Beck was lonely. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone else, but it was true. He led a solitary life and was alone most of the time, if not actively lonely. He accepted the knowledge that he wasn’t meant to be part of a whole, even if it was depressing now and again. This time of year was the worst, though, with all the happy faces and holiday music and upbeat wishing of Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
He’d visited a couple of Concubine Houses, but found no true satisfaction there. Oh, he’d been given skillful release, but it had been an empty, physical thing despite the Concubines pleasing attendance on him. And he had no old lovers to look up, since his line of work didn’t encourage emotional connections.
It was those reasons and more
that had brought Beck to the local
He wandered the pens for several minutes, taking in the frightened, bored, numb, angry, and sometimes contented expressions on many different slaves. A full three-fourths of the slaves were in perfect physical condition, barring the bruising and welts from whippings, and the others were clearly new to their status, overweight, defiant, or terrified.
“Can I help you find something in particular?”
Beck turned to the Overseer and asked, “Where do you keep the trouble slaves?”
The man’s eyes lit up, no doubt at the thought of a sale from a source he’d wind up giving away to hard labor. “Right this way, Sir! Do you know what kind of slave you want? Perhaps one who talks back a lot and needs to be shown his or her place? Maybe one who is rebellious enough to try and run, giving a strapping man like yourself something to chase and put down properly?”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They stopped all the way on the other side of the market, between three sets of pens with men and women who seemed to range from hardened criminal to…whatever the guy sitting in the corner with his arms wrapped around his knees and hiding his face was. There were bruises and whip marks all over the pale skin. Frowning, Beck asked, “Why’s that one there?”
“Travis? Oh, Sir, you don’t want him,” the Overseer began. “He doesn’t talk, doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything. He’s not even a good fuck. The bitch just lies there like some kind of corpse. I was honestly about to send him to hard labor so I didn’t have to look at him anymore.”
“Did he try to escape?”
“Escape? No, Sir, not that I’m aware of.”
“Has he killed anyone?”
The Overseer laughed.
Thoughtful, Beck said, “I want to see him.”
“All right, Sir, but there are much, much better choices for a man like you,” the Overseer opined.
Beck snorted and waited as the man entered the pen, walking over to the slave named Travis.
“On your feet, Travis!” the Overseer ordered. When that produced no effect, he kicked the slave and snapped, “Get up, slave!”
Moving without thought, Beck strode into the pen and grabbed the Overseer by the back of the neck. The man squawked in surprise and Beck commanded, “Let me handle this.”
The Overseer held up his hands and backed away as soon as Beck released him.
Beck looked down at the slave for a moment, seeing only the dirty brown head, the face tucked away. There was something about the broken aura that pulled on every protective instinct Beck had. Clearing his throat, he forced a sternness to his voice as he said, “You’ve got two options, Travis. A, you can stand up. B, I can make you stand up. I suggest you take the first one.”
For a few seconds, nothing happened. And then the slave looked up at him, utterly expressionless. Underneath the dirt and grime and dirty-beard, Beck saw a square jaw good bone structure. The longish, lanky hair was too much for his features, but it was easy to see that shaving it off wouldn’t work, either. It was the eyes that got to him though; big and brown and without guile, but filled with a hopelessness that sucker-punched Beck.
Turning to the Overseer, Beck stated, “He’s mine. Get the paperwork.”
The Overseer nodded, muttering to himself as he rushed off.
Beck glanced back at Travis and held down a hand as he told him, “You’re safe with me, Travis. I’m going to take care of you now.”
Slowly, Travis reached up and put his hand in Beck’s. The grip was weak, but Beck used it to maneuver himself under the slave’s arm, helping him to his feet. Not surprisingly, Travis leaned heavily on him, clearly having been without food or water for far too long. He also smelled to high heaven, but Beck ignored that and started walking towards the purchasing area where the Overseer had gone.
He didn’t bother arguing over the price, not wanting to humiliate Travis further over what would surely be a very low price. Beck simply signed where necessary and told the Overseer, “If you cheat me, I’ll come back and you’ll wish you were dead.”
The man swallowed nervously and exclaimed, “I’m an honest Overseer, Sir! I would never!”
