He zipped his pants up. "Would you like something to eat?" he asked her. She sat up slowly on shaky arms; her desperate eyes drifted up to him.
"Please," she breathed. Her voice was so soft and faint. He felt a pang of guilt.
He walked over to the nightstand nearest her and picked up his datapad. He entered his password and scanned his fingerprint for access, then began ordering her food.
"Is there anything you don't like?"
"Anything is fine," she murmured. She was acting nothing like the little spitfire she had been three days ago—but she had something in her stomach then. Maybe she would soon go back to being trouble. For her sake, he hoped not.
He finished ordering her food, and added an order for himself. He set the datapad down; she had laid back down, eyes closed.
"I didn't say you could go to sleep." The cold voice from the helmet cut across you.
You opened your eyes. He appeared to have finished doing whatever he had been doing. Something that meant he was going to feed you, you hoped. Everything here was so fancy—it was clear he had wealth. You had never really had credits to your name, but electronics like that weren't cheap, even you knew that.
He sat on the bed next to you. He didn't tell you to sit up so you didn't waste the energy—of which you already had very little. Your eyes drifted over him, and you noticed his hands were still bare. His skin was unwrinkled and smooth—he had to be young. You forced yourself to swallow the bile that rose in your throat; he was young and had already found this much power—had already developed a taste for violence and cruelty. It surprised you. You had expected him to be older.
He sensed her thoughts, her gaze on his hands. He rubbed them absentmindedly.
"How old are you?" he asked flatly.
"16."
Fuck. Shit. It was the Galactic age of consent—not that he really cared—but he had not meant to go that young. He looked back at her, at the naked girl he had just pounded hard and made to swallow his cum—just that, a girl. His mind raced over the memories he had seen in her mind. She must have been even younger. He felt a twinge of pity for her before shoving the emotion out of his heart.
"Am I allowed to speak to you?" she asked.
He considered her; she seemed to be on her best behavior for him.
"For now."
"May I ask you a question?"
He paused, scowling behind his helmet. He already knew what it was.
"Yes."
"How old are you?"
He paused. "29."
There was a soft gasp—he had been expecting one.
"Take your helmet off," she blurted out.
He sighed to himself; she had been doing so well. He didn't truly fault her—he could tell she was just curious, only unintentionally disrespectful. But he had to show her discipline regardless.
"I don't take orders from you, whore."
She blanched. But then she spoke again.
"Please take your helmet off, sir." She put a lot of emphasis on the last word. He smirked behind his visor: he had to hand it to her, it was a good save. He couldn't be mad: rephrasing as a request, adding an honorific—it made it almost acceptable.
You watched his hands go up to either side of his helmet, where his thumbs hit the latch on either side. You forced yourself to breathe as he pulled it off; you saw black hair emerge from underneath, falling a bit past his collar. He shifted on the bed to face towards you. You propped yourself up on one arm against your body's protests. He didn't look anything like the man you had imagined ordering the death of the women in the jungle, raping you. His skin was smooth: only two faint lines on his forehead. He had strong features, full lips, and a few small birthmarks. If you had met another way, you would have thought he was attractive. Handsome, even. It was disgusting in a way.
His eyes caught yours, and you choked a little. They were dark and deep and beautiful, and for the first time you could see him watching you. It felt intimate—wrong.
You weren't sure if you were more or less afraid of him than before.
A knock at the door saved you.
"Food," he said, standing. "Go sit over there," he commanded, gesturing to the dining area.
You were not about to be denied food, so you used the last of your strength to push yourself up and walk feebly over to the table, collapsing in a chair. You heard him saying a few words to whoever was outside while a droid rolled up to you, carrying a plate of food and a glass of water. You took it and gingerly set it down on the table. You looked down; a large portion of salmon, rice, some fancy-looking fruit you didn't know the name of, unfamiliar looking vegetables, a potato dish. It seemed generous of him—you were sure he thought so. You sat in silence and waited for him; you hardly thought he would approve of you eating without him. Maybe not even without direct permission. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands clutching at your stomach as you tried to wait patiently.
You heard movement a moment later, the door sliding shut. You whipped your eyes open, remembering what he had snapped about permission to sleep. He carried his own plate to the table, a glass of wine in his other hand, dark eyes wandering over you as he sat down across from you. Your eyes flicked to his plate, and you noticed it contained the same food as yours; he was feeding you a meal he liked.
"Thank you," you said as soon as he'd sat down, looking from him to the food and back. "It's very generous of you."
You swore you could have detected a small smile playing at his lips, but if there was one, he held it back. He simply nodded.
He regarded the girl from his seat at the table as he began eating. He glanced up at her, food in his mouth; she seemed to be waiting for something. He reached into her mind as he chewed and swallowed. Oh. She didn't know if she needed to wait for explicit permission to eat. So fucking submissive.
"You may eat now."
Eat she did, seemingly careful not to go too fast, either. He let her enjoy a few bites before he spoke.
"Where did you learn to submit like this? You were trained."
Some blood drained from her face. "Clients," she answered evasively. He decided not to press her more, nor discipline her for such a vague answer. Not about something like this.
Silence fell for a few moments, and he continued eating.
"Do you like it?"
He looked up. He was surprised his mouth hadn't fallen open. "What?"
"Do you like it?" she repeated; she seemed to know that he knew what she meant.
He paused. "Yes."
He monitored her face for a reaction to his acknowledgement, but none came. He sighed to himself, and penetrated her mind again. She was hoping he would let her live; hoping that he wouldn't starve her again or send her back to that cell to be cold and alone. He almost felt guilty again—maybe he had miscalculated the treatment she deserved. So far she had given him everything he wanted without real protest.
She had continued eating while he was lost in thought, surprising him when she spoke.
"What's your name?"
She seemed to sense his discomfort and disapproval immediately. "What's your name, sir?"
He almost wanted to call it out as cheeky, but decided against it.
"Just to be clear," he said between bites, "You do not have my permission to call me by my name."
"Okay," she said simply. "What can I call you?"
He thought for a moment. "Sir or Master when we're alone. Master, Lord, or Commander as prefixes around others." She nodded.
"My name is Kylo Ren."
She gave him a blank look, nodding at his response.
He felt a little insulted; she showed no indication that she had ever heard his name before. It must have shown on his face.
"Oh. Yeah, I've heard of you," she added quickly, a small smirk playing at the edge of her lips.
"Don't lie to try to please me," he snapped. He did not think it was funny; she wiped the look off her face immediately.
"Sorry."
He sighed. This girl: she was endearing. And now he felt obligated to ask her name. She was humanizing herself to him, he realized. Fuck.
"Your name? And before you answer, know that I know exactly what you're doing."
She looked up. "What's that?"
"Humanizing yourself. Kissing my ass by asking me about myself. Next you'll want to know my favorite color."
"Is it working?"
He sighed and closed his eyes. "You are only just obedient enough that I won't beat you for that comment."
She said nothing.
He sighed again and ran his hand through his hair. "Your name?" he prompted.
"It's Y/n."
He nodded, still regarding you with a look of warning.
"I won't be calling you by your name, either."
You shrugged; you didn't think he would. You were quiet for a long time—you didn't want to upset him, you just had questions. And you did want him to like you; he was in control—it was the key to survival.
"Sir," you started slowly. He looked up, a wary expression on his face. You played coy. "You have a core worlds accent. Are you from Coruscant?"
He closed his eyes and set his jaw. "No," he murmured. Secretly, he thought it was a good guess. "Chandrila. And question time is now over."