Owned by Luna Voss
5
Melyta
One year later
It’s been 12 months since the night I let myself get marked by a vostrat. 12 months and two heats. And if you count what I went through after taking the medication to remove his pigment, it’s really more like three heats.
They haven’t gotten any easier.
That fucking gangster keeps sneaking his way into my fantasies, even though I don’t want to let him, even though I don’t even know his name. And not just my fantasies. It’s like he’s imprinted himself onto me. In the past when I went into heat, I would just get super irritable and horny, and I’d have this really intense need to feel a knot, any knot, inside me. Now the only knot I want is his. The one I’ve known before. The one that’s already joined us together, creating a seal so tight our bodies felt like one.
As much as I’ve tried to forget that day, I can’t. Somehow, it changed me. Or maybe I left a piece of myself with him there in that room. There’s an emptiness, a hollowness, that I can’t seem to fill.
The label on the box of pills didn’t warn me about that.
But life continues, and so do I. I have another job now, this time at an upscale bar-restaurant combo, and it pays slightly more. So that’s nice. I don’t have to cater any Vostra events, at least. I’m not exactly making great money, not enough to save a lot, but I’m moving up in the world one step at a time. It’s all I can do.
At the same time, Dalax City is changing. Or at least, my part of it is. I still live in the same small apartment with Jenyta, but our neighborhood is now quite firmly a Vostra neighborhood. At first this change scared me, especially since the Vostra group in control is the Dultaz Family, the same one my mate-for-a-day belonged to. But very quickly, it just became the new normal. If anything, the biggest change has actually been a major decrease in petty crime. My street used to be scary at night. Now I don’t even worry about coming home after dark. Whatever high-level crimes the Dultaz Family might be committing, nobody is mugging anybody in the street. They keep their turf clean and safe.
My other concern, of course, was that I might run into him. The Dultaz Family gangster whose mark I removed. And yeah, I can’t deny that the thought of seeing him again basically sends me into a cold sweat. I honestly don’t know what I would do.
But Dalax is a big city, and apparently the Dultaz Family has a lot of people in it. To my relief, I haven’t encountered him once, even though it’s fairly common for other members of his Family to come into the bar. Sometimes I see them with their wives or girlfriends, and it always gives me this weird, shitty feeling of wistfulness. The possessiveness with which these men treat their mates is apparent even from a distance. I always wonder how it might feel to be one of these women, to be pampered and loved and spanked by a tough, dominant Vostra man. The ladies in the bar certainly seem to enjoy it.
That, however, isn’t my path. I made sure of that the moment I started taking those pills. If I wanted to be a part of that life, well, I had my chance. And I turned it down. There’s no sense doubting my decision now. It’s done.
There aren’t a lot of people in the bar tonight, and I don’t know whether I’m disappointed or relieved. Disappointed would be because sometimes I get nice tips, and relieved would be because tending a packed bar is exhausting. There are merits to both. In any case, it’s just me and this 20-year-old human kid working tonight, and I’m the one in charge.
I glance at him across the bar as I see a group of four men heading our way through the front window. “Henry, looks like we have customers.”
He nods and scurries into the back along with the tray of glasses he was polishing. I put on my best professional face and smile warmly as the group enters.
“Welcome to the Rusty Ship, would you like to sit at the bar or can I get you a table?”
“Table,” one of them grunts, barely looking at me.
I recognize these customers. They’re members of the Dultaz Family, and not exactly my favorite people to serve. Most of the vostrata who come in are extremely polite, and it’s incredibly rare to have a problem with them. But this group in particular is trouble. One of them, the youngest-looking one, frequently gets pissy when he drinks. And unlike most of his companions, he doesn’t seem to have learned the personal restraint that his culture values so much. Usually when this happens with Vostra groups, there’s someone more senior there to keep the troublemaker in line. But apparently, this guy has some kind of status that makes him untouchable. I’ve never seen anyone so much as attempt to check his behavior.
I hope his friends are able to do so this time. Or that he’s decided to stay sober tonight. Hey, a girl can dream.
But of course, they start in on the Carshellian whiskey before they even get their appetizers. And none of them are holding back. It’s obvious they’re celebrating something. By the time their food arrives, they’ve already consumed a solid 2,000 credits worth of alcohol. That’s more than I make in a week.
“And here’s the rugdash,” says Henry, serving the table a big plate of authentic Voorian food. “Anything else I can bring out for you gentlemen?”
“It’s not rugdash, it’s rugdash,” one of the men spits, putting the emphasis on the second syllable.
“Sorry, sir,” says my coworker, bowing his head respectfully.
“You work at a fuckin’ Voorian restaurant and you can’t even be bothered to get the names of the dishes right?” he slurs. Predictably, it’s the youngest gangster, the one I’ve had problems with in the past.