Beck ignored him and guided Travis towards the exit. Long before they got there, the slave collapsed. Beck scooped the too-thin man into his arms, lifting him easily, and stalked out of the market. He carefully belted Travis into the passenger’s seat of his SUV and then got in the driver’s side, anxious to get home. He called a friend who was a doctor and arranged for Kim to meet them there, wanting the slave to get checked out. Aside from the beatings and malnutrition, who knew what kind of diseases the young man might have.
He carried Travis into the apartment building, glad for once that it had a doorman. Nodding briefly to Fred, Beck asked, “Mind giving me a hand to my place?”
The slender young man rushed to the elevator and keyed it open. “Friend of yours, Sir?”
“My new slave,” Beck answered as the elevator started up. “His name’s Travis.”
Lips pursed a moment, Fred finally offered, “Congratulations?”
Beck snorted. “Thanks.”
It was only a few minutes until Fred unlocked his apartment door and Beck stepped inside with his still-unconscious slave. “Can I get you anything, Sir? A delousing lotion, perhaps?”
“A doctor will be here shortly. Let her up when she gets here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Beck went to the bathroom first, wanting to get the slave clean as soon as possible. Not just because breathing through his mouth was annoying, but also to see if any of his cuts were infected. He carefully lay the slave in the large tub and then took the showerhead off its hook, starting the water and aiming it at the wall until the water had warmed to an acceptable degree. He put it on a light setting and sprayed it over the filthy body, getting what dirt off he could on first try.
Beck sat on the edge of the tub and grabbed the soap lathering it over the chest first. He turned off the showerhead and set it aside so he could thoroughly wash Travis. It took some serious time and effort, having to pull the young man up and move him around like so much deadweight, but finally Beck declared him clean. Once the beard was gone, the slave looked at least ten years younger and he suddenly felt like a cradle-robber.
Kim arrived about then and observed, “Trust you to pick the slave about to croak, ya big softie.”
Beck made a face at the small, blond woman. “Let me dry him off and I’ll bring him to the bedroom.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed easily. “I’ll go set up. You want the works, right?”
Nodding as he hauled his slave out of the tub, Beck confirmed, “Up to and including STDs.”
“And here I thought you were just being noble, buying him before someone could kill him,” Kim commented dryly.
Rolling his eyes, Beck retorted, “That, too.”
She chuckled, a warm, friendly noise, and left him to wrestle with the unconscious man and a towel. When Travis was sufficiently dried off, Beck carried him to the bedroom and gently set him on the large mattress.
“Man, you are already gone over him, aren’t you?” Kim said, more than asked, shaking her head.
Beck looked down at the slave and couldn’t deny it. He hadn’t even exchanged a single word with the other man and yet…he had to admit that something had brought him to that place and time. Something bigger than them both.
Kim worked efficiently. She did a physical examination, including checking for sexual trauma, and finished by drawing four vials of blood. He had to assist her in moving Travis onto his stomach so she could examine him. Kim clucked softly to herself, a sound of gentle anger, and announced, “I need to stitch him up. Keep a hold on him just in case he wakes up at a bad time. You should’ve brought him to the clinic. This is hardly a sterile environment.”
Beck did as instructed, but the slave didn’t even twitch was Kim sealed two tears in Travis’ rectum.
Finally done, Kim told him, “Go easy on what you feed him for the next few days, you know the drill. All things considered, his condition isn’t that bad. Generally last ditch slaves are torn to hell and back.”
“Last ditch slaves?” Beck echoed.
It was Kim’s turn to grimace as she pointed to a small tattoo on Travis’ left shoulder and explained, “That’s what the tat is. It’s a symbol for the slaves who can’t be placed and are bound for an eventual death at hard labor.”
Beck’s eyebrows rose at the small, innocuous red tattoo of a pair of lips. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s the Kiss of Death, Beck. I think it started as a joke way back for the convict slaves and then just found its way to the general population.”
“That’s sick.”
“Welcome to the world of slave owners,” Kim said wryly, shrugging. “I’ll put a rush on the blood test results. I should know in a couple of days.”
Still processing the meaning of that simple little tattoo, Beck questioned, “What about the holidays? Won’t that slow things down?”
She smiled and replied, “I’ll call in a couple of favors. You’ll have the results soon, Beck.”
Grateful, Beck said, “Thanks, Kim.”
