Warning: this chapter is disturbing. I have to peel the skin and expose the bones, but to do that I had to be graphic. The story will lighten up as it progresses—I don't mean to leave a bitter taste in your mouth. Have faith in Thrawn; he's an opportunist with a plan.
Chapter Two: Hair and Makeup
There was nothing human in the sound Thrawn made when he came. It reminded Rosita of the hiss of an airlock as it decompressed.
The first time she heard it, she had shuddered with apprehension, worried that he had intended to rip into her throat with his teeth. But now? She grabbed him by the back of the neck, melding her tongue with his as his hot seed burned a pathway to her cervix. The feeling brought her to the brink and made her clench and soak him.
Once complete, Thrawn pulled himself out and laid his cock to rest heavily against her thigh, panting deeply into the armrest of the couch. Rosita wanted nothing more than to wrap her legs around him and flip them around, so she could smear herself over his stomach, then reach around and coax him into another round.
He was always good for it.
Unfortunately, this wasn't about what she wanted—she only needed his DNA. That in mind, she raised herself to a sitting position, shrugging him off and saying, "Give me your datacom."
"Why?"
Rosita grabbed her underwear and slipped them on. "I want to delete all of the messages between us. I want a clean break. I don't want there to be any evidence of our past just… laying around."
"I deleted them as they came. Did you not do the same?"
Her cheeks rushed with sudden warmth. But still, she held out her hand. "Let me see."
Thrawn raised an eyebrow. After a moment of indecision, he reached behind him, slipped his hand into the pocket of his discarded trousers, and pulled out his datacom. He handed it to her.
Only one message: from him, telling her he had arrived on the planet and how soon he would be there. She put his datacom down and grabbed her own from the table.
"You kept them?" he asked, peering over her shoulder as she scrolled through the many messages.
"I like to read them sometimes," she said, feeling her cheeks burn again. "Do you remember how less complicated things were when all we had to chat about was our weapon designs?" Her thumb hovered over the 'Delete All' button. She leaned back into him and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.
"You seek destruction," he said in her ear. "Destruction that you do not truly desire. And now you feel the early stages of regret: fear and doubt."
"Please, Thrawn," she begged, her voice hoarse with emotion. "I don't want to be analyzed right now." She held the com up. "Can you do it for me?"
He reached over and took the device, cradling it in his long fingers and pressing delete. Rosita watched the messages disappear, like the end credits of a holodrama. "You need to go. Before I change my mind," she said.
"Very well, but first—"
"No!" she snapped. "No shower, none of that. You need to leave." She unwrapped his arm from around her stomach and stood up, feeling intense defensiveness. You have no idea what they'll do to me if I don't do this!
"It would please me to give you one last gift," he said, calm as ever. "Will you allow me this final pleasure?"
All she could do was blink at him. He took that as cause to go and find his bag.
He came back with a small parcel. "I was quite lucky to find this," he said when Rosita plucked it from his hand and sat back down to unwrap it. "Only in Wild Space and beyond can you find such a rock—they call it Puddingstone."
"Puddingstone," she repeated, rubbing her thumb over the palm-sized stone. It was tan, with several chunks of multicolored rocks and minerals, all with different textures. It reminded her of fruitcake.
"The stone has no real value, besides its unique aesthetic, but do you see those red minerals in there? The caves of my homeworld, Csilla, are lined with it. They say it gave us our red eyes. A myth, of course." He paused. "You once said you would like to go there with me. I would have you, yet this is not possible, so have this as a way of getting to know my origins."
"I shouldn't," she murmured, twirling it around in her fingers and peering closely at it. "What's it called? The red mineral from your homeworld?"
"We call it Leueth'ra," he replied.
"Luethra," she repeated, not quite perfecting its pronunciation. "It's beautiful… but I can't take anything else from you." She held it back out towards him, balanced on the palm of her hand, ready for him to take it back. Only he wouldn't.
Thrawn curled her fingers over it into a tight fist and gently pushed her hand towards her chest. "It was a gift intended for you. Keep it."
"Thank you, Mitth'raw'nuruodo. I'll put it in the bedroom, to go with that Umbaran candle you got me."
He dipped his head. "I will go now." He picked up her datacom. "First, I must call for a transport."
"Here." She picked Thrawn's datacom up and held it out to him. "Use yours."
He stared at her, frowning deeper than she had ever seen him frown before. A cold dread filled her. He sees more than he should. He took his datacom from her hand but stood and slipped it into his pocket.
"I will walk to the transport station."
"The transport station?" Rosita parroted back in shock. "But… it'll take you hours to get there on foot."
"Who have you confided in about us?" he asked, pulling his shirt over his shoulders and shaking out the sleeves. "Did we not agree it would be best if we told no one?"
"I haven't told anyone." The lie hung heavily in the air.
Thrawn blinked slowly, his deft fingers lingering on one of his cuff buttons. Fuck. She knew that expression—or lack thereof—meant he had drawn a conclusion and was now waiting patiently for confirmation of its validity.
"I said I hadn't told anyone."
"Perhaps."
"What do you—mean?"
"Was it Orbar?" he asked, in a low soothing voice that she knew was meant to weaken her.
She shook her head furiously at him; Thrawn had no right to mention her husband!
