 
# Daddy's World

## Ava Sinclair

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Copyright © 2018 by Ava Sinclair

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Published by Ava Sinclair

www.avasinclairauthor.com

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Cover design by Ava Sinclair

Images by Adobe Stock Photos

  Created with Vellum

### Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

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# One

**Roman**

* * *

"Roman, you can't be serious."

Felicia's voice is as cold as the ice in my glass of vintage Scotch. Even though my back is to my sister, I know without looking that she's crossed her arms in irritation. She's also scowling, although that would be harder to detect. She was barely twenty-three when she started the EverYoung injections that left her face flawless but often devoid of discernible expression.

"The least you could do is think of the family." This attempt to play on my sense of familial duty is accompanied by the click of her heels on the marble floor as she walks over to where I'm standing by the penthouse window. I'm staring towards the horizon, beyond New Bethel with its orderly grid of pristine city streets between shining glass and metal buildings, beyond the suburbs where wives are preparing to greet breadwinner husbands coming home from work, beyond the farms to the last battered stronghold standing against the utopia our leaders envision.

"Are you listening to me?" Failing to make me feel guilty, my sibling as turned solicitous. "Tell me what you're thinking."

I glance down at my glass, then turn to her. "I'm thinking 2047 was a good year for Scotch." It's an honest answer and elicits what could be a scowl.

"So, you won't listen to me either?" She looks away. The "either" has slipped out, and Felicia tenses as she catches herself. Our father, Gareth Daley, is an elder in the Order of the Patriarchy. The Daleys are a political family; it's understood that the men affect the embodiment of male authority or—in Felicia's place—the picture of blissful acquiescence. If I were to rebuke her now she'd have no choice but to beg my forgiveness. But Felicia is my beloved twin. I cannot be anything but lenient with her, even when she is difficult. I can't give her what she wants, either.

"I've gotten Father's blessing," I say. This settles the matter, and while I don't have to explain further, I do. "Think of it, Felicia. Think how much more successful Paternas will be if I set the example."

"Example? This is your life we're talking about, Roman. You're going to risk it with some half-wild savage from the Warrens? Wouldn't you rather have the kind of marriage I have with Marcus?" She folds her arms across her large breasts, a self-conscious gesture she developed after my brother-in-law made her go to the enhancement clinic on their first anniversary.

"No. I want a different kind of marriage." I stare back at the ruins of the distant city, its boundaries walled off by high fences that move closer every month to contain the last pocket of resistance.

"Such an eyesore," Felicia joins me in staring at the remains of the shelled city in the distance. "But if you want the novelty of trying to civilize some feral urchin, who am I to disagree?" She turns away. "If the government had any sense, instead of spending so much on this colony they'd take the last of the rebels held up in that place and sentence them to drift.

"That's unkind," Felicia. I avoid her eyes so she can't see the disappointment in mine. She's parroting her husband, who argued in the senate for the resumption of the cruel practice used in the early years of New Bethel.

"It's not unkind. It's practical." When I shake my head in disgust, she sighs. "Fine. I'll drop it. Go ahead. It's not like you have anything to lose. You can choose another wife if it doesn't work out." She pauses. "Must be nice."

"Don't let Marcus hear you talk like that, Felicia." I fix her with a hard stare. It hurts me to scold Felicia, but I sometimes after talking freely with me, she'll slip with an unpopular opinion in front of her husband. I understand her resentment, however. In New Bethel, divorce is always a man's prerogative, while women are not even allowed to speak of it.

I see the slim column of her throat flex as she swallows the hurt I've caused. I wish I could offer her a drink but that, too, is forbidden for women unless served by a husband's hand.

"How's Marcus?" I ask. "I haven't seen him since the Senate's convened for summer session."

"He's fine." And just like that, the fake smile she's so good at returns. Felicia rotates the wedding band on her finger, another nervous gesture. "Does he know what you're doing?"

"Yes," I reply. "He's the one who sent me the prospects."

"So, you've chosen one already?"

"No." It's a lie. The file with her picture and all the information is in my desk across the room. Not only did I personally select my ward, I've arranged her capture.

"Marcus didn't tell me." Her voice is quavering, and she wipes the inside of her sleeve cuff across her eye and sniffs. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you gone for a half a year. He's jealous of how much I love you." She looks down. "He's jealous of everything."

I want to tell her it will get better, but I don't want to make false promises. I want to give her a hug, but it's against the law for any man to touch her except in the presence of her husband, and with his permission. I want to tell her that I don't want to do to a woman what Marcus is doing to her. There is no way to avoid the pain I'll inflict on the rebel I've selected, but it will be worth it to give her a life without the pain my sister lives with daily.

Happiness for me and a future partner—that's my goal.

Or one of them, at least.

# Two

**Kit**

* * *

I don't want to look out the window. I don't want to see. But I know if I don't keep my focus on the horrible scene, the big woman will hit me again. If I could, I'd hit her back, but that's not an option given that my hands are bound.

I run my tongue on the inside of my lip, probing the painful split.

"Are you watching?" There's a mean mirth in her tone. I hear her heavy boots as she approaches and leans down, pushing my face against the window.

"Just look at them, floating forever in the vast cold, and all because they wanted to defy the glory of our vision." She points then. "Oh, my! That one could be your twin." She's pressed her cheek to mine. I can smell her sour breath.

I fight back the urge to shudder. She's right. The dead woman floating past the window is about my age. She also has long black hair, but where mine hangs down my back, the anti-gravity of space makes hers stands out from her head like a feathery halo. I can't tell if her eyes are brown like mine; the cold has turned hers milky white. Her mouth is open in a silent scream.

New Bethel no longer sentences people to the drift, but we know from spotty intercepts that there is growing support to bring the punishment back for some crimes. I want to close my eyes, but know I can't, know that even if I did, I'd still see her. Did she think it would be an easy death? When she was jettisoned, how long did it take her to realize what her defiance had cost her?

"Remember her face. It could just as easily be yours." The guard shoves the back of my head and my forehead hits the window, instantly raising a goose egg. I dig my short nails into the palms of my bound hands, resisting the urge to scream.

The drift field is enormous, a testament to the inflexible ruling class that rose from the ashes of apocalyptic destruction. Society had been largely secular before the cataclysm. The shaken survivors, not wanting to accept the randomness of rocks hurling through space to hit Earth, embraced order with religious zeal and a return to a simpler time with rigid rules.

The Order of the Patriarchy was established. Rigid gender lines were drawn. Those who didn't adhere were designated part of the Sin Class, and unrepentant homosexuals, feminists, or heretics were sentenced to the drift where, years later, they float preserved in the cold of space. It's all I can do not to avert my eyes the sight of two women, their faces buried on one another's necks. A person has maybe two or three minutes after jettison to survive. Somehow, these two found each other in those final moments.

"Are you looking?" The big woman's hand is still on the back of my head. I am watching but not seeing. Instead, I'm relying on an old trick I haven't used since I called myself Luna. I was five then and hadn't decided on a name. The girls who found me next to my dead mother had originally called me Twig because I was so skinny. When I was older, I'd decided I wanted to be called Luna, so Luna it was until Jeanie started calling me Loony. I finally settled on Kit with Mae's help.

I wonder what Mae is doing? I wonder how she took the news when Alma told her I'd been snagged?

Although just a few years older than I was, like so many in the Warrens, Mae was mature beyond her years. It was Mae who helped me set up my own room, a walk-in cooler in what used to be a nightclub. The cooler no longer worked. It was windowless and hot, but Mae insisted upon my staying there since it was safe from the bombs.

I fix my gaze on a distant point beyond the drift field and imagine the cooler. What I wouldn't give to be there now, sweltering as I fanned myself, staring at the faded pictures I'd taped to the walls so long ago that the edges were curling from age. My favorite was the picture of a little girl holding a cat.

Mae. Alma. Avis. What will become of them now that I've been snagged? My evolution from skinny, sickly kid to a leader of what remained of the patchy existence was my only source of pride. I'm overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of anger. I'd been so sure the snaggers would not be hunting north of the fence when I'd led the others to scavenge beyond the boundaries. I'd been tracking them. I was so sure we were safe. I was wrong. How could I have been so careless?

Now my sisters have been left leaderless as I head further from Earth to somewhere unknown.

# Three

**Roman**

* * *

My sister isn't here to see me off, but my brother-in-law is. Marcus tells me Felicia couldn't make it. She had a headache. He also says she is excited for me. I know this is a lie. Even though Felicia doesn't want me to go, there's no way she'd willingly miss saying goodbye when I'm about to leave for six months. We've never been apart that long.

"If I wasn't a happily married man, I'd be jealous." Marcus flashes me a dazzling smile. He's just had his teeth capped with PureWyte, and the absence of lines around his eyes reveals he's using as much EverYoung as my sister. "I got video footage of your little rebel in the hold." He pulls out his CommuniPort and taps a button. An image flashes on the screen and he zooms in on a small brunette woman. "She'll clean up well once the bruises fade."

"Bruises?"

He zooms in further, and I can see that she's been hurt. Her lower lip is swollen and purple.

I bite back my anger. "Is that necessary? She's bound."

Marcus snaps off the image and pockets his device. "These women are little more than animals, Roman, raising themselves in the Warrens without parents, without rules. Understanding begins with fear. I instructed the Head Matron to give her a taste. You'll thank me for it later."

"This is _my_ ward, Marcus. Disciplinary protocol needs to be cleared by me." I turn away from my brother-in-law and hand my PermPass to the gate manager, although it's unnecessary. All I really have to do is flash the government seal. That's what Marcus would have done, but Marcus and I have different approaches to just about everything. I glance back at him. "Besides, the Good Works Department is supposed to emphasize grace."

"Of course," comes the smooth reply. "But authority must be established before leniency can be shown. Trust me. From what I know of your little project, establishing boundaries at the outset makes things easier. Boundaries make for happier females in the long run."

I imagine Felicia sitting in her chair by the huge bay window, sipping tea brought to her by a servant as she watches the sky for the shuttle that will carry me away from her for at least half a year. I imagine her having a good cry so that she'll have no tears left to shed by the time she welcomes home a husband who expects only smiles.

I pull out my CommuniPort. We've reached the shuttle and I check to make sure all the files on my ward have been transferred, even though I've committed all the information to memory. What I don't know about my ward I'll learn at the intake exam. Until then I'll spend most of my time doing what I did last night—staring into the image of haunted, angry eyes of a woman I can only hope will accept the chance I'm giving her.

I knew the stir it would cause when I expressed my intention to participate in the project I'd championed. Paternas was never intended to be a resource for men like me, men who had their pick of society's best bred, placid and plasticized women who'd been raised knowing what was expected of them.

Paternas was intended for men whose reach for the brass ring of societal success had been too short to qualify them for a marriage voucher— men like Gavin Reed. Marcus has never forgiven our classmate for turning down an appointment to the Good Works Department. Instead, Gavin had fought for the right to start a development on the outskirts of New Bethel with the goal of building midlevel housing for the labor class males who'd put in for marriage vouchers, since home ownership is a prerequisite for engagement.

I'd admired his efforts, and his outspokenness on the inequities of a system in which men who could afford housing were able to marry and start families while many labor class men could not. Gavin believed that wealth did not equate with morality, and that it was unfair to deny marriage rights to men who could not afford housing.

Five years ago, he'd lobbied both the Good Works and Daily Bread departments for public funding to supplement the development. I voted in favor. But Marcus and his cronies, who'd argued that such stipends would encourage dependency, were in the majority. Despite government help, Gavin forged ahead financing the project himself. In the end, it went under. But wasn't the only loss. He'd borrowed against his own house to keep his dream afloat. When it was learned that he'd lost his home, his marriage certificate to the wealthy daughter of a New Bethel business owner was immediately revoked.

What happened to Gavin motivated me to start the Paternas Project. For years we'd been closing in on what used to be the inner cities where poor resisters lived in the rubble and hid in tunnels, hence the nickname—The Warrens.

I saved the Warrens by selling the Department of Patriarchy on the benefits of capturing and converting the last of these females. They would make suitable wives for the labor class, I'd argued; any man willing to take a chance on a rehabilitated female should be granted a marriage certificate, even if he didn't yet own his own home.

For the six months, Paternas had been operating quietly as a pilot project, matching and reforming women who'd been captured by hired government bounty hunters dubbed the snaggers. I'd monitored the progress, even as my family increased pressure on me to marry. When I told my family that I wanted to go public with the project by taking a Paternas bride, at first, they'd objected. But then my father had ordered internal polling. When he discovered that such a populist move would put me in good political standing with the labor class, he'd supported my decision.

But my motivations go beyond political. The Paternas model relies on reforming the women through giving them the father figures they lacked. The women are regressed to a state of dependency and then brought into a new understanding with a system of punishments and rewards.

In the shuttle, I pull out my CommuniPort and stare at the image of the woman I'm going to meet. I will eventually be her husband. But first, I will be her Daddy.

# Four

**Kit**

* * *

Once we'd passed the drift field, the woman brought me a drink. I'd known it was drugged as soon as I tasted it and had refused more than the first sip. But she'd told me one sip was enough. My last memory before darkness consumed me is of her catching the cup before it could fall from my hand.

I wake with my head feeling as if it's stuffed with cotton and an awareness that dim light is starting to stream through the window. The vessel is approaching what looks like an inverted mountain, and I realize it's one of remnants of the three asteroids that the missiles were able to obliterate before the big one got through. In the sky, they show up as a ring, with the pieces ranging from the size of football fields to small planetoids. Despite my circumstances, I can't help but marvel at what I'm seeing as the ship rises upward from the jagged bottom that widens to a flat surface.

I stare in awe. The vessel is moving over a verdant landscape I've only glimpsed in books. Open fields, rolling hills, and trees—not scrubby, bare skeletons but actual trees. And there's water, too, but I've never seen water like this. It's not murky brown, but clear, the surface sparkling in the sun.

The vessel slows to a glide. We pass over several glass and metal buildings as we head to one made entirely of gray stone, its architecture familiar from history books. Six columns grace the front. There are more windows than I can count, each reflecting the surrounding landscape.

Past the building, the vessel descends until it stalls. I hear a deep thrum and crane my neck. Down below, the earth is opening. The ship descends to settle in a subterranean cavern.

The sound of clanging redirects my attention away from the window. The matron is looming over me, banging a metal stick against the frame above my head. When she stops, it leaves my ears ringing.

"I'm about to hand you over to start your new life, but first I want you to keep in mind what I'm about to tell you." I subconsciously jab my tongue against the inside of my lower lip, running it along the split, willing myself to remain calm. When she's satisfied that my expression is set on neutral, she continues.

"Do you know what you are?" She cocks her head, studying me as if I'm some sort of insect. "I know what you _think_ you are. You _think_ you're a rebel. You _think_ you're a holdout who will one day claim her... own destiny." The last two words are accompanied by a flourish with her hand, as if the mere notion is something to be whisked away. She tucks her double chin to her chest, sneering. Her next words are delivered with false sympathy. "The truth is, you're trash— a throwaway, an orphan whose parents bred and died, leaving you with nothing but the spirit of defiance and the lie that became your miserable life." Then she smiles, and somehow that's more frightening than her glare. "However, by the mercy of the Patriarchy, you are being given a chance at redemption. Here, you'll be given guidance and discipline and—should you prove worthy—a chance to assimilate into society as the woman you were created to become."

"I'm going to undo your restraints," she says. "Once I do, you'll walk with me off this ship and take the first step towards a new and decent life." She pauses. "Any questions?"

I can only think of one.

"Where are we?"

"My dear, you're in a place designed to reform people like you," the matron replies. "Welcome to Paternas."

# Five

**Roman**

* * *

"Roman!"

It's my first time on Paternas since the project began, but hearing a familiar voice call my name makes the first step in my journey feel real. Gavin has been here three months and is making progress with his ward.

"You're looking well." As Gavin approaches, he flashes me the dazzling smile that would have won him his pick of any woman in the time before financial status decided who would marry. "Still hitting the gym, I see."

I grin. "I could say the same for you."

Gavin and I were both star athletes in our college days, and neither of us has changed much. We're both still fit, having chosen steady exercise and a good diet in place of the readily available enhancements more men are preferring.

"Trust me. You'll need your stamina for what's ahead." An expression of gratitude accompanies his easy smile. "It's not the easiest route, but I can't thank you enough for the opportunity you've given me and others here, Roman." He pauses. "But I have to ask...with all the women who must be beating down your door, why would you want to join us luckless bastards?"

I choose my words carefully as we move from the loading dock to the main bay where the transport vessel carrying my ward has just arrived. "Maybe privilege of my class is overrated, Gavin. There's something to be said for a challenge, especially for men like us."

Gavin nods in understanding. Every married man in New Bethel will happily boast to being in control of his own household. What he won't say is the truth: the submission of his wife was ingrained by the system long before he even met her. New Bethel wives submit to the order of things.

Men like me and Gavin are naturally dominant, principled men. These are traits shared by all of the men selected for the program. This is by design. Paternas works best for men who desire the natural submission of a woman, not submission resulting from social autopilot.

"How are things working out with your ward?" I ask.

"My Trina is a work in progress." He glances over at me. "But it feels like providence, Roman. I can't imagine I could have ever felt about any woman the way I feel about her."