Picking up her briefcase, Kim told him, “I’ll see myself out.”
“I need to lock up, anyhow,” Beck countered. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
He took one last look at the bandaged and newly cleaned slave before following her out of the room.
* * * *
Travis woke comfortable and warm for the first time in memory. He wondered if maybe he’d finally died and gone to heaven, but the throbbing of his ribs and the steady, dull ache of his ass negated that pretty much instantly. He opened his eyes cautiously and found himself in a bedroom decorated in muted, rich earth tones, the furniture strong and masculine.
And that was when he remembered the mountain disguised as a man who’d bought him. A mountain with surprisingly gentle hands and a soft voice. He vaguely remembered the sensation of being carried somewhere, but then nothing. Pushing slowly upright, Travis grimaced as his ribs scraped together and looked down to find that he had multiple bandages over the cuts and burns that had been recently inflicted.
He felt weak and thirsty, but wasn’t sure if he should get out of bed or not. In his all too expansive experience, most Masters didn’t like a slave with initiative. It was a moot point, anyhow, since Travis was sure he didn’t have the strength to explore his surroundings. Probably not even to get out of the bed.
As if in response to that thought, the door opened and the mountain entered the bedroom carrying a tray with glasses of water, juice, and cut up fruit. Surprised, Travis just stared as the man put the tray on the bedside table next to him.
“You should drink all of that and eat what you can,” he said. “You’re severely dehydrated and malnourished. You need to build up your strength.”
The voice was soothing in a way Travis couldn’t remember a man’s voice ever being.
“Right. I’ll let you do that and get some sleep. Bathroom’s just down the hall if you need to relieve yourself. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
And without any curses, or harsh words, or demeaning insults, the mountain left.
Travis stared after him for a few seconds and then practically pounced on the water and juice, drinking both down greedily. He had to take a few minutes to just breathe, positive that he would just throw it back up, but managing not to. Thankfully. He went a lot slower with the fruit, savoring the explosion of flavors on his tongue with the blackberries, strawberries, sweet melon, and even some crunchy apple slices. Travis couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten fresh fruit. He hadn’t even gotten halfway through the plate before admitting that he was full and deciding not to press his luck.
Climbing carefully under the covers, hissing as his various injuries declared movement a bad idea, Travis stared at the door until he fell asleep, wondering when Jekyll would turn into Hyde.
* * * *
After leaving the tray of food with Travis, Beck spent some time going through emails and making sure that everyone knew he was off limits for the next month. He hadn’t been planning to take any time over the holidays, but with a new slave in his life, that had changed. Security was a tough business, but he was one of the best and people would wait for his services; even Billy Walker.
That took all of twenty minutes and then he was left with nothing to do except think about the slave in his bedroom…in his bed…
It felt odd, knowing he had possession of another human being. He wasn’t of the mindframe that someone stopped being a person once they were enslaved. It was, however, the way of the Empire and, thus, the way of the world. Abolitionists were pissing in the wind, so far as Beck could tell. They had good hearts and, usually, good motives but had no clear understanding of how the world actually worked. Abuses did, and always would, occur. Freemen and women got enslaved because rich people desired them. Slaves were killed for no reason. Convicts died every hour from a lifetime of hard labor and little to no provisions and shelter.
But all that was in general and
Beck dealt in specifics. With that thought in mind, he pulled open the file
that held Travis’ papers and looked them over. Travis had been enslaved while
in
Travis’ first owner had run afoul of the local government some three months later and all the slaves ha been sold at auction to pay for various explosions that had rocked the tiny village and mining company. His second owner had traveled the globe with Travis in tow, he’d even shown the young man at a couple of minor functions before a smart mouth had earned the wrath of his master and he’d been sold to a German national. The third master had “broken in” the slave with a lot of time in a low class brothel.
Beck paused there to take a
breath, his blood pressure rising along with his anger. It was no wonder that Travis
didn’t speak or do much of anything anymore. He was probably terrified of
getting sent back to that kind of life. Needing to know how he’d wound up back
in the States, as well as a
The German had sold Travis to the brothel who, in turn, had sold Travis to a tourist with a big checkbook. The man had brought Travis back to the States where, strangely, Beck saw a transaction to Billy Walker, his sometime employer. Knowing that Billy didn’t really deal in slaves, he couldn’t help but wonder what the man’s reasons for buy Travis had been. Billy had kept Travis for all of six months before selling him to the market Beck had gone to.