“Very sorry,” Henry squeaks, looking intensely nervous. “I only started here last month.”
“You could still get the fuckin’ name right. It’s only respectful. How fuckin’ hard is it?”
I can see the panic on Henry’s face. The last thing he wants is to piss off a vostrat. He stutters, clearly having no idea what to say.
Stepping quickly forward from behind the bar, I come to his rescue. “Henry is still in training,” I lie. “You can blame me for not teaching him the proper pronunciations yet. Henry, can you go back to the kitchen and finish that prep work?”
He nods gratefully and scurries into the back of the restaurant.
“Is there anything I can do for you gentlemen?” I ask, hoping to diffuse the mood. “After you finish your meal, I’ll be happy to bring you dessert on the house.”
“I don’t know, will you pronounce the name of the dessert right?”
It’s the youngest gangster. The asshole. Summoning every ounce of professionalism I have inside of me, I give him a polite, tight-lipped smile. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
To my relief, his companions start to engage with him after that, obviously trying to calm him down. I have to imagine they’ve seen him get out of hand before. I take the opportunity to escape back to the kitchen for a moment.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Henry. “Those guys are assholes.”
“It’s okay,” he sighs. “That’s what I get for working here.”
By the time their dessert comes, all four gangsters are good and drunk. I watch as Henry brings it out to them and sets it on the table, pronouncing the name of the dish perfectly.
“I see you’ve been practicing your pronunciation, human,” grunts the asshole.
“I’ve been trying,” Henry replies.
A look of cruel excitement slides onto the gangster’s face. “Let me hear you say rugdash ten times fast.”
Henry blinks. “Uh, what?”
“You heard me. Rugdash. Ten times fast. Show me you can do it.”
I rush over to the table. “Henry, back to the kitchen. Gentlemen, can I offer you another drink?”
“No, he stays,” the asshole orders sharply. “I want him here. I want to hear if he can pronounce the name of a basic fuckin’ dish while working at a Voorian fuckin’ restaurant!”
“Hey, Gurt, why don’t we just head out,” says one of his friends, giving me an apologetic look. “It’s not worth it.”
“I think it fucking is worth it,” Gurt growls. “This little piece of human shit works at a Voorian restaurant, and he can’t even say the name of our food. What the fuck is that?”
Henry looks petrified, and I don’t blame him. I have no idea how best to diffuse the situation. I turn to Gurt’s companion, the same one who just spoke up, but I can tell from his expression that he isn’t about to cross Gurt either. Obviously, this scumbag has some kind of real power within the Dultaz Family.
“Say it,” Gurt snarls at Henry. He draws a plasma pistol from his belt and points it at him. “Ten times fast. Do it. Do it, you little bitch.”
Suddenly, all eyes are on the weapon. Henry goes pale. One of the gangsters starts to say something, but his companion stops him with a look. This clearly isn’t something it’s wise to get in the middle of.
But I’m not just going to sit on my hands and let Henry deal with it all by himself.
“What is wrong with you?” I blurt out. “We’ve served you graciously all night. We brought you drinks. We brought you food. We even comped your dessert. And this is how you treat us? Henry works his ass off at this job serving people like you. And now you fucking pull a gun on him because you don’t think he can pronounce a certain name the way you want? My grandma pronounced rugdash the same way he did. My old-school, traditional-ass Voorian grandma. There are different ways to say it. Can you put the fucking gun away and get over yourself?”
Suddenly, the room goes very quiet. All of Gurt’s companions are looking at me with fear in their eyes. They’re not afraid for themselves.
The plasma pistol flashes, filling the room with a loud, electric crack. I startle, fully expecting to feel the pain of being shot.
And then Henry falls to the floor, screaming, clutching his shoulder.
“Come on, Gurt, let’s go,” says the gangster next to him, standing up quickly.
Gurt doesn’t move. “You ever fucking speak to me like that again, you’re dead,” he half-snarls, half-slurs, filled with manic fury. “You and your little human boyfriend. Do you know who the fuck I am?”
“Gurt, we’ve gotta go,” his friend urges him, tugging on his sleeve. “We can’t stay here.”
I rush over to Henry to examine his wound. To my intense relief, it doesn’t appear to be fatal. The burn mark is right between his shoulder and his chest. He whimpers in pain.
“Get out of here!” I yell, past worrying about the consequences. If Gurt wants to shoot me, he’ll fucking shoot me. “Get out of here before I call the cops!”
I know I shouldn’t have said that, but I already did. The other gangsters hurry Gurt to the door, but not before he makes eye contact with me and I see the fire in his eyes. It’s enough to make me shiver.
“You’re dead,” he snarls, his expression blazing. “You’re fucking dead.”