"That's just what I want to hear," I reply. "I think men of our class have lost sight of the core fundamentals of relationships. We wanted to return to tradition, but marriage should be a process, not a script."

Gavin nods. "If your ward is anything like mine, she certainly won't follow a script." He grins, then grows serious. "I wonder how our wards will react when they are reunited?"

"We're getting ahead of ourselves, Gavin. I have to get her to accept her new reality before we remind her of what she left. Has Trina been reunited with any of the others?"

He nods. "Yes. But she's embraced life here." Gavin sighs. "It's not an easy process. You may have to control your tendency towards sympathy and mercy, Roman. It can be heart-wrenching. The resistance is so ingrained in these women. If your experience is anything like mine, you'll find she pushes you as far as you push her."

We're at the door to the bay now. Gavin has extended his hand. "Good luck, Roman."

"Thank you." I shake his hand. He doesn't have to tell me I'll need that luck. My female isn't just a rebel, but a rebel leader. As I exit the room, I pull out my CommuniPort, checking for a status update on my ward. She's been moved to intake.

It won't be long now before I meet her.

# Six

**Kit**

* * *

I'm told to keep my eyes to the front as I'm hustled from the ship and through a bay door to a series of hallways. The big woman, who finally identified herself to me as Matron Blunt, has a vice-grip on my arm, and I'm barely able to keep pace with her long-legged stride. In spite of her orders, I dart my eyes to the left and right, taking careful note of what I see as she pulls me along. A strong sense of direction was necessary in the Warrens, where a bomb blast or natural collapse of an old building could block a tunnel. Ever since I could walk, I've made note of the path I'm taking.

Here it's easier. The doors are different colors, and the matron carries a ring with three cards in the same color as corresponding doors. We are only moving through the doors with red marks on the side. She opens them with the red cards. Each door leads to another hallway. In the fifth hallway we come to a blue door, which she opens with a blue card.

"You'll wait in here."

That's all she says as she shoves me inside. The door clacks shut behind me. I look around. The room is windowless, with pale green walls. The only light comes from a recessed rectangular fixture. There's a mirrored orb beside the light that reflects my distorted image back to me. There's a metal cabinet against one wall. I walk over and tug on the handle. It's locked. On the other side of the room is some kind of small chamber with an opaque door. It's locked, too.

I go back to the main door. There is no handle, just a slot for the card that opens it. There's no way out. Damn.

The door opens again, and I feel a surge of apprehension when I catch the gray of the matron's uniform. But it's not the same matron. It's a different one. She doesn't speak at first. She just looks me up and down.

I keep my eyes on her as she pulls a device from her pocket. She moves her finger across the surface.

"C24-16P."

"Kit." I find my voice, which sounds odd to my own ears now.

"What?" She lifts her eyes.

"My name is Kit." I crane my neck to see the screen she's studying. I'm not C....whatever."

She drops the device back in her pocket, crossing her arms as she regards me. She's nearly as tall as the matron who struck me, but lean and willowy under her somber gray attire. She has high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Where the other matron's graying hair was pulled back in a tight bun, this woman wears hers in a sleek, ebony cap— the boyish cut emphasizing her feminine features.

"C24-16P," she repeats. "It's merely an identification. 'C' for Caucasian. Twenty-four represents the age determined through your hair sample. 16P identifies you as the sixteenth Paternal Ward to come through the program."

"I'm not staying."

"Really?" She says the word with a bemused detachment, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out what looks like a pen. "Hold still." Before I can react, she presses the tip briefly to my injured lip. I feel a tingle followed by an odd, pulsing numbness. When I press my fingertips to where the skin was split, I don't feel the cut. She holds a small hand mirror up to my face. "All fixed. See?"

I'm astounded. There's no sign of the injury. She drops the mirror back into her pocket. "You'll discover a lot of wondrous things here, things that are different from what you're used to." She falls quiet for a moment. "I'm Matron Lang."

When I don't reply, she turns to the wall and pushes a button. A screen descends, displaying some kind of grid. I see the label I was given among them. "I know you have a lot of questions about why you're here and what's going to happen to you. But don't ask me to explain. My role for the moment is to get you ready for the physician. But first" —The C24-P16 flashes red on the screen and she push it— "you'll have to get cleaned up. You'll need to disrobe for this part."

"Disrobe?"

"Yes. It means undress. And put this on." She hands me what appears to be a piece of soft plastic. "Over your hair."

"Why?"

She crosses her arms. "Because if you don't, I'll call Matron Blunt. I believe you've already met her. She loves recalcitrant wards. Do you know what that word means?"

"Yes, I know what it means."

"Good. Then you should also know what the word 'sadistic' means but judging by the state of the lip I just repaired, I don't have to tell you that it's an apt descriptor for my colleague. So, you have a choice; you can either put your hair under this cap and undress, or I can call her, and she'll happily strip you down. Or worse."

_Pick your battles, Kit._ My inner voice is urging me to be realistic. Still, I manage a glare as I take the cap. Leaning forward, I put it over my head, gasping in surprise as it balloons slightly, drawing my hair up and under it before suctioning tightly to my head. In the sphere on the ceiling, my reflected image looks bald.

"Now the clothes." Matron Lang walks over to the chamber and opens the opaque door. "Once you're naked, come stand in here."

I turn away from her, pulling my tank top over my head. The front is torn from where it ripped when I pulled away from the first snagger before the second tackled me to the ground. I kneel, undoing my boots before hooking my fingers in the waistband of my khaki pants. They're my favorite— former military issue camouflage, and the most dependable garment I own.

"The pants." The matron sounds impatient. I glance over my shoulder and push them down. I avoid her gaze I step into the chamber. There are spray heads on the sides and ceiling. A shower. As the door shuts, I brace myself for jets of water.

That's not what happens.

I hear a hum and look down as the floor under me opens, leaving me standing on an open grate. At the same time, there's a loud click followed by a whooshing noise. There's a fan under me, drawing warm air around me in a powerful downdraft just as the spray heads start to emit some sort of heavy fragrant steam. My skin begins tingle all over, and now I know why my head was covered. My body hair— every piece of it, is loosening at the root. I cry out in shock as the shed hair of my extremities, underarms and pubic area falls free to be suctioned down through the grate in the floor.

It happens so fast that I barely have time to react before the fan turns off and the steam is replaced by the water I first expected. The cap on my head feels like it's loosening, when in fact it is dissolving into some sort of gelatinous soap.

"Close your eyes." The matron's voice pipes into the chamber, but I'm already doing just that, gasping as the water hits me from every angle, washing loosened dirt from my hair and body down the drain.

When the water stops, I'm hit by a blast of air. Whatever dissolved into my hair has somehow untangled my dark tresses, which fly around as the unrelenting fans blow me dry. When everything stops, the silence is almost deafening.

The door beside me opens. The matron is holding out a white shift, which I quickly take and pull over my nakedness. I've never felt so clean, nor so vulnerable. Under the soft garment, my denuded body feels naked, vulnerable. I'm especially aware of the smoothness between my legs. I'm as bare as a baby.

I'm also angry.

"You have no right."

"To the contrary, you're the one without rights." The matron staring at the pocket device again, ticking something off. "Feel free to take it up with management." She turns her attention back to me. "You need a robe."

The matron walks back to the cabinet; as she does I catch a flash of color on the little metal table by the shower stall.

Her key cards. She must have pulled them out of her pocket. I glance at her in disbelief. How stupid is this woman? She's rummaging through the cabinet, talking to herself. "I'm sure we have something in your size...let me see if there's down here."

I don't wait. As she kneels to check the lower shelf, I snatch up the cards, slip the blue one into the slot and slam the door behind me, locking her in. I don't take time to ponder her recklessness. I'm running now, searching for red doors. That's how I came in, so that's the way to get out. As each one opens, I glance right and left. Each empty hallway feels like an answered prayer. We came through five red doors. I counted them. I've been through three. The next one will take me to an ante-room leading to final door opening to the bay. I'll have to be more careful. There's bound to be people, but I'm small and good at hiding. I'll tuck myself away somewhere out of sight, then maybe hide out on one of the shuttles I saw when we entered the bay.

It's a loose plan, but the best I have as I go through the last door that leads to the ante-room. The lights were on when we came through, but they're off now, and I find myself in inky darkness. I feel around, looking for the door to the bay. I find it, find the slot. I push the card into it. My heart is hammering in my chest, but instead of the door opening, the room floods with light.

And I'm not alone.

There's a man here with me, sitting on a chair as if he's been waiting for me. Although he's wearing a suit, I can see that he's muscular and broad-shouldered. His long legs are crossed. He has dark hair and dark, unreadable eyes that stay fixed on me as I frantically try the card again.

"You might as well give up. It won't work." He stands up and walks over me. He's tall, really tall. I try the card one last time before backing away. There's nowhere to go, though. He holds his hand out, indicating I should give him the cards. "Did you really think it would be that easy?"

There's a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. And anger. Whoever this man is, he's right. The markings, the key cards, the matron's carelessness. It was a trick, and I played into it like a desperate fool.

He takes step towards me. His hand is still out. I draw my arm back. The ring with the cards is the only weapon I have. I glare up at him.

"You've already made one error in judgement, young lady. Don't make another."

"Don't worry," I say, and throw the keyring to the floor. In the instant it takes him to note where they've landed, I've zip around him. The big man turns, but by then I've gotten to the chair. It takes all my strength to lift it, and I use my weight to spin in a circle, aiming the chair at his lower legs.

I'm fast. But he's just fast enough to avoid the blow.

I stagger, the trajectory of the chair throwing me off balance. When I regain my footing, he lunges, grabbing me by one arm and the chair by the other. We struggle, but he easily wrests the chair away from me. It clangs against the floor as he sets it down.

"Let me go!" My cry of rage reverberates around the small room as sits down and pulls me over his lap with terrifying ease. The force of my midsection impacting his hard thighs driving the breath from my body.

I'm trying to process what is happening. I feel cold air on my bottom and legs, my eyes widening in shock to realize he's lifting the hem of the white shift. I'm completely bare underneath and I reach back, desperate to pull the gown back down over my exposed bottom. I lose the tug of war for the hem of my shift and focus now on squeezing my legs together. I know what men do to women, although I've never been with a man.

But what he does isn't at all what I expect. Having effectively restrained me by pinning one arm behind my back and trapping the other between my body and his, he raises his hand and brings it down hard on my bottom in a searing swat.

"Fucking bastard!"

It's my first invective, but he doesn't acknowledge it verbally. His response comes in the form of scalding strikes that drive heat through the layers of skin on my backside until my resolve dissolves into screams of pained fury.

I renew my struggles as I try to control my terror, which only increases when I look back to see his square jaw set with resolve as his hand continues moves downward in forceful, punishing arcs, each blow strategically placed to cover the expanse of my backside.

I writhe and twist, the sound of his hand smacking my bare flesh nearly as unsettling as the gasps and cries I emit in my helpless state. He's punishing me as if I were a child. Humiliation courses through me even as the agony of his persistent correction continues.

I bite my lip to keep from begging. I consider biting his leg, but judgement prevails over rage. I'm held facedown, my kicking legs spread, my pussy exposed. I feel heat flush my face, my body. Shame. I'm ashamed of my exposure, my weakness.

It would be enough to move me to tears if I could remember how to cry.

# Seven

**Roman**

* * *

It would be easy to underestimate someone so slight. In retrospect, I did just that. She's like a wild cat. Angry. Cornered. Desperate for any means of escape.

I'd intended the ruse with the key cards to be a teachable moment, one that showed her someone was always watching. It turns out to be a lesson for both of us. She's learned I mean business. I've learned that she's not only tough, but maybe too tough for her own good.

By the time I finish spanking the young woman, her bottom is cherry red and bearing faint impressions of my long fingers. She's still squirming, although her wriggling is more subdued by exhaustion. The crisp white shift is stuck to her back by a sheen of perspiration. Her screams of pain have given way to gasps, yet when I lift her to stand between my legs and turn her to face me, there are no tears.

I study her face. She's not crying because she's fighting it.

She's not crying because she can't.

Her breathing remains ragged, her body rigid, as she stares down through her curtain of hair. I have hold of her wrists and wait. Still the tears don't come, and somehow, this is worse.

The correction served its purpose. She is overwhelmed, but rather than facing a woman broken open by cathartic tears, I see one who has learned to protect herself by retreating inward.

What kind of life has she lived, to affect this manner of self-preservation? My desire to comfort her is overwhelming. It's not time, though. Not yet.

"Look at me. Look at me." I time my order between her heaving gasps, forcing myself to add more weight to the command. "If you don't look at me, I'm going to put you back over my knee."

This gets her attention. She tilts her face up just enough to raise her eyes to mine, until I'm staring into her feral doll's face; the heart-shaped visage would appear vulnerable were it not for the murderous rage in her eyes. She's shaking with it.

"You can't hit people," I say. "Especially not here. And especially not with chairs." There's no reaction beyond the deepening of her glare. "You especially can't hit your daddy."

The angry eyes flicker. "I don't have a daddy." She delivers the words through gritted teeth.

"You do now. From this moment on, you're to think of me as your daddy. Any needs or wants, I will supply. All you have to do is ask. I'll feed you, clothe you, keep you safe and warm. I'll spare no expense to school you in any subject you'd like to know—reading..."

"I can already read..."

"Very well." I go on. "That's good. But there are other things. Art, music, science."

I feel her muscles tense. She wants me to let her go. I grip her more tightly, just enough to make her aware that I'll decide when to release her.

"The most important thing you'll learn here is order. I know you are confused and angry. But if you are civil and willing to learn, you'll be treated well. If not, I will not hesitate to correct you."

"You mean beat me?" Her voice is shaking, but still there are no tears.

"I didn't beat you. I spanked you. You deserved a spanking for what you did, and just so that you understand, there are other ways of spanking you. Lots of ways, in fact. I can bend you over my lap as I just did, holding you so that you can't move. I can restrain you over a chair or sofa or table. I can use other things besides my hand. A sturdy ruler. A strap. A cane." I pause. "You're to live as my ward, my little girl. From this point on, any liberties you enjoy will be earned. Do I make myself clear?"

I lighten my grip by degrees. She is tense but still as I finally move my hands away.

"I'm sure you have questions." I lean back in the chair, studying her. Her breathing has slowed somewhat. I have a question, too, but I'm not ready to ask it.

She turns away, her hands moving down to cup her bottom. The gesture is so vulnerable, so childlike, that I have to stop myself from reaching for her.

"I do have a question." She turns back to me, tossing her head just enough to move the hair away from her flushed face, and I notice for the first time that she has a light dusting of freckles across the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her upturned nose. "What will happen to my people?"

I'm impressed. She's been separated from all she's ever known, and her primary thought is for those left behind.

Some in the government would have been happy to simply bomb what was left of her home. Prior to backing Paternas, I'd seen some internal memos indicating that things were heading in that direction. We'd picked off the men, then all the adults until no one remained who over thirty. We thought it would be easy to ferret the rest out. But the holdouts were resilient, and the Patriarchs were growing impatient.

"We plan to save your people."

She smirks. "As you're saving me?"

I nod. "Yes."

"Who are you?" she asks.

"Roman Daley." It pleases me that she wants to know anything about me at all. "I'm a Senator."

"A leader of men?" There's a harsh edge of accusation to her question.

"Yes."

"You're the enemy." She backs away.

"Yes." I don't deny it. "But it doesn't have to be that way. You've gotten this far living in an environment that would kill half the men I know, so you're adaptable. Adapt here and you'll come out with a civilized existence, young lady."

"I have a name." She crosses her arms. "I told the matron."

"For now, I'll refer to you as young lady."

"I have a name," she repeats. "You've taken everything from me. You'd take that, too?"

I don't have to yield to her. She is mine. Mine to shape and mold. And to heal, if she'll let me. I can call her whatever I want. But the hurt in her eyes now is worse than when I pulled her off my lap, and despite Gavin's warning, I feel that with this woman, this is one area where compromise can be allowed.

"What is it? Your name, I mean."

She is eyeing me warily. "Kit."

"Very well, Kit. That's what I'll call you unless you displease me. If that happens, I'll call you 'young lady,' and you'll know you're in trouble." I stand and walk to her, tipping her face up so that she has to look at me. "And, no, I'm not going to pretend that this is some magnanimous gesture. The name suits you. I could not think of one better."

"Am I supposed to thank you for using my name?"

"No. But there is something I want from you." I've timed this perfectly, as it turns out. There's a beep and the light above the door comes on. A moment later, Matron Lang walks in pushing a cart with a domed tray on top.

"I see you found each other," she says as she puts the tray on the table. "Getting on well, are we?"

"You arranged it nicely." Kit glares at the matron. "Cowardly cunt. You should be ashamed. In the Warrens, women stand up for one another."

I could punish my ward for this. I should. But when I move towards Kit, Matron Lang gives me a small shake over her head as a rare flush comes across her face. She walks stiffly to the door and leaves without a word. Only I detect the hurt on her face just before it closes.

"That was unkind of you," I turn back to Kit. "Don't ever speak to Matron Lang like that again. Ever."

My little ward doesn't reply. She just watches as I walk to the table and lift the dome from the tray.

"Braised beef, potatoes with herbed butter, Swiss chard, and for dessert a blueberry trifle."

