To Buy A Wife

Chapter 6

Lake followed Hudson into his home, glad her legs could still carry her weight. In prison she'd faced much worse. She'd borne up under the torture, the darkness, and the rats like a good Rebel should. But now, now she was afraid.

I can give you a good life if you would just trust me. Isn't that what Hudson had said? Trust him. When was the last time she fully trusted anyone? Not her father, not even Grey Owl. She knew when she'd joined the Cause she would be fighting alone. She just hadn't realized how lonely it would be.

Hudson had asked her to be his wife in truth. Would it really be so bad to be protected, have someone fight by her side? Lake shook her head. No, Hudson had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with the Rebellion. And yet, he'd lied to the Elders, saved her life, and was willing to take Vonn in despite her being a Rebel. Maybe, but this was also the man who was having his name tattooed on to her back. Damn the rituals of The Way.

The Marking was more than just a sign of ownership. It was nothing short of barbaric. Lake had heard the rumors. Women will talk. Some said the Marking was painful, some said it was the best pleasure they'd ever had, but they all agreed with one thing: A woman was naked and in the most intimate of positions in front of two men.

Maybe her Marker would be old. Maybe he'd be deaf and blind. Lake mentally shook her head. No. No. She didn't want a blind man doing her tattoo.

In the end, she didn't have to worry.

The house was dim compared to the outside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust. The dark coolness was a reprieve from the bright, hot of the desert sun. Inside, the furnishings were simple oak with a few skins draped across for comfort. The mismatched stone flooring was a luxury compared to the dirt of her old home. The one now a pile of cold ashes.

Near the back of the room where the shadows dominated the light, sat a man behind a long wooden table. He couldn't have been more than forty years old. With his black hair and eyes, the cruel slant of his mouth matched his features. His fingers, long, thin and stained with ink, were folded in a shape of a steeple under his chin.

The man stood as she and Hudson approached. Though not as tall as Hudson, the man's shoulders were twice as wide—making Lake feel like a child in a room full of adults. Hudson quickly made the introductions. The man didn't divulge his name.

"Are these from you?" Hudson gestured toward the bottles of wine on his table.

The Marker shook his head. "They were outside when I got here. I brought them in when I came inside."

Hudson nodded. "A gift from a neighboring farm for my nuptials. I'll take it to my men for the celebratory toast."

"I've set up everything in the bedroom," the Marker said. "I've only one question. Did you want to use your generator for the Marking, or not? My preference is the traditional hand-poking, but sometimes it's harder to keep the woman still for such long sessions."

A heartbeat pulsed in her throat. Of course, the Marker wanted to go the traditional route. Hand-poking was excruciatingly painful and slow. She'd seen men like him before. His kind lurked in dark prison cells, feasted on men's screams, got pleasure from other's pain.

Lake waited on Hudson. There was nothing she could do. Strictly speaking, the use of electricity went against the principals of The Way, but many of the laws had become lax over the last few years. Even her father had a portable generator he'd used for the winters, the one she'd used to power her computer. Nonetheless, it was a risk. By admitting to owning a generator, a person admitted to having dealings with the Rebels.