"I have often used your datacom to call for a speeder; when comes the time to leave. Why should tonight be any different? No more getting intimate, I understand, you wish to end the affair. Avoid my presence so that you can move on, advisable. But for me not to use your com, for a simple transmission which would ensure my removal from your vicinity?" his head tilted to the side, and she saw that he was dangerous, and no fool.
It was best to remain silent. He would trap her. She would confess. Then what?
"Rosita," he said, pinning her in place with his gaze. "Whatever scheme you have arranged, I implore you to reconsider your attempt."
"I love you," was her response, because she needed some honesty to wash away the lies. "That's why I need you to leave. Now."
He hesitated. But then he bowed his head and backed slowly away, his eyes continuing to consume her until she couldn't take it anymore. She scoffed and moved past him, leading him to the door with hurried footsteps.
"Do reconsider." Were these going to be the last words he spoke to her? She watched him walk down the long gravel lane. For a moment, the wild idea of calling him back and demanding he call for a speeder entered her mind. It's better this way, she thought, so she choked down that urge until it died unspoken in her throat. His leaving on foot would make the story more believable, and she needed that more than anything, including him.
When Thrawn was gone, Rosita walked back into the cottage and blinked the patio lights for Petrol, who waited down the hill for the signal.
Petrol took up most of the doorway with his burly frame. He promised to make it quick and that he had brought painkillers for when they finished. Strong ones—the kind that made addicts out of people.
"Should we wait for Spenc?" she asked, moving aside so that he could come in.
"He's not coming," Petrol said as the door slid shut behind him. "That wouldn't make much sense now, would it? No, he'll meet you at the hospital once he gets the call."
"Let's just do this, and you leave."
He grunted his agreement, pulling from his bag a pair of durable suede work gloves and one of those jumpsuits and masks worn by forensics operatives to avoid contamination at a crime scene.
"Show me where it happened," he said, once he pulled the hood over his balding head.
She led him to the couch in her costume—just a shirt and her underwear.
"Where are your pants?" he asked. "You would've been wearing pants before he jumped you."
She pointed to them; they lay crumpled in a heap on the floor where she and Thrawn had left them.
Petrol picked them up and ripped the button off, tossing it and the pants aside carelessly. He then unslung the strap of his pouch from over his shoulder and poured its contents on the ground: spare gloves, a thick rod wrapped with tape, and garrote wire she was to say Thrawn brought with him.
His next move was to grab her by the shoulder, tug her downward, then, without warning, he landed a sharp jab straight to her stomach.
She gasped as the blow forced all the air out of her lungs.
Petrol followed up by slamming her down on her back and straddling her, raining down blows past her outstretched hands to smash her face and chest.
The hits to her face turned her into a drooling fool.
He pulled her up by the hair and wrapped the garrote around her neck. She spluttered and gasped, eyes bulging from the sockets.
It didn't take long for her to have to tap his arm so he wouldn't accidentally strangle her to death. He let up, but only so he could focus his efforts on her lower body. He beat the inside of her thighs and raked his gloved fingers so hard against her buttocks that she felt she would have to gouge his eyes out to make it fair.
"I'm sorry for this next part," he said, not sounding very sorry at all. He grabbed Rosita by the leg band of her underwear and stretched it out to the side. "Did he leave any semen behind?"
She nodded stiffly, her trembling fingers moving to touch her stomach. "Inside me."
"And this was the underwear you put on right after?"
She nodded.
"Good. You tell them Thrawn left these on you while he did his thing." He picked up the tape-covered rod and held it up to his eyes. "This won't feel good, but there should be trauma down there. They can tell, you know."
That said, he shoved the rod in her in one fell swoop, and she saw little particles of light bursting behind her clenched eyelids.
In between her howling screams, Petrol punctuated every thrust of the rod with a low grunt of effort.
It was like getting impaled with fire. Rosita clawed at his face. He grabbed one of the offending wrists and twisted it so hard she felt something snap.
"ENOUGH!" she bellowed, writhing against the floor. "STOP!"
He grabbed the front of her shirt and, for the final touch, tore it from her back, yanking her up in the process. She struck him in the groin for his trouble and felt great satisfaction when he curled over, cursing and spitting into his mask.
"You're not supposed to fight back," he rasped.
"Yeah? Well, fuck you!" she coughed and crawled for the couch, her bad wrist cradled to her chest, and her head swimming.
The adrenaline pumping inside her showed no mercy and kept her from passing out. She wiped her mouth and winced at the sight of blood on her knuckles. It tasted like what the integrated circuits had smelled like, back when she made them as part of the weapon engineering program.
"Get out," she hissed, spitting red on the floor. "Before I kill you."
Petrol chuckled good-naturedly and tossed her a small bottle that rattled with pills. Who they belonged too, she couldn't tell. The name on the sticker had worn away to such an extent that it was practically indecipherable. Not that she felt up to deciphering anything, with her eyes busy swelling shut.
"Don't shower, don't piss," he said, struggling to his feet. "And you make sure Orbar gets me the rest of my credits. Give me an hour to clear way out of here, and then you call the authorities on your Grand Admiral."
"Get out," she repeated.
"Good luck," he called over his shoulder. Only when the door slid shut behind him did Rosita feel free to vomit.