I don't order her to come over. I don't have to. The expenditures of energy and emotion have drained her. She approaches the table, staring at the food, then sits down, wincing, as she reaches for the bread. I catch her hand before she can grasp it.

"Rules." I say. "They start now." I pick up a cloth napkin and put it in her hand. "Unfold it. Spread it in your lap."

Her eyes narrow in resentment, but she obeys as I point to the utensils. "And we don't eat with our hands here."

"We didn't eat with our hands in the Warrens, either." There's umbrage in her tone. "We aren't animals, even if your kind thinks of us that way." She picks up a fork, stabs a potato hard enough to reveal that while she knows what utensils are, usage is awkward for her. The tender potato falls apart. She stabs one half, gentler this time, and lifts it clumsily to her mouth.

In that instant, her expression changes. I know from gathered intelligence that women in the Warrens were resourceful. They trapped any animal they could for meat. They grew their own vegetables in gutters and courtyards, gathering and propagating seeds year after year. They farmed mushrooms in the damp earth of cellars. They made do with what they had, and what they had was little. Proper food is new, so I cannot blame her when she begins to eat in haste.

When I quietly remind her to use her utensils, she does. It's satisfying to see her expression as she experiences new flavors. Her eyes widen when she gets her first taste of the trifle. It occurs to me as she devours it that this is the first time I've ever seen a woman really eat. In New Bethel, it is considered unseemly for women to do more than nibble, especially in the presence of men who are encouraged from boyhood to indulge their appetites.

I point to the drink. "Don't forget the milk."

She eyes it warily. "The last thing I was given to drink was drugged." Her eyes meet mine. "Is this?"

"Yes. But you'll drink it anyway. You have had a long day. You need to sleep." When she doesn't pick up the milk, I sigh. "It'll be a deep sleep. Consider it a temporary reprieve. For both of us."

She picks up the cup. I had the matron add a sweetener to the milk. Kit takes a sip, then another. Soon it's gone.

"How long before it knocks me out?" she asks.

No sooner is the question out of her mouth than she starts to slump. I move forward, grabbing her. She's limp and light in my arms. I hope it's a peaceful sleep. She'll need her strength for what will come tomorrow.

# Eight

**Kit**

* * *

"Rise and shine."

I open my eyes to a warm glow.

Light. Not just any light. Natural light. Sunlight.

I raise myself to sitting, vaguely aware of a throbbing hurt in my backside. The ache is accompanied by feelings of deep humiliation as memories of the previous evening come rushing back.

My shame, however, is mixed with a sense of begrudging amazement at my surroundings. I know rooms like this existed, but I've only seen them in books. This one looks like the room in _The Secret Garden_ , a book salvaged from a bombed library when I was a child, a book I selfishly hoarded in my cooler room and refused to share.

Wallpaper blooms with a print of delicate roses, the flowers the same shade as the comforter and canopy of the bed that's softer than anything I've ever felt. A towering wardrobe sits in one corner. There's a bookshelf. I have to drag my gaze away from the row of colorful spines when I hear a noise by the marble fireplace.

Matron Lang is placing a tray on the table that sits in front of it. More food.

"Your daddy ordered a full English breakfast – eggs, bacon, sausage, buttered toast, mushrooms, tomatoes and potatoes. And juice, of course. He'll expect you to eat all of it."

I'm surprised that I'm hungry again. I'm surprised that I slept so heavily. In the Warrens we always worried, always slept lightly. I rarely dreamed because I rarely fell into a deep enough slumber. I did dream last night but can't remember what. I just recall wispy images that are already fleeting.

"You're quite lovely now that you're all cleaned up." Matron Lang assesses me. "I didn't get a chance to tell you yesterday."

She's not forgotten what happened yesterday, either. I wonder if she knows what Daley did to me. A senator. A leader of men. Why would a man like him want a woman from the Warrens?

I shoot the matron a scowl that conveys my unwillingness to make small talk as I settle in my chair at the table.

"Napkin." Matron Lang says.

"Yes. Senator Daley told me I had to use one." I glance up at her, making sure she got the unspoken message that I'm not about to call him Daddy. I put the napkin in my lap and pick up a fork. "Senator Daley also told me how to use one of these. What's it called? A fuck?"

"A fork."

"Ah," I say. "I have so much to learn."

"Yes, Kit. You do."

When she turns her back, I suppress a smile. A petty victory is still a victory, and I'll take it. I start to eat as she walks to the wardrobe.

"So your daddy says he thinks eight is a good age to start."

I look at her questioningly.

"Your Paternas age, how you'll be treated. Eight is the age where little girls are old enough to speak up for themselves but aren't yet as clever as they think they are." Now she's the one smirking. "I think your daddy is spot on."

I swallow my retort along with a large bite of sausage. I eat quickly, enjoying the new flavors in spite of myself.

"Chew more slowly, young lady. I'll be out of a job if you choke to death." She pulls out a simple dress with a high-waisted bodice. "This will do. And panties. You'll need those. And these slippers will be nice."

"Some of that trifle I had last night would be nicer."

"Trifle is a dessert. We don't have dessert with breakfast. It's out of order."

"That makes sense," I say. I put my fork down, having cleared my plate. "It's important to keep things proper when your guest is an abducted woman."

Matron Lang closes the wardrobe door. She's fetched a pair of stockings and leather slippers from the wardrobe. "You're a very cheeky girl, Kit. You'll want to mind that tongue and remember your place." She nods to the empty plate. "Put your dishes back on the tray, please."

When I don't move, she narrows her eyes. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, Matron." My words ring with false sweetness. "You said to remember my place. I'm apparently a little girl. And you're a servant. If you want the dishes back on the tray, you do it."

Matron Lang sighs and walks over. "You're angry. I respect that." She pauses. "Would you like to know a secret?"

"A secret?" I feel further emboldened, as if my show of courage is perhaps earning me an ally in this matron.

"Yes. But I need you to give me your hand." Her words are barely above a whisper. I find myself complying. I give her my hand.

What happens next comes with surprising swiftness. Her grip is tight, and I only see the flash of the rod she pulls from the pocket of her gray dress for a split second before it slams into my exposed palm. I scream from the sting and try to jerk my hand away. She's stronger than I am, and lands two more blows before letting go of my hand and grabbing me by the back of my hair.

"Stupid, stupid girl." Unlike the sick glee I noted in Matron Blunt's face when she struck me, Matron Lang seems regretful. She gives my head a jerk. "Listen to me. Listen good. Here's the secret. Obedience in Paternas is more than a necessity; it's a tool. Do you understand?" When I don't answer she jerks the back of my hair. Her almond-shaped eyes intense as she searches mine. "Do you?"

I don't understand. But I am afraid. I have mistaken Matron Lang's patience for weakness. "Do you?" she asks again.

I nod as much as her grip will allow.

"Say it," she commands. There's an earnestness in her tone bordering on desperation that frightens me more than her grip.

"Yes." My eyes are riveted on hers.

The matron breaks our gaze as she lets me go, dropping the wicked little rod back into her pocket. She smooths the front of her uniform down and turns away. "Pick up your dishes."

I am shaken. What just happened meant something. I could feel it. But I don't know what. I look at my hand. Three puffy welts crisscross my burning palm. I wince as I pick up the dishes and put them back on the tray. I can feel Matron Lang watching me without smugness nor animosity. When I'm finished, she gestures me to where she's standing.

"Let's get you dressed," she says.

# Nine

**Roman**

* * *

Perhaps I'm the one who should have taken a sedative. The night I spent after tucking Kit into bed was spent restlessly. I couldn't stop thinking of her, of replaying every detail of our encounter. She's as wild and defiant as one would expect, but there's more to her. There's principle behind her rebellion. There's also fear, mistrust, and a deeply guarded layer of emotion I find myself longing to unlock.

And she's passionate. I could see it in her eyes, feel it in her struggles. A woman who feels so deeply has a capacity to receive what I will eventually offer.

But we are not there yet.

I assess the room where Dr. Armand will soon examine Kit. It's stark and antiseptic, with a table designed specially to restrain her, a medical cabinet, and a wall screen to display all the medical data.

We'll learn other things, too, things Kit would keep hidden if she could.

I know something is wrong the moment she walks into my study. The glimmer of self-assuredness I'd detected the night before is gone. Kit is more subdued. Her hands are crossed in front of her, one loosely clenched. Matron Lang enters behind her. She seems troubled.

"Senator—" The matron is about to explain, but I cut her off.

"That will be all, Matron Lang." I shoot her a small, knowing smile. "I'll call upon you to fetch Kit back later."

"Very good, sir." Matron Lang turns her attention to Kit, who is staring straight ahead now. She stares at my ward for a moment before leaving the room. She knows whatever has transpired, I'll find out about it soon enough.

"What happened, Kit?" I nod at her hand.

"Matron Lang." She doesn't object when I reach for her fingers. Her palm is welted. "I pissed her off."

"Don't use that word, Kit. Does it hurt?"

"Not as bad as it did. Not as bad as..." Her words trail off. I know she's thinking about the spanking.

"How did it make you feel, when she corrected you."

She pulls her hand away. "Beyond my palm, I felt nothing."

She glances over her shoulder, allowing me to glimpse her in profile. She has delicate features and a sharp nose. I catch myself staring at her freckles.

"What is this place?" she asks, but I think she already knows.

The door opens. Dr. Armand has arrived. He was one of the leading women's physicians in New Bethel before I lured him away to work here. Tall and blonde, he has an authoritative manner and a ready smile that has put more than one ward at ease. He flashes that smile at Kit now, but her reaction is wariness as she backs away.

"So, you're Roman's ward." He approaches her slowly. "Kit. Is that right?"

She doesn't reply. Dr. Armand quirks a brow as we exchange knowing looks. Before Kit arrived, I'd filled him in on our first meeting. He'd also read the intelligence file we'd compiled months before her capture. He knows what to expect and is nonplussed by her silence.

"I'm Dr. Armand. I'm going to assess your health today with a complete physical exam."

"I don't need one." Her eyes register fear and defiance. "I don't need one," she says again, emphasizing the assertion with a shake of her head.

"Kit. I know it's scary—" I begin, but she cuts me off.

"I'm not afraid," she lies. "I just don't need two men poking at my naked body to tell me what I already know. There's nothing wrong with me." She backs away. "That's what's going to happen, isn't it?"

"I won't lie to you." Dr. Armand and I walk towards Kit, flanking her so that she has nowhere to go put the corner of the room. "But I think you would have learned last night that fighting only brings a negative reaction."

"So what? You're going to spank me again?"

Dr. Armand stops and puts up his hand. "I think I can make this easier." He walks to the medical cabinet, leaving me and Kit a yard's length apart. She's staring at me. I want to ask her how she liked the room she awakened in, which I designed myself. I want to tell her how beautiful she looks in the simple dress that comes to mid-thigh, but it would be pointless to try and make conversation. She doesn't want to be here.

"Take these. It'll calm you down and make all this easier." Dr. Armand is back with a small pill cup and a plastic glass of water. He holds them out to Kit, who slaps the pill cup away with an angry cry and makes to rush past me. I try to restrain my frustration and disappointment. I'd really hoped she'd learned from last night. I'd really hoped she was smarter than this.

"Very well." Dr. Armand is now the calmest person in the room. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hypodermic needle. "We'll have to go with backup. Roman, if you would restrain your ward across the table so I can give her this shot in her bottom."

"No! Don't!"

I lift Kit, feeling her struggle. When I reach the table, I lay her face down. Dr. Armand lifts her dress. Tight white panties hug the bottom I spanked the night before. I watch as the physician tugs them down to her upper thighs. He pinches the skin of her lower bottom and she screams into the mattress as the needle sinks into her skin.

As I continue to hold her, the doctor removes her slippers and pulls her panties the rest of the way down, then the dress which fastens up the back. I lift her back up. She's naked now and breathing hard just as she did the night before. She's trembling slightly as I lay her on the exam table.

Her reaction is to try and rise, but Dr. Armand is ready. He's already pushed the button that seals the mattress to her body, holding her arms and legs fast. Kit is completely immobile and when her eyes meet mine, for the first time, I see desperation. She looks as if she's about to plead with me, but instead just closes her eyes.

"Kit. Listen to me." Dr. Armand leans down, gently pushing her hair away from her face. "I know this isn't easy, but it's necessary. The only way I can ascertain your health is through an exam. Roman is going to put his hands on you now." He points at me and I hold up my arm to show her the band fixed around my wrist. "That device will relay all the information through my touch to that screen. The data I collect will be examined and you won't have to worry about coming in here for another year."

"NO!" She strains against the suction hold of the mattress.

"Breathe," he orders. "The shot I gave you is already taking affect. Can you feel it, Kit? Can you feel it making you surrender just a little? There's no fighting it. The medication coursing through your body is already lowering your inhibitions." Dr. Armand nods at me. I put my hands to her head, cupping her face.

"Relax, little one. I won't hurt you." I stare down into eyes she's finally opened. Her lips are parted, her breath coming in rapid little gasps. How I long to taste those lips, to plunder that panting mouth with my tongue.

I move my hand down to her neck, down to her shoulders, down her smooth, toned arms and back up again. I trace the ridge of her collarbone and move lower until my palms are molded to her breasts. They're perfect—firm mounds topped with up-thrust nipples that harden now under my hands. I gently squeeze.

"See?" I nod to the screen. "It shows what's below the skin."

She looks past me to the screen flashing with imagery of her breast tissue "Healthy." the doctor says. "Perfect."

"Perfect," I repeat, squeezing slightly. There's a graph under the image of her breasts, and at the pressure of my hands a jagged red line rises. I don't explain to her that this line charts her arousal.

I move my hands lower as the table separates between her legs and pulls them apart, spreading her wide. Kit is squirming now to the extent that she can.

"Your daddy is going to touch you between your legs now." Dr. Armand's voice is calm. "Just sink into the surrender, little one. You may be surprised at what you feel. If you are inclined to men, the shot will allow your natural reaction to a man's touch. Don't be afraid."

My hand is resting atop the smooth mound of her labia. Her chest is heaving, her gaze fixed on me now, her eyes filled with a silent plea. She is afraid, but as I slip my finger into the seam of her pussy, I realize her fear isn't of me, but of what she cannot hide. Kit's pussy is not drenched, but it is slick. I feel a bit of guilt. Both Dr. Armand and I know what she doesn't—that was given a placebo. The reaction to my touch is natural.

I slide my finger up, searching now for the hard little kernel hidden beneath the fleshy hood at the apex of her cleft. I do not apply too much pressure to her clit. I move my finger over it gently. Kit quivers and squirms, her soft whimper making my cock press hard against my pants. She's responding. In spite of everything, she is responding. The red line on the screen shoots higher.

"Just a little more and we'll be done." I slip my finger into her pussy. It's tight around my finger. I slide it in and out once, twice. She bites her lip to keep from moaning.

"Stop...please..."

I immediately remove my finger and she glances up at me with something akin to surprised gratitude that I have done as she asked.

"Healthy woman with a healthy response." Dr. Armand smiles. "Congratulations, Roman."

Kit is staring at the ceiling, expressionless now. The elation I felt a moment ago dissipates.

"Let me dress her in private," I say.

"Absolutely." I've got other patients waiting. "One with a tummy ache. It's a busy morning."

I thank him and as soon as he leaves I walk around and push the button that releases the bed's hold on my ward. Kit sits up slowly, draping her legs over the edge. Despite the fact that I've just seen and touched her intimately, she pulls one arm across her breasts. The other she uses to shield the top of her pubic mound.

"So this is how you make me feel safe and protected?" she asks. "Stripping me naked in front of another man? Letting him watch while you fondle my tits and stick your finger in my pussy? Is that what _daddies_ do?"

"No, Kit. But I didn't touch you as a daddy. Those places I just touched, I touched as a man. When I touch you as a Daddy it will be here..." I tap her forehead. "And here." I tap above her heart. I pause. "Are you going to tell me you didn't feel something?"

"I felt nothing."

It's a lie, but I let it go. Even if the graph charting her pleasure response hadn't spiked, I'd have known by the hot, slick warmth that her body had betrayed her. I won't argue the point with her, though. I've gotten the information I was after.

. I hand her the panties. She slips from the table and pulls them on. I help her into her dress. I reach into my pocket for a ribbon I'd intended to give her as a gift.

"For your hair, so you can tie it back."

"I like my hair down."

I pocket the ribbon. "So do I. It's pretty. You're pretty. I meant to tell you when I saw you last night."

"Don't..."

"Don't what?" I ask.

"Don't talk to me like any of this is normal." She slips her feet into her slippers.

"That's fair."

"The doctor mentioned other women."

"He did."

"I want to see them."

"And you will. In time. Do you have any questions about them, Kit?"

She smoothes the front of her dress. "Do they hate their daddies, too?"

Now I'm the one hiding my feelings. She's been disrespectful to Matron Lang and now to me. Distrust is her only weapon and I feel its sting. It occurs to me once again that I could punish her, but instead I turn away.

"No. They've overcome their fear."

"I'm not afraid of you, Leader of Men," she retorts.

"I'm not talking about fear of men. I'm talking about fear of themselves."

# Ten

**Kit**

* * *

I'm confused. I'm scared. And I'm tired of trying to hide it.

It was easy in the Warrens. In the Warrens, I was so busy concentrating on survival that I didn't really have time to ponder my feelings. I was too busy focusing on others.