Shaking his head at the traumatic events of a young life, Beck stood and went to the kitchen. He needed to get back on an even keel and cooking would help calm him down. Deciding on a simple but time consuming meal of potato leek soup and homemade bread, Beck concentrated first on pounding dough into submission and then on the peeler and potato in his hand. By the time he reached the swift chopping of the vegetables and pureeing stage, Beck had recovered his equilibrium and mentally worked on options to bring Travis out of his shell.
The aroma of the soup slowly filled the air as he waited for the dough to rise a second time. Tossing a knife absently between his hands, Beck stared into space as he wondered what the hell he was going to do with a slave. Practicality reared its head, as it always did, and he could virtually see his high-end clients backing away from him, which would set his dreams of a restaurant even farther away.
But then Beck thought about those eyes and knew none of that mattered.
Sighing, he set down the knife and stirred the ten-quart pot of soup for a few minutes before moving to punch down the bread again. Breaking it apart and expertly rolling each half, Beck set them in stoneware pans and put the pans in the oven. That done, he had nothing left to distract himself with and decided to go check on Travis.
The slave was sound asleep, but Beck was relieved to notice that the water and juice were completely gone, as well as half the plate of fruit. Travis wasn’t so far gone that he’d gorged himself into being sick, and that was a very good sign. Picking up the tray, Beck left the fruit plate on the bedside table for when the young man woke up. He really did look ten years younger than he was, despite the hard life he’d lived.
Travis stirred, as if sensing the scrutiny and his eyes fluttered open. They locked onto Beck not a second later. The slave went very still and just lay there, clearly waiting for something to happen.
Beck stared back at him, losing himself in those golden, hopeless eyes for a long moment before telling him, “I’m not going to beat you, rape you, or treat you badly. I have rules and I expect them to be obeyed, but I’m not arbitrary and I’m not going to hurt fly off the handle if you mess up and forget to do something. I read your file so I know you’ve been through hell, but that’s over now. You’re mine and no one touches or hurts what’s mine.”
There was no response, but Beck expected that. He’d’ve been surprised if Travis had answered him, since there’d been no direct question.
“Do you have any food allergies?” Beck prompted.
Travis blinked at him a few times in apparent surprise, but answered tentatively, “No, Sir.”
Smiling briefly, Beck said, “Good, because I cook a lot. Do you like potato leek soup?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Which might, or might not, be the truth. It was way, way too soon for Travis to know he could be honest and not expect a beating, no matter what Beck had just said. “I’ll get you a bowl. Stay put.”
Beck left with the tray and returned a few minutes later with a large mug of soup. Travis looked uncomfortable and wary as Beck sat on the bed next to him. Setting the mug on the bedside table, he rearranged the pillows behind the young man for support.
He picked up the mug and held it out as he said, “It’ll be easier for you if I feed you, but you can do it if you want. It’s up to you.”
There was a long pause before Travis opened his mouth and waited. A bit surprised, he’d been sure the slave would want to feed himself, Beck brought up a spoonful of the thick soup and blew on it to cool before sliding the spoon into Travis’ mouth. It took a good twenty minutes, but he didn’t rush, blowing on each spoonful to cool it and noticing that the slave’s eyes rarely left his hand.
Once the soup was gone, Beck asked, “How do you feel? Do you want any painkillers?”
Travis bit his lip, but nodded, still looking at him with suspicion.
Beck didn’t take it personally. He took the mug out of the room with him and went to the kitchen to put it in the sink and get another glass for water to wash down the pills. He kept various painkillers and antibiotics on hand for cases that went south, just like he had an arsenal hidden in a false wall in the guest room that had never been used.
The slave took the pills and glass of water, drinking it down completely in three long gulps.
Knowing Travis would be dehydrated for a while to come, Beck said, “You can get up for more to drink or eat anytime you want. There’s filters on the bathroom and kitchen sinks, but I’ve got bottled water in the fridge, too. Nothing in the house is off-limits, so you don’t have to worry about going somewhere you shouldn’t.”
The guns were well hidden and his computer thumbprint locked, after all.
