't make me go in there.

She stops, focused on the one piece of art on the wall. It's a framed sheet of paper. By the swift rise and fall of her chest and her unblinking gaze on it, I guess this is what she came here to retrieve.

"Can you… can you…" She swallows, gives her head a tiny shake, and says, "remove that from the wall?"

She eases into a chair and I join her, sitting in the other as I set the framed document on the table.

"Umm…"

This is hard for her. Sweat has bloomed on her upper lip. I may not like it, but she's my mate and, fates above, it's clear she needs me.

I grab one of her hands from her lap and squeeze it. When her gaze darts to mine, I say, "I'm here with you, Lylah. He's gone. Fucking dead. It's just you and me. Whatever you need from me, I'll provide."

Where that came from, I don't know. I've never in my life given compassion to anyone but Zoron and his family.

"This was the bill of sale. My bill of sale. Written and notarized on my eighteenth birthday at my bride auction. Human women aren't allowed to read, but it's been read to me a hundred times. Every time was different."

She shutters her eyes and I can tell exactly what's happening because it happens to me far too often. She's gone to the horrible place inside her head where all the bad memories reside. I call it my internal hell.

"Lylah," I say as I use one finger to gently turn her head toward me. "Lylah," I say more forcefully, determined to keep saying it until her lids open and her pretty brown eyes gaze at me. "Come back, open your eyes, and let's do what you came here for."

I vow to do whatever it takes to make this a healing experience for her.

"Right. Thanks." She takes a breath, gulps, and continues, "Sometimes he said the paper said I was supposed to love, honor, and obey him. Sometimes he said he could…" She blushes, then continues, "Stick his cock in any hole he wanted, or discipline me in any way he saw fit."

Her trembling hand wipes her mouth.

"He read it so many different ways, I knew some of them were lies. I just… I don't know. I just wanted to know what my father knowingly signed. And…" This time she heaves a deep breath. "How cheaply he sold me."

I haven't torn my gaze from her to read the document, but my own belly is tightening on itself. I don't want to read the damn thing out loud to her. Whatever it is, it will be shit.

"Don't lie to me, okay? I didn't come all this way for you to do me an act of kindness. I came for the truth."

Since the moment I agreed to mate her, I've been a fucker to her. How did she know I was contemplating an act of kindness? But I was.

"I'll read every word, just as it's written," I promise, then scoot my chair closer and surround her frail body with my arm. It's hard to be in her presence without wanting to protect her.

"'Be It Proclaimed. Joseph Abernathy purchases Lylah, daughter of Albert Whitehead for the sum of Ten Thousand credits'."

She shudders, but keeps looking at the paper, clearly waiting for me to keep reading.

"'She is now the property of the aforementioned and no longer the responsibility of Albert Whitehead. Joseph Abernathy has complete ownership and may do as he wishes to the female, disposing of her how he wishes at whatever time he sees fit.'"

She's still waiting, as if there has to be more to the document.

"And, um, there are signatures here and here."

She's trembling, her arms wrapped around her waist. Tears are silently coursing down her cheeks. How can I look at her and not want to comfort her?

I reach over, lift her, and place her on my lap, her hip next to my belly. Her muscles are stiff, but when I fold her in my embrace, they all loosen and she melts against me as her body wracks with sobs.

There are a thousand things I want to say. I want to tell her what bastards they are, and that no one has a right to own anyone, and how dare a father do that to his child, and no male worth his salt would want to own a woman's body and soul.

I say none of it. I just wrap my arms more tightly around her and croon the sweetest song I know into her ear. It's meant for little centaur babes, but it soothes her nonetheless.