Leisure has become my enemy. I literally have my needs met. No more foraging. There are three meals a day now, rich food that is fleshing out my too thin body. No more shivering. My room is warm. I can no longer stuff down or deny my feelings because they are the sole focus. I am having to face myself.

But who am I?

I have been stripped of my identity. In the Warrens, I was a leader. Now I am treated like a dependent. But also something else.

I'm in my bed, reflecting on the past few days. I'm still refusing to refer to Senator Daley as Daddy, even though that's how Matron Long refers to him. I have been more careful of my behavior around her since our confrontation. As much as I want to resent her, I find myself giving her a begrudging respect.

There are books on the shelves of my room. My favorites are books on nature.

"You've read that one a dozen times," she remarked last night.

"I like it," I said. "It makes me sad."

"You like being sad?"

I'd shut the book. "No. I'm just trying to get used to it. I never had time to really feel it." I'd run my fingers across the cover. "All those animals. They were so amazing. And to think they're just...gone. How can people be so cruel."

"It wasn't entirely the people." She'd taken a seat across from me. "The asteroid came first."

I'd agreed. "True. But you'd think at some point, humanity would have taken stock and tried to save other creatures along with themselves."

"I don't think they were thinking like that. They just wanted to survive." She stands up. "Here., I have something for you." She had a bag by the door and had pulled out another book.

" _The History of New Bethel_."

I'd crossed my arms. "Why would I want to read that?"

"Because, eventually it will be your home. With your daddy."

"With Senator Daley."

"I think he'd prefer you call him Daddy, at least for now."

I take the book. "I think I prefer he treat me like an adult."

"Are you sure?" She crosses her arms. "You seem very committed to rejecting something you've never tried. Childhood is temporary. And magical. You should give it a shot." She nods at the book. "Even if it's just a little, Kit. Let him care for you. There will be benefits. I promise. If you feel too vulnerable, then astound him with some adult knowledge of New Bethel. Trust me, he already knows so much about where you come from. Perhaps this will help you understand him better."

I'd considered her advice as I'd opened the book. I consider it now as I lay in bed. As much as I hate to admit it, I've found myself growing increasingly curious about the man I refuse to call Daddy, and the effect my experiences with him have on me.

Senator Daley has overwhelmed me twice now, eliciting reactions I've only just begun to acknowledge. The first was when he spanked me, the second was on the examining table. Both were humiliating experiences at the time, but in retrospect I puzzle over how my mind and body interprets them in my quiet moments. I screamed at the pain of his punishment, but when I think about how close he moved me to tears, I feel an odd longing I can't explain. He told me the doctor gave me something to elicit a woman's response when he touched me. Surely days later it is out of my system, so why do I feel such aching need when I relive the memory of his long fingers stroking the inner walls of my clenching pussy?

In the dark, I slide my hand under the blanket to where he touched me. In the Warrens, there was no time to think on something as frivolous as desire. Like sadness, it was something I suppressed. I can't ignore it now, just like I can't ignore the accompanying emotions. As I run my finger through the slit of my pussy, I am seized by feelings of frustration and betrayal. I should be fighting these feelings, not succumbing to them. This man is my enemy, and yet the memory of my life's two most humiliating moments are birthing urges that can only be relieved by my own hand.

I bite my lip as I shudder with a small orgasm. He wants to coddle me like a little girl, but he also is preparing to take me as a woman. What would that be like?

I turn to the wall, pushing the thought from my mind. It doesn't matter. It will never happen. I will fight these feelings. I will not give in. Nothing good can come from it.

# Eleven

**Roman**

* * *

I've been lurking in the hall, waiting for Matron Lang. While I may be using a project intended for men of the labor class, rank still has its privilege, even at Paternas. I have my own wing and was able to select the matron I wanted to tend to my ward.

I still regret that Matron Blunt had been the one to oversee Kit's transport, but knowing the importance of this match, she'd insisted. If my ward's introduction to Paternas had been less harsh, perhaps she'd be less guarded.

I hear a click and see the familiar, lithe form as Matron Lang shuts the door.

"Linda." I call out to her quietly as I step from the shadows.

"Senator Daley." She's quiet as well, even though it's just us in the hallway. "It's late. Is everything okay?"

"Yes. I just wanted to ask you about Kit. How do you think she's faring?"

"As well as could be expected." The moonlight is slanting through the floor to ceiling window. As the matron approaches, the light falls on her face. I've always considered her attractive in a strong, fierce way. Linda used to be a servant in my sister's house. When my sister started to complain about how Marcus stared at her, I offered Linda a position at Paternas. We've since become friends.

"What happened the other morning, before the doctor's appointment?"

Linda is nearly as tall as I am. She eyes me directly. "Three stripes across the hand. Are you angry with me?"

"No. I'm sure it was with cause."

"It was," she says. "I'm not cruel, Roman. I'm not like the other matrons. Being strict isn't my natural nature. I did what I had to do. For her. And for me."

"Linda, you don't have to explain..."

"If I didn't have to explain, you wouldn't have asked me. When she challenged me, all I could think was what would happen if she did it openly. It would draw scrutiny to have a ward who doesn't obey. Matron Blunt watches me as closely as Senator Thane did, with the same suspicion." She pauses. "Do you think she knows?"

I manage a reassuring smile. "I think it's just Matron Blunt's nature. She's a controlling person. It served her well at the New Bethel Women's Academy. My sister was terrified of her. I think that's why Marcus put her name in as Head Matron here. He wanted someone who shared his views to run this place, someone who sees women as he sees them."

Linda nods, then looks towards the window. I see tears glinting in her eyes.

"You're thinking about Jenny?"

She nods, blinking hard. "Have you heard anything?"

"She's definitely a candidate. That's all I know."

"Thank you." She smiles through her tears. "If she gets accepted, I'll get to see her again, at least."

"Think she can hack it here?"

Linda inclines her head towards the door to Kit's room. "If your ward can, so can Jenny."

"I'll keep you posted." I wish I could give her a hug, but it's not safe so instead, I briefly put my finger to her lips. "Just remember, it's our secret."

"One of many," she says. "And you know it's safe with me."

# Twelve

**Kit**

* * *

My days always start with Matron Lang, who brings me a good breakfast and lays out my clothes. Afterwards, I join Roman Daley in the parlor or library, where he has me study books on science and mathematics or literature that always includes some moral theme.

He knows I can read, and I'm tempted to ask him if he thinks I'm uneducated simply because I never received formal schooling. I long to tell him that I spend what free time I had in the Warrens reading once I learned, and already know much of the subject matter he's given me.

I don't, though. My new tact is passive resistance. I can't escape, so I only speak when I'm spoken to. I have decided that the less I engage with him, the less he will pursue a connection. I still think of him in the night, and when I do, the sensations I experience frighten me. I do not like to be frightened of people. It is in my best interest to make turn him cold through inattention.

This morning I'm taken to his study after breakfast. It's my first time here, and Roman Daley is behind his desk. He beckons me to stand in front of his desk as Matron Lang leaves.

"You look lovely, Kit."

I'm wearing a yellow dress with lace edging around the hem. Like all the dresses, it skims my body without being too tight. It's modest and girlish.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks.

"Yes." I deliver the answer with the same flat resignation I've been using for the past few days.

There's a chair in front of his desk. When I move to take a seat, he holds up his hand. "No. Stay where you are."

I feel perturbed at being made to stand, but don't show it. It's only then that I look down at his desk and am so surprised at what I see that I forget my commitment to being taciturn.

"Is that..." I take a step forward, even though he's told me not to. "Is that a butterfly?"

"Yes. A particularly nice one, too. A Blue Morpho, one of the larger, more exotic species."

"How did you get it? All the butterflies are dead."

"All the butterflies _were_ dead." He shoots me a small smile. "There's more to this planetoid than meets the eye. We're using recovered genetic material to bring back species thought lost, like this beauty."

He uses tweezers to move the relaxed wing of the colorful insect into position for pinning.

"Why bring them back if you're just going to kill them?"

He looks up at me. "I didn't kill it. I wouldn't. We breed more than we need. Like everything, they have a lifespan. If one dies, I have it sent to me." He returns his attention to the butterfly. "Lepteropterist. That's a fancy word for butterfly collectors. It was all the rage in ancient Victorian era. Gentlemen liked to collect pretty things. Butterflies. Orchids."

"Women?"

He looks up at me and smiles. "So, this is your impression, that you're some kind of specimen?"

"Yes." I shrug. "Am I supposed to think this place is real?"

"Hmm...So what is real?"

"The Warrens." I'm irritated that he's managed to pull me into conversation. "Even New Bethel. But not this place."

"And what do you know of New Bethel?" he asks, stretching out the other wing of the butterfly away from its pinned body, being careful not to break it.

"More now. Matron Lang gave me a book. I've been reading it."

He puts down the tweezers and leans back. "Really? I'm surprised."

"Surprised that I'd want to learn or surprised that I can?"

He ignores this. "So tell me what you know." Roman gestures to the chair, indicating that I should sit now, so I do.

"I know the leaders want everyone to be the same. The women..." I pause here, searching for the words. The book used phrases like "permanent security" and "order," but as a child born into a world of resistance, the real meaning has been passed down unfiltered. "The women have no voice. The only purpose they have in New Bethel is what the men give them."

I brace myself for a rebuke, but it doesn't come.

"What else have you learned?"

I pause a moment before answering. "That you shoot men and women who are different into the cold of space to die. The drift fields."

He's crossed his arms. "Kit, I own all the books on New Bethel's history. There's nothing about that in any of them."

"I didn't learn that in a book. I saw it. On the way here. The ship went through a drift field. I've heard of them, but seeing it..." I shudder. "The matron said it could have been me.

"You weren't supposed to see it." He's angry. I realize it's the first time I've seen him angry. When he'd punished me, his expression was purposeful, dispassionate. Not like this.

"The matron...the one on the ship. She said if it were her decision, it would be me.

He rises from his chair and walks over to me, taking me by the arms. He locks eyes with mine, his tone low and earnest.

"Listen to me, Kit. That will never be you, do you understand? I promise. No harm will come to you, Kit. I'll keep you safe."

"Like you keep them safe?" My gaze moves to the butterfly pinned to the foam board.

He takes me hand. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

Senator Daley doesn't tell me where we are going. We exit the study into the quiet hallway. He is silent as he guides me to a locked door. He also has a pass card, which he uses to open it. There are two more doors, one to a stairwell and another to an elevator. We are taking the elevator.

It sinks quickly, and my stomach lurches as it changes direction. It's moving forward, and I know we are traveling underground. He takes hold of me as the direction shifts again as we move upwards once more.

"You'll eventually get used to it," he assures me, but I'm not so sure. I'm still feeling slightly nauseous when the elevator stops.

"Are you all right, Kit. Do you need a moment?"

I nod. "I think so."

He pulls a device from his pocket, taps a few buttons and the door opens. I can't speak. We're outside. I stare at the ground. Grass. I've always wondered how it felt, and without asking, I take a step forward and put my hands to the ground. It's soft and spiky.

I look up to see the Senator smiling down at me. "Before you ask, yes, it's real." He gestures out into the open.

I blink against the light. My mouth is open in wonder as I stare around. Trees. Flowers.

"Can I touch—?"

"In time, you can touch everything. But first I want to take you somewhere special."

I hear a thrumming noise and a small shuttle comes into view. The Senator steps forward and opens the door. I reluctantly step off the grass, and once I'm in the seat, Roman settles in beside me, explaining that the shuttle is auto-piloted.

Soon we're zipping along. I'm officially over my silent treatment, and excitedly identify trees and flowers.

"Yes," he says after each one. "Yes, that's right. Well done." He sounds impressed, and I feel a small stir of pride. Under any other circumstance, I'd be annoyed with myself for feeling pleasure at having pleased him, but I'm too enraptured by my surroundings and strangely grateful for the experience.

Then I feel disappointment when a building comes into view and a disembodied voice drones that we have reached our destination. Once out of the vessel, we approach the gleaming metal doors of the building and walk through into a small lobby bright with artificial lighting. Two small pipes descend from the ceiling, followed by a tone and then a light mist is expelled into the air.

"Decontaminant," he explains. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Close your eyes, little one."

I consider disobeying but find myself doing as he says. I hear a click. Another door is opening. I'm being guided through. Another click. The door is shutting behind me.

"Open your eyes."

I am speechless. Utterly speechless. We're in a huge glass dome filled with plants. And the air around us is filled with butterflies, some gliding gracefully past, others flitting in an up-and-down motion. I bring my hands to my mouth, turning around.

"Kit." He takes hold of me. "I want to tell you something."

I lower my hands.

"That book you read on New Bethel...not all the leaders agree. Some of us foresee a better world. Not everyone appreciates what was lost—the animals, the plants. The grass in New Bethel is synthetic. But one day, what is grown here and on other planetoids will be restored to New Bethel." He sweeps his hand towards a cloud of butterfly. "One day, these creatures and others will be ready to return. Who knows, maybe their beauty will change things for the better." He pauses. "One day, your beauty will change things for the better, too."

"I don't understand? You helped create New Bethel."

"I didn't create it. I have contributed to it. I was born into a prominent family. I am a leader of men, groomed to be an Elder of the Patriarchy." He pauses. "I'm preparing myself to lead New Bethel, but not as it exists now."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He sighs. "Because we are both leaders. Because you understand what it is like to want to help your people when you see they are suffering."

"You aren't treating me like a leader. You're treating me like a child."

"Yes." He nods. "Yes, I am. Because like it or not, my world is taking yours over. You will have to learn to adapt to my way before we can forge a new one together. I intend to give you the childhood you lost, to give you the experience of being raised and molded. But I will not raise you as a weak, submissive woman. I will raise you to be smart and strong, caring for you along the way as you grow and learn. I will love you. I will correct you. And when the time is right, we will make a brighter future for everyone, including those from the Warrens."

I don't know what to say.

"I want you to know something else, Kit. I am just as vulnerable as you are now. What I've told you is a secret. If anyone else knew, I'd be punished. I'd lose my position. I'd lose my freedom. I'd lose you. I can't imagine anything more painful."

I feel another shudder run through me. I think of the resentment I've felt for him and try to justify it now with the sudden fear for his safety.

"Is this a trick?" I ask. "Like the day the matron left the key cards out for me to find?"

He sighs. "No." Roman turns then and begins to walk down the gravel path. He's trusting me to follow, and after a moment's hesitation I do.

"I can see why you might thing that, though. The decision to trick you with the key cards was made before I knew your character. I underestimated you, Kit. I was wrong to deceive you to make a point. I'm sorry."

"You're apologizing? To me?"

"A good daddy admits when he's wrong."

A flash of blue gets my attention. A blue Morpho butterfly like the one Roman has pinned in his study settles on a waxy leaf, fanning its sapphire wings in a leisurely motion.

"It's a shame they have to die."

"It is, my dear." His hand moves to my shoulder. This time I don't pull away. His touch is gentle and warm. "This one will never make it out of here. But one of her descendants will. What she does in captivity, she does for the greater good, for the survival of her kind."

I nod. He's teaching me, gently. And I think I'm starting to understand why I'm here, and how doing the hardest thing I've ever done —yielding— will allow me to save those I left behind.

"Kit..." He puts a finger under my chin, tilting it up until I'm looking into his eyes. "Thank you. It means the world to me that you see me as something other than an enemy. But I confess to wanting more. I want to hear you acknowledge who and what you need to me. Can you do that, little one?"

First a lesson, now a test. He's not demanding, but I can see the expectation in his eyes. He will not punish me if I refuse, but he will be disappointed. I stare spellbound at the plants and the butterflies dancing in the air like winged jewels. He didn't have to bring me here. He could have kept this place a secret. He could have kept his other secret, too.

He's trusted me. Now he wants me to trust him.

Can you do that, little one?

I have my answer. "Yes, daddy."

# Thirteen

**Roman**

* * *

I've given Matron Lang the night off. Today, I will care for Kit myself.

She's reluctant to leave the butterfly house. It has spurred her curiosity, and she asks me if any other animals are being reproduced. I tell her that so far, we are working on getting funding to bring back more extinct species that were considered non-essential. Those of us who value what was lost and who feel inspired to bring it back are still in the minority. Each project like the butterfly house is a hard-won accomplishment.

Lunch is waiting for us when we arrive back at my wing in Paternas. It satisfies me to see Kit's appreciation for food. Today's midday meal includes a thick stew with chunks of tender beef, carrots, and potatoes, fluffy yeast rolls with creamy butter, and a slice of decadent chocolate cake.

Kit puts the napkin on her lap. She's been working on her table manners. When I compliment her, she gives me a shy smile.

The food is delicious, and I'm enjoying taking a meal with her. But as good as the food is, it pales in satisfaction to the moment I keep playing over in my head. She called me daddy, and the sound of that word passing her lips fills me with a sense of responsibility. It was not flattery when I told her I wanted to give her the childhood she never had. I want to give her that and so much more.

My sister would call me a fool. She would tell me I barely know this woman, that I could have gotten a compliant wife with just one word. But no woman could make me feel as Kit makes me feel. No woman would have thrilled me so with just one small concession. Earning Kit's trust is an accomplishment I would have been denied had I selected a dutiful woman raised from the New Bethel ruling class.