Travis nodded, but didn’t look convinced.
Half-smiling, Beck sat on the bed again and continued, “I work in security as a consultant and sometime bodyguard. I make my own hours and report to no one. You’re my only slave. I lead a solitary life and don’t interact with many others, except on the job. I make a comfortable living and can easily support the both of us. I have plenty saved and a lot of people in high and low places owe me their lives. I’m telling you all this because you need to know who I am, if you’re going to trust me.”
Thick eyebrows rose, but Travis didn’t actually comment.
“I know you don’t think that’s possible, but I see two options here, Travis,” Beck relayed firmly. “One, you can trust me and work with me and let me take care of you and let something real develop between us. Something good and true. Or two, you can hate me and fight me and try to escape or even kill me, which will get you sold back to the slave market and likely sent to a work camp. The choice is yours.”
He sat there while Travis obviously thought his words over, staring at him without moving a muscle. That seemed wrong to him for some reason, that the young man should be so very still, so very quiet.
At long last, Travis swallowed and said, “I’d like…option one, please, Sir.”
Beck held out a hand, which Travis gingerly took, and then brought the slave’s hand up to press his lips against. Cradling it, he vowed softly, “No one will ever hurt you again, Travis. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”
Something almost like belief entered the slave’s eyes and he whispered, “Thank you…Master.”
It was a victory that Beck would run with. Smiling, he suggested, “Go back to sleep, Travis. I have some work to finish and a kitchen to clean up. Rest and get better.”
Travis nodded shyly and Beck helped him scoot back down, under the covers. He stayed there, fingers combing through the soft, fine hair that lay too long on the pale face until Travis fell asleep.
And then he stayed there even longer, just because he could.
* * * *
Life took a distinct, upward turn for Travis. Once day he was waiting to be sent to the hard labor camps to find death, and the next he was showered with attention and care, if not actual love, by a man who could break him in two with his little finger. The kind of man his father employed, if Travis wasn’t mistaken and ‘security’ was really a euphemism for what Beck did. Or maybe he was just paranoid, that was entirely probable.
The second day as Beck’s slave had seen a trip out to the stores and a barber, who got rid of the annoyingly long hair and gave him a proper shave. Beck watched closely from his spot leaning against the nearby counter. Every other minute saw his Master putting a bottle of water or juice into his hand or doling out delicious treats that kept his mouth watering. He overheard a sales clerk chuckling from outside the dressing room and murmur something to a friend about newlyweds. It caused him to blush hotly, a response that should’ve been beaten out of him years ago.
When they were done, Travis has a wardrobe of clothes that made him look not half-starved and felt really good against skin that was still tender and sensitive. Beck tucked him protectively along his side, a strong arm around his shoulders as they left the expensive store for a restaurant that screamed, ‘He can’t possibly afford this!’ no matter what Beck had said about being well off. The apartment in which they lived was comfortable, but didn’t speak of the kind of wealth that the patrons of the restaurant gave off, nor did Beck himself.
And then his brain started working for probably the first time in five years. He realized that Beck was doing all of it in a kind of instinctive need to show Travis that he would be well cared for, that Travis didn’t need to worry about the poorhouse. Tugging discretely on the big man’s shirtsleeve, Travis whispered, “Master?”
“What is it, Travis?” Beck answered absently, looking at the menu.
Nervously clearing his throat, Travis said, “We, ah, we don’t need to eat here. I mean, I’m, I could really just go for a burger or, or something, ah…”
One of those high eyebrows arched as Beck’s full attention finally landed on Travis’ actual words. “Less expensive?”
Wincing, Travis reluctantly nodded.
Beck chuckled and kissed the top of his head. “Don’t worry about it, Travis. I’ve got it covered.”
“But…”
“Travis?”
“Yes, Master?”
“Shut your mouth.”
“Yes, Master.”
Travis was surprised by the genuine smile the other man gave him, as if taking the sting out of what should’ve been harsh words. As if the tone was anything other than teasing and light. Relaxing a bit into his seat, Travis let himself look around the place, taking in the sight of wealthy people in one of their natural habitats, something he’d seen in far uglier circumstances.