"I have some work to do in my study." I tell her this almost apologetically. "We can spend some more time together this afternoon. Until then, I'd like you to rest."

"I don't think I can sleep after what I've seen." She looks back towards the window. "Besides, I don't really need a nap."

"It's a luxury. I insist you take it." I stand and walk to the bed. "Come. I'll tuck you in." When I pull back the coverlet, she sighs and stands.

"Very well. I guess it won't hurt. Perhaps I'll dream of butterflies." Kit kicks her slippers off and climbs into the bed, stretching out. I pull the blanket back over her.

"I look forward to seeing you later." I turn to reluctantly walk out but stop at the sound of her voice.

"Daddy?"

Did I hear her correctly? I turn back to her. She's raised herself to sitting, and the expression on her face is one I've not seen before. Her eyes are glittering. I move closer to make sure what I'm seeing isn't just a play of light. When I reach the bed, I take her hand and sit down on the edge of the mattress. She's beginning to breathe heavily, and when she speaks, her voice is quavering.

"One of the women...in the drift. She looked like me. Just like me." The unshed tears are brimming in her eyes now. She's shaking. "It was like looking at myself." She puts a hand to her face. "Her mouth was open. She died screaming."

I pull her to me, and when I do, feel a wracking sob tear through her small frame. She's letting go, weeping into my chest. Trust has worn the mantle of resolve that until now had contained more suppressed emotion than one person should bear.

"Let it out, little one. Let it out. It's okay. I'm here. Daddy's here." Kit is suddenly the child in my arms, the brave little girl who never let herself cry because she would never give herself permission, because she never though it would do any good. I lift her from the bed and walk to the large rocking chair by the fire. I settle into the seat, holding her. I press my lips to her hair.

I have never felt so protective over anyone in my life. I want to protect Kit from anyone who would hurt her. I swallow my anger at Matron Blunt, whom I plan to deal with shortly for exposing Kit to the drift field as a threat.

I rock her as she cries. Twice she halts long enough gasping apologies for falling apart; both times I tell her there is nothing to apologize for, that she does not have to explain or share anything until she is ready.

I lose track of how long I hold her, how long it takes her body to soften with exhaustion. Kit has fallen asleep in my arms. She slumps slightly in my grasp and I stare down at her sweet face. It's softened now, too. If possible, she seems even younger now that some of the tension has drained away. Tear tracks are drying on the cheeks sprinkled with light freckles. I have to stop myself from kissing those tears away.

There will be time for that, but for now I have to right a wrong.

I reluctantly rise and tuck Kit back into her bed. I am quiet as I leave the room and shut the door behind me. As I walk down the hall, I pull out my CommuniPort and send a message demanding that Matron Blunt meet me in my study.

I pour myself a drink to take the edge off the anger I feel towards the cold woman who was charged with the task of bringing Kit here. At the sound of the knock on my study door, I down the rest of my drink.

"Come in."

"You wanted to see me, Senator?"

"Yes, Matron Blunt."

"Is it about your ward? If you need any assistance with her behavior I'm happy to assist. I was quite hesitant when you requested Matron Lang. C24—"

"Kit," I correct the Matron. "Her name is Kit. And you are not allowed to depersonalize her."

The matron tucks her double chins down as she scowls. "I'm not depersonalizing her, but she's a ward and until she completes the program, that's how she'll be seen. It's the Paternas way. As director..."

"As director, you answer to the Order of the Patriarchy," I say. "Or are you forgetting your place, Matron? You serve at the leisure of the Senate."

She smiles and bows her head in what is supposed to be a show of deference, but I can see the sentiment does not extend to eyes that flash with resentment. "I understand, and if I have displeased you or Senator Thane..."

"Dropping names are we, Matron Blunt?" I put my hands on my hips. "Let me remind you that while Senator Thane may have referred you for this post, a word from me carries the same weight."

"Of course, Senator." The words are accompanied by a tight-lipped smile.

"Now." I cross my arms, no longer trying to hide my disapproval. "I was informed by my ward that you set a course directly through the Drift Field on your way to Paternas. Why?"

Matron Blunt folds her hands behind her back. "Senator Daley, yours was no ordinary selection. She's a rebel leader. Left unbroken, she'd have the potential to influence others here who are—"

I cut her off. "We do not _break_ women here, Matron Blunt. Paternas was founded to reform women through paternalistic care and guidance. You were hired to facilitate that mission, not to subvert it with some authoritative doctrine."

"I assure you, Senator. I am not seeking to subvert anyone, least of all an esteemed leader such as yourself."

"Good." I turn away. "I'm glad we understand each other. And I expect someone with your credentials will have no problem remembering that _any_ threats of execution of a ward, or blows to a ward's face, will earn you or any other heavy-handed Matron a letter of dismissal." I turn back. "Is that clear?"

"Abundantly. And if I have exceeded my authority, it was only because of my deep commitment to the... core values of the patriarchal order." The matron clasps her hands. "If I am overbearing, it is only because I am fearful of any influence that would disrupt the divine vision of New Bethel."

"Leave the vision to the leaders, Matron Blunt. If you feel compelled to please the Patriarchy, you can start by remembering your place."

"Of course, Senator." She folds her hands beneath her pendulous breasts. "If I may inquire...how is your ward doing?"

"She's coming along nicely. I could not be more impressed. It's encouraging how quickly people flourish when treated with kindness."

"How wonderful. Do you think she's settled enough to meet some of the other young ladies, yet? I understand this will mean reuniting her with some former denizens from the Warrens."

I keep my expression neutral. I wonder how Kit will react to the changes in former rebels who once stood shoulder to shoulder with her against the government. Will she be disappointed to see how easily they've adapted to their new lives? I've spied Gavin and Trina several times lately. Trina looks at my friend with such adoration. She looks at him with the kind of total trust I hope to inspire in Kit. Part of me wonders if I shouldn't deepen our private bond before exposing her to the group dynamic where she'll surely here more of what is expected. What if it causes a setback?

Matron Blunt is waiting for an answer. She has softened her face to affect an expression of patience, but I note the cunning in her eyes and am reminded of what Linda said. _She's always watching, like Senator Thane._

"I think she will be ready soon," I reply with more certainty than I feel.

"Excellent." The matron smiles broadly, clapping her plump hands together. "I look forward to it more than I can say."

# Fourteen

**Kit**

* * *

I'm over Daddy's knee. I've done something—something naughty—and now I'm going to be punished.

I can feel his muscular thighs under my belly. I can feel the cool air of the room raising gooseflesh on my bare bottom. Daddy has raised my dress. He tells me he is sorry he has to do this, but a spanking is the best way to impress on a little girl the importance of obeying the rules.

My heart is hammering in my chest. I am so scared, but I am also filled with a sense of expectation. I'm waiting for him to bring his hand down on the smooth skin of my exposed bottom. I am waiting for the pain of correction. But I am waiting for something else.

Daddy starts to spank me. He is not gentle. It hurts. It hurts so very bad. Stinging heat on stinging heat. I am squirming. I am begging. I am writhing on his lap to the extent I can, but I can't move much.

Daddy is strong. Daddy is stronger than I am. Daddy will spank me as long and hard as he wants. He'll spank me until I cry.

And I do. I feel a catch in my throat, then a burning lump I cannot swallow. I wail in pained sorry at having disappointed him, at how bad it hurts. Tears trace a hot path down my cheek, running into my mouth, which is opened in a childish bawl. I beat my hands into the chair legs below me, sobbing.

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm sorry..."

"Are you going to be a good girl?" he asks. "Answer me, Kit. Kit..."

"KIT!" A voice is calling my name, but it's not Daddy's voice. I open my eyes to see Matron Lang standing in the corner of the room. "Young lady...did you hear me? It's time to wake up."

I blink my eyes as my caretaker comes into focus. She is fixing me with a quizzical look. It takes me a moment to realize it was just a dream. I feel myself flush.

"Sorry." I push the cover back and sling my legs over the side of the bed. The sunlight that has filled my room every day is absent. Thick clouds have filled the sky and rain patters against the eaves. "It rains here?"

"The atmosphere has been replicated to mimic Earth. The weather cycles aren't as frequent, though. It rains once every few months, but when it does, it can last for days. Unfortunately, this means outdoor activities are cancelled.

I was hoping Roman would show me more of the propagation projects he'd hinted at the day he took me to see the butterflies. The surge of disappointment I feel mixes with the frustration and confusion of my dream. It doesn't help when the matron points out that I talk in my sleep.

"What did I say?" I ask hesitantly. I'm about to take a bite of waffles when she makes the casual observation.

She doesn't reply. Instead she asks a question. "What were you dreaming about?"

"I can't remember." It's a lie. I push my food around my plate with the fork as I play the dream over in my head. I can still feel Roman's legs under my belly, the weight of his muscular arm, holding me in place, the pressure in my chest that broke free as a sob. I bring my hand to my face, half-expecting to feel tears, but there are none.

"Are you not hungry?" Matron Lang nods at my plate. "Belgian waffles are my favorite."

"Do you want some?" I ask.

"No. I ate already." She smiles. She has a very lovely smile.

"Matron Lang, can I ask you a question?"

"You can ask." She's laying out a navy-blue dress and matching shoes. Doesn't mean I'll answer."

"Do the matrons marry?"

She doesn't look up at me right away. Instead, she smooths the front of the dress she's placed on the bed.

"No. Most are older women, past child-bearing age."

"You aren't old."

She's visibly tense. "True. But I can't have children. I had a condition in my early twenties that caused me to have very heavy periods. It got so bad that I became very weak, very sick. I almost died, and I would have if the third government doctor hadn't approved the operation I needed on appeal. I got my hysterectomy in the nick of time. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"You had to get permission? "Why would anyone try to stop you from having an operation to save your life."

"If it had been any other organ, the government wouldn't care." Her tone is hard, then she seems to catch herself. She walks over to me. "Listen. I shouldn't have told you that. It's not the kind of thing you need to worry about, Kit."

I ignore her. "So you can't marry?"

"Kit...don't ask so many questions. It's better this way. Not every woman wants to marry. Eat your food."

I pick up my fork, but realize I've lost my appetite. "Just because you can't have kids doesn't mean you shouldn't be able to love someone."

"I didn't say I didn't love someone." The matron's back is to me, her voice as tight as her posture. "I just said I couldn't marry."

I turn my attention back to my food. I try to imagine Matron Lang in a dress, walking in the field or holding hands with some tall, handsome man. I wonder who she had in her past, who she loved, and if he married another.

After breakfast, she tells me to wait for Daddy, who is coming to see me. She tells me to entertain myself with my books. Although she's performed her duties with the same kind efficiency, I regret the conversation that has left her seeming quiet and preoccupied. I want to ask her if she needs to talk, but I know she would not, so I walk to the bookshelf to pick out a book. I feel slightly anxious, so I reach for one of the vintage picture books on the third shelf. It's called _Mary's Mayhem_ , and is filled with idyllic images of a young girl dressed very much like me.

_Mary was a pretty girl_

_With pretty flowing hair_

_Who laughed and played all the day_

_Without a stress or care._

I turn the page, skimming over the stanzas of rhyming verse to focus on pictures Mary's antics, from putting a fat spider in the governess' bed to refusing to eat her dinner to getting her party dress muddy. The character of Mary is rendered in a manner that makes her age hard to discern. In some pictures she appears young. In others, she looks like a youthful adult.

I flip through the book, admiring the flowery illustrations but find myself stopping at one in particular.

Mary's misdeeds have caught up with her. She's standing in a corner, the hem of her dress tucked into the waistband. Her hands are folded at her back, and she's staring over her shoulder at her bottom which is burnished a splotchy pink. She's clearly been spanked, and I can't stop looking at the pictures.

I study it carefully— from the hue of her punished buttocks to her baleful expression. Mary is biting her lip, and tears are running down her face.

I shift in the chair where I am sitting and turn the page. Mary is happy again, playing in a fresh clean dress. A man in a suit is smiling down at her. I don't need to read the accompanying verse to know this is her daddy.

_Mary has been corrected now._

_Daddy's hand gave her a sting._

_But she is still is his sweet troublemaker_

_And he wouldn't change a thing._

I turn back to the previous picture of a crying Mary in the corner. I think of my dream, of how real it felt. I move my finger down the illustration of the girl in the picture.

"Kit?" Roman's voice startles me, and I slam the book shut, feeling a flush of heat come over my face as I do. I feel as if I've been caught doing something wrong, yet I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm reading, just as I was told to do.

"Ah, _Mary's Mayhem_. I had that one written especially for you. Do you like it?"

I rise quickly and take it return it to the shelf, carefully pushing it into place. "It's all right. More a children's book, really."

"There's nothing wrong with children's books. Many of them are very instructive, even for adults. Besides, you're here to have a childhood. That includes children's books."

I pick another one from the shelf. "This one, then." It's a book on butterflies. "I was hoping we could see them today. Or maybe some other things out of doors. But Matron Lang said the weather is too bad."

"It is." He settles in a chair. "The sun will come back soon enough. But there's no rule that says one can't discover things indoors."

"What kind of things?" I ask.

"Come here, Kit." He beckons me over and pulls me into his lap. I try to relax. It's easier than it once was, but still doesn't come naturally. Roman brushes the back of his hand across my cheek. "Matron Lang said you called out in your sleep. Did you have a bad dream?"

"No." I feel myself tense at the question.

"A good one then?"

"I didn't have a dream."

He sighs and leans back, arching a brow. "No dream at all?"

I don't respond.

"She said you called out."

I'm unable to meet his eyes.

"What did you dream, Kit?" When I remain silent, he asks me again; this time the question carries the weight of authority. "Tell me."

"Dreams are secret."

"You don't keep secrets from your daddy." He takes hold of my chin, turning my head so that I have to look at him. "Besides, I told you a secret, remember?"

My guilt is instantaneous as I remember his revelation in the butterfly house. I take a deep breath, dropping my gaze as I give him the honest answer.

"I dreamt you...punished me."

"What kind of punishment?"

Why is it so hard to say the word? "A spanking."

"How did I spank you?"

"Over your lap."

"And your dress? Was it down?"

I want him to stop. I don't want to tell him any more. But at the same time, I do.

"It was up."

"And your little panties?"

There's a curious throbbing between my legs. Arousal. I wriggle a bit on his lap, hoping a shift in position will halt it. But he shifts, too, and the sensation only gets stronger.

"Down."

"So in your dream I spanked you on your bare bottom. Do you know why?"

"No. I didn't dream about what I did wrong. Just about the spanking."

"Matron Lang said you called out, 'I'm sorry, Daddy.'"

"Oh." I put my hand over my face.

"You're embarrassed?" he asks.

I can only nod. "I don't like talking about nightmares."

"Nightmares?" Roman shakes his head. "I don't believe you had a nightmare. Nightmares are dreams about thinks we don't want. This was a dream about something you long for."

"You think I want you to spank me?"

"Yes." His answer is blunt. "How did the dream end?"

"I don't know. I woke up."

"No. There was a resolution. Think."

"There wasn't!" I'm starting to get exasperated. "There was no resolution. You spanked me, I cried, and..."

He points at me, cutting me off. "That's it, Kit. You cried."

"How is that a resolution?" I feel defensive because I know where this is going. I already know the answer. It dawns on me even as I ask the question. I cried with him once, but I need more. I need the release.

"Kit, there is nothing wrong with displaying your emotion. It's safe here. There is nothing wrong with the need you feel, the need to be spanked to tears."

"I don't want that."

"You do. Only you're such a good, smart little girl that you don't do anything to warrant a spanking other than the first one I gave you. At least, not until now."

"Now?" I stare up at him, dumbfounded. "What have I done?"

"It's against the rules to lie to your daddy, Kit. I asked you if you'd had a dream and you denied it, even though we both knew this to be false." His answer is accompanied by action. Roman has already shifted my position from being cradled to being turned over and pushed face downward over his lap. My heart begins to thud in my chest as I feel his strong arm encircle my waist, pulling me tight against his hard body. I feel the air against my bare thighs as my dress is lifted, feel his fingers hook in the waistband of my white cotton panties. I whimper as he tugs them down over the mounds of my bottom. He doesn't stop lowering them until they are to just above my knees.

"You must always be honest with daddy, little one. Little girls who lie get spanked very, very hard." I feel him shift and glimpse the arc of his arm a split second before his hand descends across the crest of my bottom with a burning smack. The room echoes with my cries.

The first time Roman spanked me in the room after I'd thrown the chair at him, he'd been silent and purposeful. The only sounds had been my screams of anguish and the splat of his hand against my skin. This time is different. This time he lectures me as he spanks. He tells me that a good little girl never, ever keeps secrets from her daddy, punctuating the words by tilting me forward to land alternating spanks on the base of my bottom cheeks until the twin stings have me kicking my legs and wailing.

I'm aware that my legs are spread in this position, which has me tilted towards the floor, that the air of the room is caressing the inner labia that must be visible between the spread outer lips of my pussy. I'm also aware that despite the pain, I am growing wetter by the second.

"Such a bad, bad girl," Roman says, his spanks now landing three at a time on first the middle left buttock and then the right. "Such a bad, naughty girl."

I wriggle, trying to position myself so I can stop the onslaught of stinging spanks and close my thighs, as if that will somehow halt the flow of arousal. Has he seen? Is this why he's calling me a bad, bad girl?