The waiter took their orders from Beck, not that Travis cared. He was caught by his Master’s gaze and unable to look away from their depths. Was it possible? Had he truly found someone who actually could care for him in a way that no one ever had? The warmth in those brown eyes certainly suggested the answer to be ‘yes,’ but he’d been broken for too long to just trust someone after knowing them one day.
Even if it did feel like they’d known one another in a different life.
After the restaurant, they stopped at a small, all organic grocery near the apartment. Travis trailed easily behind the big man as he seemed to stop and smell or pinch or squeeze every piece of fruit and vegetable in the place. Every now and again, Beck’s hand would reach back to rest on Travis’ shoulder, maybe making sure that he was still there, or maybe just for the contact, Travis wasn’t sure yet. They spent an appalling ten minutes in the cheese section, not leaving until Travis started to sneeze loudly after Beck made him smell a seventh cheese selection.
Supplied, they finally made it back to the apartment where the doorman greeted them with a smile and, “Morning, Mr. Beck, Travis. I’m glad to see you looking so much better. Need any help with your groceries, Sir?”
“No, thanks, Fred,” Beck answered.
Travis gave the man a hesitant wave as he carried the bag leafy greens inside, the only thing Beck would let him carry. Apparently the doorman had seen him the night before which, of course, made perfect sense, it was just disconcerting.
“Oh, Mr. Beck! A package arrived for you,” Fred called out, rushing to the elevator doors.
Travis’ hand snapped out to stop the doors from closing and he groaned in pain, his ribs thoroughly protesting the quick movement. He dropped the bag by accident and its contents spilled all over the floor. Panic swamped him, the expensive food getting dirty as it rolled over the tiles. Travis instantly dropped and tried to recover the greens before more damage was done, but his hands shook so much that he dropped one again. The awkward, bent position doubled his pain, but he struggled to focus enough to fix things, whispering over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Master, I’m sorry…”
“Travis, Travis relax, it’s okay,” Beck said firmly, suddenly right beside him. Gentle but firm hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him upright and into his arms. Those strong arms wrapped around him and a hand stroked over his hair before Beck promised, “Everything’s fine, Travis, you’re not in trouble, I swear, you’re okay and safe with me. It’s just lettuce. I can wash it and it’s good as new.”
It was hard to think with the pounding in his head and the way his heart beat so heavy in his chest, his breathing growing short and his vision dimming.
“Travis? C’mon, Travis, breathe for me!”
The darkness was welcome.
* * * *
Beck scooped Travis into his arms when the slave fainted, silently cursing himself for bringing him out when it was obviously far too soon. He’d had enough medical courses over the years to recognize the signs of a panic attack and, sure enough, once the young man fainted, his breathing returned to normal.
Sighing, he looked at Fred’s concerned expression and said, “I guess I will take that help up after all. Sorry about this, Fred.”
“Oh, no trouble, Sir, honest,” Fred promised. “My sister’s girl does this sometimes. He had a bad one before you, didn’t he?”
Beck’s tone was grim as he answered, “More than one, unfortunately.”
Clucking sympathetically, Fred let the elevator doors closed and hit the fourth floor button before he started to pick up the dropped food bags.
He felt Travis wake as they reached the door and looked down into bleary, confused brown eyes with a smile. “Back with me?”
“What happened?”
“You had a flashback and then a panic attack.”
“Oh. Um, sorry about that.”
Beck slowly let him down as he replied, “Nothing to be sorry about. That’s probably going to happen more than we like, but it’s a good sign.”
“A good sign?” Travis repeated, sounding skeptical.
Cupping the slave’s face, Beck told him seriously, “Trust me when I say that repression doesn’t work, Travis. I’d rather you have a panic attack every day than wait for you to explode. And they’ll go away eventually, once we get you started on therapy.”
Travis gaped at him. “Therapy?”
Beck tweaked Travis’ nose and stated, “Therapy.”
Fred arrived then with the bags and set them beside the door with a cheerful, “All set, Sir!”
Beck made a mental note to give the man an extra large Christmas bonus. “Thanks, Fred.”
“Anytime, Sir. And if you need anything, Travis, just give me a ring at zero from the apartment phone. It’s hard-lined to the lobby.”
“Um, thanks,” Travis whispered, not meeting the man’s eyes.
Fred walked off as if helping a freaked out slave get adjusted to new surroundings were just part of his duties and Beck doubled the bonus in his head.