I have never felt such deep humiliation, nor such exposure, nor such vulnerability.

"Hold still, little one. I'm not finished with you. Only a cherry red bottom will teach such a naughty girl not to lie."

"It hurts, Daddy! Stop!" The words are pushed out by a flood of tears, but with them comes a deep fluttering low in my core. What is happening to me? I'm sobbing, but I'm also moaning. I'm hurting but I'm also cresting a wave of pleasure that does not belong here, that should not be. I'm mortified and confused. "Oh, Daddy! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Daddy!"

His hand falls again, but this time it stops, the weight of his warm palm molded to the burning expanse of my bottom. It's just like my dream—the pain, the contrition, the humiliation—but there's an element of surprise to it, a richness, like the first time I tasted the trifle. It feels surreal.

"Let it out, Kit," he urges. "This is what I'm here for, to let you be both a child and a woman. You can be both with me."

I feel something else then. The hand on my bottom moves, the finger slipping lower to find my pussy, the inner lips slick and engorged with need. I feel myself arch towards his touch, like a flower towards the heat of the sun. His finger teases, brushing lightly until my little girl cries are mixed with the groans of a woman's deepest unspoken need.

"Please..." I say, looking back at him. The man I see is a man in charge of himself, of me. He's controlled as he strokes my pussy, petting it, drawing even more slickness from within so that my inner thighs are coated, and the room is perfumed with my soft musk.

"What do you want, little one? Tell Daddy?"

I think of the picture of Mary, standing in the corner with her red bottom. The book never showed her going over her daddy's lap, but in the next frame the love between them was apparent. And I know now that its presence in my personal library was no accident, just as the illustration with the ambiguously aged Mary was no accident. Mary found happiness in her submission, but it did not change her. Her daddy did not want to change her.

I know what I want, but I can't put it into words. I can only arch towards his hand, and when his finger pushes into me this time, I weep again, but with joy. He is careful as he moves his fingers in and out.

"More. I want more. Please..." I'm shameless, pushing my hips back against his fingers, wanting the forbidden touch of the hand that just spanked me.

"Just a little," he says. "We mustn't spoil you completely. Not yet..."

Then his finger moves to the top of my cleft to worry the sensitive nub of my clitoris with his finger and the steady pressure sends rushes of pleasure blooming outward through my body. I'm no longer crying. Instead, I am hugging his leg as I hang there, suspended over his lap, bound to him by pleasure. "Oh, oh, oh..." My pussy clenches against itself, longing to be filled.

And I wonder. How long will daddy make me his little girl wait until he claims her as the woman I am becoming under his care?

# Fifteen

**Roman**

* * *

I look at the clock. It's nearly noon, and I know my sister's schedule quite well. Why isn't she picking up? I know Felicia opposed my coming to Paternas, but I also know I'm the one person in the world she can talk to. I promised her that our being apart didn't mean we wouldn't speak. I told her I'd call her today.

Finally, on the fifth chime, the screen brightens, and I sit back in my chair, smiling, as I wait for her face to come into view. But it's not her I see. It's her husband.

"Marcus?" I don't try to hide the disappointment in my voice. "Where's Felicia?"

"Out."

"Where?"

He stares at me, and I can see the annoyance in his face. "Not that it's any of your business where my wife is, but she's at a Sisters of Faith Luncheon and then off to an appointment with Dr. Maynard. We've decided to start another round of fertility boosters."

I fall momentarily into stunned silence. Felicia avoids the Sisters of Faith, which are mostly older political wives whose leanings are even more conservative than our father, although I believe they are in line with Marcus' beliefs. But it's the second revelation that has me the most concerned. Marcus wants a large family. Last year he urged Felicia to start fertility boosters—medical treatments that will greatly increase the chances of twin or even triplet births. Twins already run in our family, and my mother nearly died bringing us into the world. Her stories have always made Felicia afraid of going the same route, and with my support she has gently resisted her husband's attempts to get her to take the treatment. But I am no longer home to encourage her. And if she is now in the company of the Sisters of Faith, she's being fed a steady diet of propaganda encouraging large families and blind obedience to male authority.

"So what time do you expect her home?" I ask.

My brother-in-law shakes his head. "Not sure, pal. But this might not be a good day for her to sit and gab. I've taken her out twice this week and have a craving for that homemade tortellini, so she's going straight to kitchen duty."

I'm suddenly glad of the thousands of miles between us and reminded in this one moment why I am here, and why I am willing to risk everything. Marcus Thane is the embodiment of everything that's gone wrong with what was supposed to be a benevolent return to tradition.

I ask him to have Felicia ring me — which I know he won't do— then click off before I say anything I may come to regret, deciding that the best remedy for my mood may be found in my friend Gavin. I've been wanting to check in on him and his ward, Trina.

Like Kit, Trina hails from the Warrens, although she was snagged a year ago and languished in a holding facility until I was able to get clearance to pair her with Gavin. There are other women waiting, too. I can't help but think of Jenny, and how worried Matron Lang continues to be about her. But that is a transfer that must be handled with particular care, and one I don't want to think on at the moment.

My mood is immediately lifted when leave my wing and enter the common room of the Paternas Institute. There are six couples here today, all a testament to the kind of love and care New Bethel has somehow lost.

There is an irony to this method; on the face of it, the Paternas seems more heavily patriarchal than the existing New Bethel model for men and women. This helped me get approval from the other senators. It's different, though. I hope the bonding experience of dominant men who naturally bring out trustful submission in these women will ultimately lead to love, and desire by the men to see their mates enjoy a full existence that utilizes all their talents and abilities.

That kind of love will force a change in New Bethel.

I scan the room until I see Gavin, who is sitting with the woman who will become his wife. I saw pictures of Trina after she first arrived. Like Kit, she was thin and bedraggled.

Her transformation is remarkable. Her lank blonde hair is now cut to shoulder length and glows with good health. Her skinny frame has taken on a pleasant roundness. She's just short of plump, but I find this much more appealing than the forced thinness so prized by other New Bethel wives. Trina has a woman's fullness that I believe will certainly appeal to men at home who have been denied the image of what a full-fleshed woman's body looks like. True, there are always men who will prefer the idealized svelteness, but Trina's natural curves will likely trigger attraction in men who will hopefully encourage their wives not to continue the harmful practices of denial in pursuit of thinness.

But it's not just the physical appearance that impresses me. Trina fixes Gavin with the kind of expression I never see on the faces of New Bethel wives, and he returns her gaze with the same fondness. When he glances up and sees me, he beckons us over.

"Roman!" He stands as I make my way over. "I've been looking forward to this day." He puts his hand on the shoulders of the young blonde woman still seated at the table. "This is Trina. Trina, this Senator Roman Daley. He's an old friend. We went to school together."

"He doesn't seem so old to me." Trina grins, displaying charming dimples as she extends her hand. "Senator, I'm pleased to meet you."

I take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze, encouraged to note the absence of mistrust from a former rebel.

Gavin invites me to sit.

"So, how have you enjoyed your time here, Trina?" I ask.

She casts a glance at Gavin. "I don't know if I would say it's all been enjoyable. It's been a process. I was ready to fight when I arrived. I thought I'd be forcefully indoctrinated." She pauses. "I only wish we didn't have to leave. Gavin has told me New Bethel is different."

"It is," I say. "But I fully intend to make sure there's a support network for graduates of this program so that all the couples can stay in touch. It's one of the advantages of residing outside the upper class."

"Aren't you in the upper class?" she asks.

We stop talking for a moment as a server puts our plates in front of us. Today it is a chowder made from oysters cloned and raised in manmade estuaries on a nearby planetoid.

"Yes. But I want Kit to be associate with others who've embraced the philosophy here."

"Kit?" She puts her fork down and looks at Gavin. "I knew a Kit. In the Warrens. She was one of the leaders."

Gavin reaches for her hand. "This is why I wanted you to meet my friend, Trina. It's the same Kit. She was captured and brought here."

"Kit..." She sits back, speaking the word as if to herself. "Captured." Her eyes meet mine. "How is she adjusting?"

"Quite well." There's pride in my voice.

"I can't believe that." Trina shakes her head. "Senator..."

"Please, call me Roman..."

"Roman..." She falls quiet, seeking to find the words. "Please be careful with Kit."

"Is there something you need to tell him?" Gavin asks.

She sighs. "It makes me feel disloyal, even now. Kit has always been so strong."

"Please, Trina," I gently urge. "She's come a long way. She's beginning to trust me, really trust me, but if you have any insight on how to help..."

Trina lowers her voice. "Kit is fiercely loyal, but she's also very protective of herself. We didn't have parents in the Warrens. We learned to suppress our emotions, but Kit more than most. It takes a lot to get her to feel, and she's just as prone to withdraw as she is to trust."

"I promise, Trina, I'm completely devoted to your friend."

"I have no doubt that you are." She smiles. "But it's not your doubt that I worry about. The only thing I've ever seen Kit retreat from is her own feelings. If something goes wrong, she'll shut herself off."

"Thank you," I reply. "Would you like to see her? It may help to see someone from her past, to know that things will only get better."

"I'd love to see her, Roman. Perhaps you're right. I could make things easier. I'd like to do that, if I can. She was so important to me in the Warrens. When I was snagged, imagining how she must have seen my capture as personal failure was perhaps the worst of it."

"Then I look forward to seeing the two of you reunited."

# Sixteen

**Kit**

* * *

Daddy has a surprise for me. He won't tell me what it is, but he tells me tomorrow he has something special planned for me.

I'm not used to surprises, but that is something he's working hard to remedy. Sometimes it's something small, like a box of my new favorite food—chocolate. Or an experience, like an excursion to an aviary where scientists are bringing back species of songbirds, or a dancing lesson on the balcony under the stars.

"This is silly," I'd said. The most beautiful music had been playing when he decided to teach me. It had seemed to come from everywhere.

"It's not silly, but the best way for you to learn is to stand on my feet." He'd looked down to where my white slippers were toe-to-toe with his brown shoes. One of his large hands was on my waist, the other curled gently around the fingers of my right hand. My other hand was on his arm.

"It is silly," I insisted once more, but had stepped up on his shoes, giggling as he began to dance, ordering me in a mock-stern tone to watch his feet and remember the moves.

Dances. Sweet surprises. As I lay in my soft bed under my blanket, I feel conflicted. Roman Daley has me experiencing feelings I never thought myself capable of feeling, feelings as comfortable as the cozy bed that nestles me through restful nights. I awake now not fearful of what my day will bring, but curious.

And yet, I cannot let go of the guilt I still feel in the quiet moments. My old life is slipping away, and while it is easy to tell myself I must submit to adapt, deep inside my rebel voice whispers that by giving in, I am abandoning the vision of resistance.

The only one I've shared this with is Matron Lang. She has not spoken of her life beyond what she told me, but I feel like she understands. She listens quietly to my misgivings, and then tells me I shouldn't be so hard on myself, that until now I had nothing to compare to my life in the Warrens, and that there is nothing wrong with choosing to be happy.

She reminds me that I did not run from the Warrens but was captured. She reminds me of what Daddy told me—that what I learn may help the sisters I left behind. The Warrens will not stand. I can help provide those who leave a better life by what I learn.

I hold this though close to my heart as I stare at the ceiling of my room. I cannot sleep tonight, and perhaps Daddy senses this. I'm touched when he knocks on my door.

"Is it too late for some cookies and warm milk?"

I sit up, smiling. "It's never too late for cookies."

"Only if you drink your milk along with it. It'll help you sleep." He smiles down at me, and my tummy flutters. He's wearing pajama pants, slippers, and a robe that is slightly open, exposing his smooth, muscular chest. The weight of the mattress dips as he sits on the edge and puts the milk and cookies on the table.

"I'm too excited to sleep. I keep thinking about the surprise. Maybe if you tell me, I'll go to sleep faster."

"Maybe if you continue to be impatient, I'll send you to bed with a sore bottom."

The mock sternness of his tone causes a shudder to course through me. I feel my nipples harden under the soft fabric of my gown and try to pull the blanket up to hide them, but he catches my wrist.

"Don't." This order is more serious, and I realize he's staring at me. "Do you have any idea how desirable you are, Kit? Or how much time I spend thinking of joining with you when we are man and wife?"

"Why do we have to wait?" I edge closer to him. "Will you spank me for being impatient for your touch?"

"You little minx." He puts his finger to my lip, slightly drawing the lower one down. "Some things are relegated to tradition. It's the custom to wait until marriage."

"Buy why? In the New Bethel book it says that marriage is supposed to be forever. If you're so sure of it, then why wait? Besides..." I stop, thinking. "What if...what if one of us didn't like fucking?"

His smile fades, replaced by shock. "Kit, that's not a word you should be using."

"Did I use it wrong?"

"No. But it's just not something you can repeat around others, especially once we return to New Bethel."

I find myself scowling. "Seems silly to tell people what words they can and can't say. In the Warrens, we said what we liked."

"The Warrens are different. You know that. As far as one of us not liking fucking, as you so delicately put it, I hardly think that's a worry."

"But how do you know?"

I'm teasing him. I know it. He knows it. Roman reaches out and pulls me to him, cradling me in his lap as he pulls down the top of my gown. He dips his head down, and I feel the hot suction of his mouth on my breast, drawing it between teeth that worry the hardened nipple. My fingers wind into his hair as I arch towards the delicious pressure of his mouth. I bite my lip to stifle the cry of pleasure, fearing if I vent my feelings now it will be in a scream.

Roman suckles my breasts leisurely, but with an absolute authority as he ignores the half-hearted protestations we both know I don't mean. If my words indicate an attempt to demure, my body is contradicting them with every shudder.

"Please...please..." I don't even know what I'm asking for as he edges my gown lower, laying me down on the bed now. His lips blaze a trail of kisses down my torso, over ribs more padded now than when I arrived, down the new, slight swell of my lower belly, down to —oh!

The sensation of his hot, wet tongue delving into the seam of my pussy is so unexpected that I try to pull away. I can't, though, because Roman has locked my hips in a firm grasp as he feasts on the needy flesh of my pussy, lapping away the arousal as fast as I can produce it.

"Oh, oh, oh....Daddy...please...." I have gone from wriggling in protest to spreading my legs and arching towards the intense sensation that has me teetering on the edge of a climax, and then falling over that edge when he slides two fingers into my pussy. He moans against my labia as my slick passage quivers and clenches. One of his big hands slides under my ass, squeezing a buttock hard, the pain mingling with the pleasure that brings on a second orgasm as powerful as the first.

I look down, amazed at how I've embraced this vulnerability. Roman's head is between my legs as he greedily lathes me with his tongue. One hand is possessively squeezing my ass. My legs are spread, my heels hooked into his shoulders, my fingers wound in his hair, my pelvis arched in submission to his demanding mouth.

I cry out again, and when he finally pulls his body up and over mine, I am staring up into a face slick with my own juices. When he kisses me for the first time, I taste my own pleasure on his tongue.

"Fucking," He puts his mouth to my ear, "will be like that, only more. Do you think you'll like it?"

"More than anything," I say. "Even more than cookies. I reach up, holding his face. You said you wanted to make me happy. Is it true?"

He nods.

"Then don't make me wait. Please. Before coming here, I felt like my heart was an empty room. You've opened it and filled it with something I never knew existed. But it's not enough. My body..."

I pause, unable to put my thoughts into words, unable to describe the ache between my legs, the need to be filled there, too.

"I need this." My eyes meet his. "Don't tell me no."

Roman stands from the bed. He doesn't say anything as he pushes off his robe and kicks off his slippers, and I feel suddenly shy and uncertain as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pushes them down over his slim hips.

His body is firm, his chest broad, his strong arms corded with muscles. A v-shaped ridge points down to a nest of dark curls at the apex of his thighs. His cock juts from the hair. It's long and ridged with veins, the slit on the flared head already extruding a pearlescent drop of fluid.

I know what happens between men and women. I've read about it. I know my body. Like other women of the Warrens, I grew up with natural urges which I satisfied myself. But it wasn't until coming here that I burned for someone else to touch me, to take me.

Roman's cups my chin in his hand. "Are you sure, little one?"

I'm sure. I've never been more certain of anything in my life, although my heart flutters with apprehension when he puts his lips to mine and lowers me to the mattress and guides his hand to the fleshy spear that will soon impale me.

He is so big. I wonder if it will hurt, but the thought that it might excites me even more. Pain is a feeling, and I'm learning to love it. I'm learning to love anything that makes me laugh, cry, or scream.

"Get on your hands and knees."

I thrill at the command in his voice, at how he guides me into place. His touch elicits a gasp, and I look back questioningly as he lowers my panties.

"Such a naughty little thing. These panties are soaked."

I flush scarlet as he parts the halves of my bottom cheeks, then reflexively move my hand back when I feel his finger press against the tight asterisk of my bottom hole.

"Oh, no. You mustn't stop me." He smacks my bottom hard enough to cause a delicious sting that makes my drenched pussy quiver. "Soon enough, I'll take you here."

I gasp at this. "But first, I'll take you here."

He positions himself behind me. I feel the head of his cock rubbing nudging against my pussy. My heart is thudding. I want him, but I'm also afraid, but it's a good kind of fear. I know what I'm afraid of won't hurt me. Even when Roman thrusts his cock into me with one steady, determined stroke, when he stretches me that first time, the intense burn I expected gives way immediately to a hungry ache that can only be sated when he begins to move.

It's just what I need, and my little girl whimper becomes a woman's moan as my pussy begins to clench around the cock filling it. Roman leans over, whispering in my ear, telling me how good and tight and hot I feel, how he's waited for this day, how much it means to him.

He asks me if I like it.

"Oh, yes. So much..."

He moves faster. My fists clench in the covers as my upper body lowers to the coverlet. He's so deep within me, holding my hips as he moves in and out, his thrusts becoming harder until I go from feeling taken to feeling claimed. I love this, too. I want to be his—his woman, his little girl, his everything. The thought stirs something in me: submission. I sink into it as he sinks into me. When I come, I feel reborn as someone new, rocked gently in the loving arms of the man I know will protect me.

# Seventeen

**Roman**

* * *

Today will mark another milestone for Kit. As I dress for our breakfast with Gavin and Trina, I am confident that it will be a happy reunion. After last night, I know my little one trusts me. And while the sight of her friend is sure to stir memories of the Warrens I will be there by her side to remind her of her new life.

Eventually, I will tell her the rest of my plan. I want the Paternas example to become the basis for the new normal that will change New Bethel from the inside out, to inspire unions where both the man and the woman can have the same happiness. Women coming through Paternas will have a chance at happy lives.

I think of my sister again. For days I've tried to reach her, but to no avail. I decide to try again, although at this early hour she probably isn't up.

I punch in her home code. The communicator chimes pleasantly. When the answer comes, it's not who I expect.

"Thane residence." A new maid is staring at me through the screen. A young one.

"Hello," I say. "Is Felicia home?"

"Felicia?" The maid seems slightly nervous. "Oh, you mean Mrs. Thane. I'm afraid she out."

"Wait!" I cut the maid off as I catch a flash of movement in the background. I see enough to know it's my sister.

"Do you know who you're talking to? This is Mrs. Thane's brother, Roman Daley. _Senator_ Roman Daley. Put my sister on. Now!"

The maid is more rattled now, as if she doesn't know what to do. It's obvious that she's been given the order not to let Felicia talk to me. Then I hear my sibling's weary voice.

"It's alright, Emma. I'll speak to him."

The screen pivots and Felicia comes into view as she sits down. Her blonde hair, usually pulled into a tidy bun, is down, half of it obscuring her face. She tilts her head downward rather than focusing directly on the screen.

"Felicia, I've been worried sick about you. Do you know how many times I've tried to call?"

"I'm sorry. I've been busy." She peeks up, forcing a smile I can only see half of because of how her hair is falling over her face. Her speech is slightly slurred, as if she's taken something. I feel a sudden anxiety that only a twin can feel for his sibling.

"Felicia, look at me," I order.

She keeps her head tilted down but raises her eyes reluctantly. They are red-rimmed, and beside one I catch the faint purple tint under her makeup.

"Push your hair back."

"Roman..."

"Felicia. Push your hair back! Now!"

Her hand is shaking, and she does as I ask, and I am sick with rage. Her heavy makeup does little to hide the bruise. No wonder Marcus didn't want to see me.

"He beat you." My voice is shaking in anger.

My sister drops her hair. "Don't be ridiculous, Roman. I fell."

"Where?"

"I don't know. I don't remember!" She puts her face in her hands. "Roman, don't..."

"Don't what? Don't care? God, Felicia! What happened? I know he's trying to force you to get fertility boosters."

She begins to sob. "God, Roman. Just don't. This isn't your problem. It's mine. Just stay out of it. He's already so jealous of you. You know how he is. If he finds out we talked...As it is, the maid he just hired will tell him.

I stand up. "Felicia, you are not going to live in fear. I'm not going to let that happen. I'm going to hop a shuttle. I'll be in tonight to sort this out."

"No, Roman. You don't have to."

"Of course I do! You're my sister!"

"But what about the...woman...the one there?"

"It'll just be a day or two. She'll be fine." I put my hand to the screen. "Hang on, Felicia." I pause. "Put that maid back on."

"Roman, don't..."

"Put her back on."

My sister walks out of view. I wait for the maid to come back. I intend to tell her not to let my brother-in-law know I called. I intend to use whatever threat I must to keep that abusive bastard from justifying any further excuse for hurting my sister.

As I wait, I feel an increased revulsion for a system that puts women like my sister in a state of silent suffering and fear.

Where is the maid? I wait. When the screen goes black, I know I won't be speaking to her. And I know I have to leave immediately.

I pick up my CommuniPort and call the Head Matron. As distasteful as she is, she is the director and must be notified when someone leaves. I tell her I have to attend to a family emergency and leave instructions for my ward to be left exclusively in the care of Matron Lang until I return.

# Eighteen

**Kit**

* * *

I awake to find Daddy is gone, but I'm not upset because I know I'll see him soon enough. This is the first morning I'm up before Matron Lang brings me breakfast, and I smile to myself to think how surprised she'll be to find me dressed.

I select the new dress that appeared in my closet yesterday. I know it was probably intended as a surprise, but I can't wait to wear it. It's the same shade of blue as the Morpho butterflies. There's a matching butterfly barrette, and although I usually wear my hair down, today I pull the top back and affix the ornament with a smile.

I wonder how women dress on New Bethel. The outfits here are decidedly old-fashioned, like pictures from my book. But I have decided this will be my style, even after we leave.

My stomach growls. I'm hungry, and hope Matron Lang will arrive soon with breakfast. She told me yesterday that there would be fresh strawberries today. We'd grown strawberries in the Warrens, but they'd been small and flavorless. The ones here are grown in a greenhouse and half the size of my hand. My stomach growls again, and as if on cue, the door opens. Only it's not Matron Lang who comes in.

It's Matron Blunt.

"Where's Matron Lang?" I ask.

She doesn't answer as she shuts the door. When she turns back to me, she looks me up and down.

"Well, aren't we a fancy little miss?"

I don't reply. Something in her expression me leaves me cold, and I resist the urge to shudder when she walks over.

"I suppose you think you're quite clever, wheedling pretty dresses out of a rich man like Senator Daley."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, please." Her face contorts in a sneer. "Filthy little rebel. How long did it take you to discover the power you could exercise simply by spreading your legs like a common whore? Or are you going to tell me you haven't offered up yourself like a bitch in heat? You've made a good show of being a submissive, too, playing him so he'd feel protective. And here you are, from filthy orphan to a pampered woman child. And just like a child, you let yourself believe the impossible."

"What is that supposed to men?" I ask

She moves to stand in front of me, her heavy boots thudding on the floor. "Over thirty years of service to New Bethel, first at a girl's academy and now here. I've always been lauded for my ability to keep order through discipline, and I've never been called on my techniques until you. Until a worthless little rebel _bitch_ went whining to a senator." Matron Blunt's face is growing red. Her firsts are balled at her sides. "Your daddy threatened my job, simply because I showed you the drift fields." She smirks. "Did you think something like that would go unanswered?"

_Daddy_! I cry the word in my head, but my daddy isn't here. I have only myself to rely on. "If he cautioned you once over how I was treated, how do you think he'll react when I tell him you've threatened me again?" My tone sounds far braver than I feel. "He won't be gone long."

Matron Blunt laugh's now. It's a mean laugh. "Oh, my dear. That's where you are wrong. You think your precious daddy is going to return, like some hero to save you from the evil villain? That's how it happens in fairy tales, but real life is so much harsher. In fairy tales, the hero never returns to the kingdom after he's gotten what he wanted in the first place."

"You're lying." I say the words with a conviction I don't feel. We spent the night together. This morning he is gone. But why would he leave without telling me?

"Believe what you want. It makes no difference to me. Senator Daley wanted the experience of personally breaking a rebel. A smart man knows that it takes more than just breaking her physically. To fully achieve the objective, he had to break you mentally. Mission accomplished. And now he's gone home.

"Daddy," I say, and taste blood in my mouth as she slaps me.

"Don't call him that," she hisses. "You don't have a daddy. You never did."

She turns and walks to the door, looking back before opening it. "Rebels. You foul this place with your presence. Your kind can never change. You don't deserve a daddy. I suppose you enjoyed yourself while it lasted." As she leaves, she locks the door behind her as, helpless, I sink to the floor in despair.

# Nineteen

**Roman**

* * *

I've taken the fastest shuttle, but it doesn't feel fast enough. The closer I get to Earth, the more I regret not confronting Marcus for his arrogance before now. I never liked him, but he seemed to have charmed Felicia. I know he charmed our father. Marcus Thane said all the right things when they met. Before he married my sister, Marcus was a frequent guest in our home, where he would spend more time with my father than with the woman he was supposed to marry.

Looking back on it, so much of what he did was political. Whenever I sought to nudge my father towards progress, Marcus was waiting in the wings to assure my father that New Bethel was perfect the way it was.

Marcus is and was a jealous, covetous man. He cloaks his jealousy as ambition, when in reality he cannot abide competition for anything he wants, be it power, the affection of the family he married into, or the attention of his wife.

_Docking. Docking. Docking._ The disembodied voice of the autopilot begins to drone as the vessel drifts towards the private government bay.

Does Marcus know I'm coming? Is that why Felicia didn't answer when I tried to call back after we were disconnected? I decide it doesn't matter. While husbands are the authority in New Bethel, battery of a spouse is still a crime. It's statistically rare, but after seeing Felicia, I wonder if I'm not wrong about that. Perhaps women just hide it, because they already feel so hopeless and afraid.

"1412 Sunset Way." I give my sister's address to the autopilot and settle into my seat, typing a message as soon as I'm settled.

Meet me at Marcus' house. Urgent.

What's wrong? I thought you were off-planet.

I'll fill you in when you get here. Meet me here.

I click off the CommuniPort, turning my attention to the view as the shuttle moves through the gate. All senators live in the same gated neighborhood, and as the shuttle speeds along, I stare out at the houses. They are all carefully designed based on the ideal upper-class neighborhoods of the past. The green lawns are courtesy of artificial turf. We've not yet transplanted grass from Paternas here, and I note the difference. For the first time, can see how fake the lawns look here. Perfect homes, fake on the outside and —if my own sister is any indication—fake on the inside, too.

We pull up to the Georgian-style house my sister shares with her husband. She'd preferred a smaller house a street over, one with window boxes and access to walking trails. But Marcus had overruled her. He'd wanted the largest house in the neighborhood. He could not abide anyone having a house finer than his.

I knock on the door with all the urgency I feel before pressing the door buzzer one, two, three times. When the door opens, I am face to face with my brother-in-law, who appears relaxed as he stands there with a drink in his hand.

"Roman. What a surprise." His casual tone makes it quite clear that my arrival was expected. He moves aside, sweeping his hand towards the foyer with a confident gesture. I walk past him.

"Where's my sister?"

"In the sitting room." He grins and walks past. I follow as we pass through a long hallway filled with expensive artwork. I know my way. The sitting room is the third door down, and when I enter there she is.

Felicia is sitting on the sofa, reading a magazine. She seems stiff, posed. When she looks up at me, she smiles.

"Roman." She puts the magazine down and rises from her seat, walking over with her hands outstretched. She kisses me gently on the cheek and steps back, obviously fearful that this contact with me will displease Marcus. But he just nods and smiles.

"Felicia." I take her chin in my hand, turning her face left and right as I examine her.

"Looking for something, Roman?" He turns to my sister. "Felicia, you seem tired. I know how the fertility boosters wear you out. Remember, you have the last treatment tomorrow. Why don't you go lie down?"

"Of course." She glances at me briefly, her eyes brimming with fear and tears. "It's nice to see you, brother."

As she leaves the room, I turn back to Marcus.

"You hit her. Don't lie to me."

"Why wouldn't I? I'm the master of my house. She defied me. It's my right to correct her."

"Within reason," I say through gritted teeth. "You battered her. It's not the first time, is it?"

"It's the first time she got sloppy with her makeup until she could get to the doctor for a Quick Heal." He goes over to the cabinet and refills his drink. "You came all the way here for this? What did you think, Roman, that you'd make trouble for me? Rest assured, she won't be sloppy again. And you have no proof." He refills his glass and walks back over. His expression is smug. He thinks he's gotten away with it.

It feels good to hit him. It feels good to feel my fist impact his face. Marcus goes down hard, his drink glass shattering as it flies from his hand. I grab him before he can recover. He raises his hand to his face, where a bruise similar to the one he gave my sister is already forming.

"You think you can beat my sister and get away with it?"

"Is it any different than what you do on Paternas?"

I shake him like a rag doll until he's cowering. "It's a lot different. Correction on Paternas is never delivered in anger. It's delivered in love. If Kit ever looked at me the way Felicia looks at you, with the same expression of hopelessness and fear, I couldn't call myself a man."

"Ah, yes. Your _Kit_." Marcus starts to laugh. "Your little rebel bitch. Don't think I don't know what you're doing up there. Matron Blunt has been reporting to me. You're supposed to be teaching discipline up there, not undermining the Patriarchy by coddling a bunch of rebels and misfits. I'm going to expose you, Roman. I know what's happening there. I suspect that's why you hired away Linda Lang to serve as matron. Uppity bitch. Do you know she actually had the nerve to turn me down?"

This time, the blow that lands on Marcus' face breaks his nose. I raise my hand once more only to feel it caught in mid-air.

"Roman, stop! What's going on here?"

I drop Marcus to the floor and turn to face my father, who is looking around in confusion. My brother-in-law scrambles to his feet, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to stanch the flow of blood.

"I'll tell you what he's doing here," he says. "Roman's a subversive."

"That's nonsense." My father glares at my brother-in-law.

"Gareth..." Marcus grows earnest. "Paternas is violating the Patriarchal Doctrine."

"Paternas is adhering to it," I retort, then turn to my father. "We're supposed to be the protectors of our women. Did you know that Marcus has been beating Felicia?"

"Beating her?" My father's tone is incredulous. "These are serious charges you level against one another."

"I can back mine up." I pull my CommuniPort from my pocket. "After I talked to my sister, I downloaded the conversation." I had the CommuniPort to my father, grabbing Marcus by the collar as he lunges for it. My father turns away, his eyes on the screen. He shakes his head as he watches our exchange.

"This can't be," he says when it's over.

"But it is." A soft voice comes from behind us. My sister enters the room. Tears are streaming down her face. "He hit me. It wasn't the first time. That day it was for not wanting fertility boosters. When the maid he hired to spy on me told him, he hit me again before calling a doctor he's been paying off to mend my injuries."

My father walks over. "How could I have not known?" He stares down his son-in-law, his expression thunderous. "I'll see you ruined for this, Marcus!"

"Me? Are you not listening? I was doing what a husband is supposed to do—keeping order!"

"Order?" Felicia, emboldened by our support, walks over to her husband. She's shaking with anger. "There's no order in this house, Marcus. Only fear! It's a living hell. And now you would force me to bear children into it if you could." She shakes her head. "You fool. If you were half the man my brother is, I'd happily follow you anywhere. But I hate you, Marcus. I hate you with all my heart." She addresses our father now. "I want out of this marriage. I don't care what the law says."

"The law will be changed, I promise," I tell my sister. "No woman in New Bethel will be forced to live with a man who hurts her."

"He's changing things already. Can't you see it? He's going to ruin what we've built!" Marcus tries one final appeal to my father, but he's looking at his only daughter.

"This isn't what we built." As he speaks the words, two guards come in. "Arrest Senator Thane under orders of the Patriarchal Elders." As her husband is pulled away, Felicia turns to our father.

"Thank you," she says.

"Forgive me, Felicia." My father is close to tears. "If I had known sooner, I'd have helped you. I have failed you. What use is a daddy if he doesn't protect his little girl?

_What use is a daddy if he doesn't protect his little girl?_

"Roman, where are you going?" Felicia calls to me as I start to leave.

I turn back. "I have to get back to Kit," I say. "If Matron Blunt is answering to Marcus, and I'm not there to protect her, she's in danger."

"Go to her, Roman." Felicia smiles through her tears. "Save her."

# Twenty

**Kit**

* * *

I've been moved from my room. I'm in another one now. The walls are plain white. The only furnishings are a chair and a bed with a metal frame. The mattress is hard, and I have only a thin blanket to cover myself from the cold blast of air that blows down from above.

"A room fit for a rebel," Matron Blunt had said. An hour after gleefully delivering her devastating news, she'd come to move me here.

_What's going to happen to me?_ The question was on the tip of my tongue, but I wasn't about to ask it. To do so would mean I was putting my destiny in this evil woman's hands. I told myself I wouldn't do that.

I'm not done fighting.

But I am done feeling.

_I suppose you enjoyed yourself while it lasted_ , the matron had said. And I had. No one had made me feel like Roman did. And no one will again. The pain of losing him reminds me of why I taught myself not to cry. The pain of truth is just too great, too crippling. Perhaps Matron Blunt is right. Paternas is no place for a woman like me.

Matron Blunt forcefully stripped me of my pretty dress. She jerked the barrette from my hair before throwing a simple white shift at me and telling me to either don it or go naked.

Breakfast wasn't strawberries, but dry toast and weak tea. The fighter in me forced it down and afterwards I lay on the bed staring at the wall. When I hear someone outside the door, I sit up warily.