Putting a hand on Travis’ shoulder, he ordered, “Inside with you while I get these. Go rest on the sofa.”
“But, I should help…”
“Now, Bright Eyes.”
Travis paused, mouth clicking shut audibly, and then went inside.
Grinning, Beck grabbed the bags in one go and headed straight for the kitchen. He puttered around there for several minutes, putting everything away where it needed to go and washing off the greens that had spilled from Travis’ bag. By the time he’d finished chopping up a light salad, reheated some of the soup, and brought plates into the living room, he found the slave sound asleep.
Beck sat in the recliner and turned the television on, keeping the sound muted and simply reading lips as the newscaster delivered bad and worse information about the state of the world.
“Can you really read lips?”
Looking over at Travis, Beck nodded and said, “I also speak Italian, Spanish, Russian, and Greek.”
“Four less than I do,” Travis told him shyly.
Startled, but pleased by the volunteered information, Beck prompted, “What do you speak?”
“Spanish, French, Italian, Latin, Portuguese, Russian, and Egyptian. Well, and those are just the living languages. I can also read hieroglyphs, Sanskrit, and Chinese.”
“Chinese isn’t a dead language,” Beck pointed out.
A barely-there smile crossed the slave’s face as Travis explained, “Yeah, but I don’t speak it, either. I can just read it.”
Thrilled by the disclosure, Beck asked casually, “Hungry?”
“For real food, sure,” Travis teased, wrinkling his nose at the salad on the coffee table, greatly daring.
Beck laughed and got to his feet. “One cheeseburger, coming up.”
* * * *
It was four nights later, after they’d gotten into a kind of routine and tentative trust, that Beck upped the ante. He’d spent the previous nights sleeping on the sofa, not wanting to send Travis into some kind of flashback or panic attack. The slave had adjusted well, though, having only one more panic attack when they were outside and a woman had corrected her slave by slapping the girl. Thankfully, Travis had just huddled against Beck instead of fainting or going into a rage that wouldn’t be forgiven, not in public.
Kim had stopped by that day and given Travis a mostly clean bill of health, though his ribs would take a couple more weeks to heal. The stitches would dissolve on their own in a couple more days and then all he would have left were the scars, mental and physical, and the tattoo. Thankfully, time would cause all of those to fade and Beck fully intended on covering that damned tattoo with his own mark, down the road.
Once the New Year’s celebration on the television started to wrap up, Beck scooped his sleeping slave into his arms and carried him to the bed. He brought the covers up around the slender man and then went to the bathroom to get ready for the night. He usually slept nude, but figured that sleep pants wouldn’t go amiss for at least the first night in the same bed.
He made a quick trip around the apartment to make sure everything was locked down before returning to the bedroom. Climbing into the bed, he moved slowly, trying not to wake Travis but wanting to be close. The moment his hand rested gently on the slave, he knew Travis was awake because his breathing was far too slow, as if forcing himself to keep breathing.
Beck thought a moment, then said, “I’m not going to do anything tonight, Travis. I just want to sleep in our bed and hold you while you sleep. I bought you…I bought you to not be alone anymore and it’s working out, well, a lot better than I had a right to hope for. I do want you, but I can wait until you’re ready. I’m not going to jump you just because I want you, I promise.”
Travis let out a slow sigh, but relaxed under his touch as he whispered in the dark, “Thank you, Master.”
“Think you can manage to sleep in my arms?” Beck asked, putting a teasing tone in his voice. “I did take a shower today.”
Huffing lightly in apparent amusement, Travis rolled slowly over and curled up over Beck as he answered, “I think I can manage that.”
Beck stroked a hand over the long, lean back and thought of a time when Travis would go willingly where he now had to be coaxed. While he hoped it wouldn’t be too long in coming, he knew that he would wait as long as it took. The intelligence and humor he’d discovered over the last days meshed perfectly with him. The Gods had been with him when Beck had gone to that slave market looking for a companion and he would make proper obeisance to Diana in thanks for Her guidance.
“Master?” Travis murmured sleepily.
“What is it, Travis?”
“Happy New Year.”
Beck smiled and kissed the top of his slave’s head. “Happy New Year to you, too, my own.”
And it looked like it finally would be; for them both.