A matron comes in, one I've never seen. She's middle-aged, her hooked nose and long face making her seem like an ill-tempered bird. She pockets her pass card and pulls out the same kind of bands the snaggers used to restrain me after capture.

"I'm to take you to the toilet and then to stand guard outside your door. If you try anything, you'll be sorry." She walks to the middle of the room. "Get up, come over here, and put out your hands."

I sit up. "Where's Matron Lang."

"Fired. She'll be out of here by the end of the day." The new matron flashes an ugly smile. "Now stand up, or I'll be forced to use the new toy Matron Blunt gave me." She pulls a stick from her pocket and puts her finger on the button by the base. "A shock from this and I won't have to take you to the toilet because you'll piss yourself."

"Please don't hurt me, Matron." I make my voice as small as possible, as small as I feel. It's not hard. My anger dwarfs me now. It's bursting from me. I'm five paces away when I grab the chair and swing.

This matron is not as quick as Senator Daley. The blow knocks her legs out from under her. The stick flies from her hands and I grab it, putting it to her back as I push the button. She jerks from the shock and I jump back as a puddle of piss soaks her gray uniform.

"You were right," I say, and lean down over the moaning, immobilized woman to grab her pass cards.

I leave the room, looking left and right, to find the hall clear. Then I shut the door, locking her in. I have no idea where I'm going to go. I just know I'm leaving, and I'm determined not to be taken back to Paternas alive.

# Twenty-One

**Roman**

* * *

I've set a trap for Matron Blunt. My hope is that it will preserve Kit's safety while ensuring I catch Marcus' accomplice in the act of defying my authority.

I took Marcus' CommuniPort from the hall table before leaving his house. As soon as I set course for Paternas, I log on using the government ID and read the messages that he and the Head Matron had passed back and forth up to this point.

I'm furious to confirm they've been conspiring against me. Matron Blunt accused me of being progressive in my management style, citing my reaction to her taking Kit through the drift field as an example. Marcus had assured her that when I am out of the way, he'll give her free rein to run Paternas as she desires.

My case against both of them is strong, but so is my worry for Kit. Posing as Marcus, I message her from his device.

Matron Blunt, it's been handled. I'm on my way to Paternas.

Excellent, Senator Thane. I have the rebel secure in a proper cell. Any instructions?

Keep her there.

I click off, staving off queasiness as the shuttle clears Earth's air space and accelerates towards Paternas.

If Kit is in a cell, that means she's safe. I regret not telling her where I was going and hope she will forgive me. I can't wait to hold her in my arms again.

I have a new sense of hope that bringing change to New Bethel will not be as hard as I thought, nor as dangerous. I know it will not happen overnight; there are still plenty of leaders who hold the same hard line as Marcus. But my father wields substantial influence. Learning that his daughter was abused by Marcus, a man who championed legalistic order has him realizing how a lack of respect for women is poisoning a utopian vision.

The couples from Paternas will be the examples, the leading edge of change. I will forge that change with Kit at my side.

The return trip seems to drag by, and I sigh with relief when the shuttle rises above the planetoid's green surface to fly over the carefully planned center of Paternas. I sit back in my seat as the ship hovers over the bay doors that open to the subterranean level.

I stare out the windows as I the shuttle docks. The tinted glass affords no view of the inside, so while Matron Blunt can't see me, I can see her. She's walking out onto the platform, her broad chest puffed out like a general. Other matrons, their eyes downcast, follow behind her. She is a miserable woman, and on her face I see hunger for official permission to vent her cruelty on others.

I wait until she is standing in front of the bay door, her hands behind her back, her booted feet planted slightly apart, to lower the ramp. I rise from my chair, and as the ramp descends, I realize this is the first time I've ever enjoyed seeing her unpleasant face.

The look of shock, confusion, and then dread is satisfying.

"Senator Daley." Her tongue seems to stumble over my name. She looks past me hopefully, as if Marcus may emerge to salvage the situation.

"You were expecting someone else, Matron? Senator Thane, perhaps?" "I'm afraid he's been detained on a variety of charges. Abuse of a spouse. Battery." I pause. "Sedition."

"Sedition?" The word comes out as a squeak.

"But don't worry. You'll be seeing him soon enough." When she stares at me dumbly, I pull out my CommuniPort and push a button that summons two large security agents. She begins to shake her head as they approach.

"No!" As the guards reach for her, she begins to flay her arms, shaking them off. I nod for them to overpower her, and they do. "No! What are you doing? You can't..don't...let me go!"

"Now, now, Matron Blunt. We must submit to authority. Isn't this what you have been preaching?" I turn away. "Put her on the ship. They're awaiting her at the New Bethel Detention Center."

All the other matrons are staring. I note first uncertainty, then relief in their faces as they watch the former Head Matron being taken away, screaming all the while.

I call out above her cries. "Where is Matron Lang?"

The other matrons look at one another. "She's in the office waiting transport. She's been terminated."

"Wrong," I say. "She's being promoted. Someone fetch her."

Two matrons scurry off to obey. I pace eagerly back and forth, eater to install Linda in her new position so I can learn where Kit has been placed.

When Linda comes in, it's clear she's been crying, but relief has replaced upset now that she sees me. I can tell she wants to hug me, but instead she stops a few feet from where I stand.

"Matron Lang. I need a new Head Matron. There's a lot of work to be done. I have a lot of plans. The post is yours if you want it."

"I...of course," she stammers, then smiles. "Of course."

"Excellent." I smile. "Now where's my little one?"

"Matron Blunt intercepted me before I could see her. I was told Kit has been put in one of the holding rooms on Level 2."

I'm already on my way before she finishes the sentence, racing towards the room.

"Kit! Kit!" When I'm outside the door, I slip in my pass card and open the door. My heart is in my throat. On the floor is a dazed matron, curled into a fetal position. The chair is slung across the room.

There is no sign of my little girl.

# Twenty-Two

**Kit**

* * *

I'm careful, taking stock of where I'm going. Around every corner, I expect to see a matron or a guard. I keep my hearing tuned to sounds, listening for footfalls.

The floor seems to be used exclusively for holding new arrivals. It's quiet now and apparently unmonitored, which is a blessing. Eventually, the hallways lead to what I'm searching for. The elevator.

I don't know where I'll go once I'm out. The only thing that's certain is that they'll be coming for me. And then? I don't know. I think of the drift fields, of the woman there who looked like me. With Matron Blunt in charge, how long will it take her to make good on her threat? It's one thing to get her in trouble, but to defy her by escaping?

I sink down onto the floor, trying not to stave off the dizziness as the elevator drops then zooms towards the outside, towards freedom. When it stops, I rise to shaky legs, hoping the steady enough for me to run.

As the door opens the light flooding in from the outside brings back the memory of the first time I saw this view, and for an instant I feel as if I turned, I'd see him standing there, the man who pretended to love me.

How could I have been so stupid? I'd asked myself more than once what a man like him would want with a woman from the Warrens. In her cruel way, Matron Blunt had answered my question, but she is no crueler than the man who made sport of breaking me in the most hurtful way imaginable.

I step into the grass, not caring that I have no shoes. My heart is hammering in my chest. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what lies beyond Paternas. I don't care. All I know is that I want to get as far from here as I can.

Keeping my gaze fixed on a distant hill, I begin to run, frustrated as I realize that my new life has softened and slowed me a bit. But then I hear a noise that fills me with renewed vigor. There's no mistaking the sound of a shuttle.

They're coming for me. I run faster, gasping as I take air into my lungs.

I glance back, seeing the glint of silver.

No! No! No!

I dive down into the grass. In my side vision I can see that the vessel is passing me. Is it possible I wasn't spotted? I stand back up looking right and left. The hill is still so far away. And the shuttle is turning back. I've been discovered.

I have no choice to hold my ground. Bending into a crouch, I hold the shock stick out in front of me. The shuttle has stopped, the door opening. When I see who steps out, I hear my own gasp.

"No," I say. "Stay away from me. I'm not going back!"

# Twenty-Three

**Roman**

* * *

I didn't have to guess where she would go. Of course she'd go outside. It's where Kit is the happiest. I was filled with relief to see her sprinting through the grass, her hair flowing behind her. But the look on her face is unexpected.

"Kit, it's me." I step from the shuttle, but when I approach her, she moves into a crouch, backing away. She's holding something, and I'm sickened to see it's a shock stick. I don't have to guess that she took it from the matron she overpowered. I feel sick with anger.

"You left me." Kit's words bring me back to the present.

"Kit, I had to go home..."

"So she was right?"

"Who?"

"Matron Blunt. She said you left me."

It dawns on me now what's happened. "No, Kit. No. I take a step towards her, but she backs away, holding the stick out. "Kit, I only went home to help my sister. She was in trouble."

She stares at me. "You have a sister?"

"Yes. A twin. Felicia. I'm should have told you, but it was an emergency. I had no time."

"Don't apologize," she says. "You did what you were supposed to do. You went to help your sister. Let me go back. I want to help mine, too."

"Kit...I've already told you the best way to help is by being here, with me."

"No." She shakes her head. "I don't belong here. Matron Blunt is right. I'm a rebel. I'll always be a rebel. Take me home."

"You _are_ home. Drop your weapon, Kit." I nod towards her hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Matron Blunt is a liar and a sadist and you'll never see her again."

I hold out my hand and take another step towards her. "Kit, come to me."

She backs away. "I'm afraid."

I can see both fear and strain on her face. She wants to cry but is already walling herself off.

"I am, too," I say.

"You?" She shakes her head. "What are you afraid of?"

"You don't think daddies can be afraid? Oh, how wrong you are. I'm terrified, Kit. I'm terrified of returning to a world where no one understands love, where women like my sister are trained to obey men who never earn it. I'm terrified of losing you, of losing what we have." She is staring at me. The raised hand at her side begins to lower ever so slowly, but still I don't move. "Come back to me, little one. Daddy needs you."

A breeze lifts her hair, pushing it over her face. I hold my breath as Kit stands there. I can see her struggling to break down the wall she's already starting to rebuild.

Kit doesn't come to me, but she does lower her arm. The shock stick falls to the ground. She sits down beside it and I walk over. I lower myself to sitting in the grass beside her.

Neither of us says anything. We just sit staring off into the distance. After a moment I feel the weight of her head resting on my shoulder.

"A sister...I didn't know you have a sister. I don't know anything about you. Since we've been together, we've focused on me. On my needs, on my fears."

"That's because you're my little one."

She looks over and puts her hand to my face, turning it so I'm facing her. "I like being your little one. I really do. But I want to take care of you, too."

I lean my forehead against her. "How about we take care of one another? Would you like that, my little one?"

"Very much," she says.

I smile. "There's still the matter of a certain surprise."

"Yes. You did mention one." She quirks a brow. "What is it?"

"Come with me, and I'll show you."

I hope I'm doing the right thing. I'd intended to reunite her with Trina before I went to save Felicia. Am I making a mistake to remind Kit of her old life on the heels of what has just happened?

I message Gavin to ask if he can meet us in the parlor of my private wing. Ever the good friend, he readily agrees to comply.

"We're home," I say as we arrive back at Paternas.

"Home," Kit repeats. As we enter the elevator, I hold her hand a little tighter. She takes note of this.

"Are you all right, Daddy?"

I look down at her. "Yes. I'm just nervous."

"Nervous? Why?"

I squeeze her hand as the elevator zips forward then up. When it stops, we exit at the entrance to the private wing. I'm still holding her hand. My heart is in my throat as we walk through the doors. Will the memory of her old life be too much? Will it turn her affections away from her daddy, from the life I want to offer her?

At the parlor door, we stop.

"I love you, Kit." She stares up at me.

"Daddy, is something wrong?"

"No. I just want you to know. I want you to know that you're the best thing that ever happened to me." I pull her to me in a hug. "I love you."

I don't expect her to answer. I don't give her time. Instead, I open the door. She glances up at me and then walks into the parlor.

Gavin and Trina are on the sofa. Kit doesn't recognize her friend at first, but when she does, her face registers her shock. She looks back at me and then at her former fellow rebel.

"Hello, Kit." Trina's voice is soft. She steps forward. "I've been wanting to see you. I..." She looks at Gavin. "I've been wanting to tell you how scared I was when I first came here. And how angry. I wanted to help because I knew you had to be as confused as I was. But my daddy...he wanted me to wait to see you. He wanted you to have the same chance to adjust as I did, to sort it out for yourself." She pauses. "As much as I wanted to see you, I knew he was right, because you were always so incredibly strong. I knew if anyone could see the truth of Paternas, it was you."

Kit looks at me. Her face is unreadable. I'm holding my breath. She walks over to Trina and touches her face. She begins to cry, then laugh through her tears. "You've cut your hair."

Trina laughs and puts her hand on Kit's. "Yes. And you've learned to cry."

Kit nods. "It's a happy cry. It's nice."

"Yes," Trina nods, reaching up ti wipe away her friend's tear. Gavin and I are holding back our own as we glance at one another. Our little girls are together again.

Trina looks up at Gavin. "May I tell her, Daddy?"

"If it's okay with her daddy. But I think she already knows."

Trina looks back at my little one. "We'll always be rebels, Kit. Nothing has changed. Our daddies have talked. He says our love will make the world a better place. You can still lead. More women from the Warrens will come." She takes Kit's hands. "Will you help them as Daddy says you will?"

Kit looks back at me and smiles. "Yes," she says. "I will. How could I not want to share what I've found?"

Kit turns to me. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you for letting me see my sister again. I know why you were afraid, but there is no need. I am yours. I love you."

I pull her to me as Gavin and Trina smile. Together we are beginning a journey, and even if things are already changing, I know Paternas faces challenges. There is still much to be done. I want to save the other women, to give them daddies. I want to see the faithful Head Matron Lang reunited with Jenny, her forbidden love.

I have a better vision for New Bethel. It starts here.

# Twenty-Four

**Kit**

* * *

Six months later

* * *

"Hold still, young lady."

When I first met him, Daddy said if he called me young lady, it meant I was in trouble. I hardly ever get in trouble, though. It's hard to be a rebel when the authority in your life makes you want to please him with every fiber of your being.

I have learned quickly what pleases him. He's learned quickly what pleases me. It pleases him for me to present myself to him as I'm doing now. It pleases him to make me squirm and beg. It pleases me, too.

"Oooooo...." I push my face into the pillow as he sinks his lubed finger into my ass. I squirm and brace myself for the stinging slap he applies to my bottom, whimpering anew when a second finger joins the first.

"I think you're ready." He moves his fingers in and out once, twice, three times. There's a box beside me on the bed. Inside are heavy glass trainers, specially made plugs designed to gradually stretch my bottom hole in preparation to take his cock. Roman has been gradually increasing the size. Tonight I'll take the third one.

Daddy says there are many ways to prepare me, highly technical ways. But he is a fan of old-fashioned techniques and had these specially made. When he removes his fingers, I glance back to see him lubricating the tip of the third trainer. The tip is cool against my bottom, and my pussy throbs as he pushes it against the resisting ring of muscles. I bite the pillow, reveling in the sting as the trainer, which widens at the base, stretches me before becoming fully seated. The flanged in keeps it snug in place.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" His voice is low and husky as his hand roams my plugged ass. "You're such a good girl."

"Maybe I'm too good," I look back at him and bite my lip.

"Does my little one need a reminder to continue to be good?"

I nod. "Maybe not too much of a reminder."

He reaches on the bedside table for a small flexible cane. "Would six do?"

"I think so." I twist my hands into the bedcovers, feeling the mattress shift. I remember the first time he spanked me, how angry and afraid I was. Who knew I would one day crave his show of dominance. When the cane falls I scream into the pillow.

"Count," he commands.

"One."

The cane falls again.

"Two."

I recall his words to me that day. _...and just so that you understand, there are other ways of spanking you. Lots of ways, in fact. I can bend you over my lap as I just did, holding you so that you can't move. I can restrain you over a chair or sofa or table. I can use other things besides my hand. A sturdy ruler. A strap. A cane._ I feel like I may come from that memory and the sensations I'm feeling now.

The cane falls again.

"Three," I whimper. "Oh, Daddy. It hurts. Please stop!"

But he doesn't stop. We both know I want him to keep going.

"Four." I reach back, feeling the lines he's raising on my ass.

He lands the last two in rapid succession.

"Five. Six!" I cry out the last two, and then look back at him, desperate for more.

"Fuck me. Please."

"Not yet." He lifts me up and leads me across the room. "I'll fuck you soon. I'll fuck you long and hard. But first, I want to see you stand here in the corner with your plugged, spanked ass on display. Understand?"

Oh, yes. I do understand. I'm the little girl in daddy's perfect story.

"Answer me, young lady."

"Yes, Daddy," I say. He goes to sit down. I can feel his eyes on me. Soon I'll feel more. The night is just beginning.

# More Daddy Books by Ava

**Who's Your Daddy Series**

* * *

The Daddy Treatment

Camp Daddy

Daddy's Brand

In Daddy's Custody

Operation Daddy

Daddy's Lesson

Rough Riding Daddies

Trained by Daddy (available FREE only to newsletter subscribers)

* * *

**Other Daddy Books**

* * *

Big Beautiful Little

* * *

**Dark Daddy Doms Series**

* * *

Big Daddy

Rugged Daddy

Stern Daddy

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