"Shirley Meier & S. M. Stirling - Fifth Millenium 03 - The Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Meier Shirley)

frowned. "It was very wise ofтАж"тАФshe made a moue; her one
meeting with the founder of the House of the Sleeping Dragon
had been a strained exercise in mutual incomprehensionтАФ"that
woman, Megan, to consign all this to you rather than to her
cousin. A woman should not concern herself with such matters
whatever these Zak think." Another smile. "Unfortunate that she
should meet with an accident; still, what can be expected when
those of my sex venture into the harsh world beyond the
protecting walls of their quarters?"

Habiku blinked. Could she suspect? No, the hazel eyes were
calmly innocent. Better that things remain so, for her. She could
never understand what he had done to get his hands on the
capital of the Sleeping Dragon, or what he had begun in the
early years to protect her from her stinking habit. He hated the
odor of poppy resin that permeated her clothing. The
Brotherhood ensured that she could only get a limited amount,
the drug being fiercely addictive; a maintenance dosage, but
though not enough to harm. At the beginning it had been their
hold on him. As long as he did what they wanted they limited
her supply. Now he was rising in power there as well, and soon
she would be free of it. As soon as he was strong enough. He left
his mother once more engrossed in her tapestry and climbed the
stairs to his chambers where Lixa waited.

SLAF HIKARME, HABIKU'S ROOMS

She lay under him, unresponsive, face dull and dead. He
slapped her and when he failed to get a response again he took
her anyway, thrusting heavily until, with a small, muffled sound,
he arced and spasmed, still thrusting deep. And she lay there. He
collapsed on top of her, seeing the long black hair twisted in his
relaxing fists; he imagined a startlingly bright strand in it, like
Whitlock's. He'd only had her once, and she'd been unconscious,
drugged, and he needed her, had to have her. He pulled Lixa's
head around and tried to imagine she was Whitlock.

He ignored the tolling of the bell by the door; the servants
would deal with it.

Sweat trickled down his neck and fell on Lixa's cheek as he
raised his head and looked down at her, hate in his eyes.
Threaten, punish, flog, nothing could make her respond
anymore. "You aren't her, " he whispered. His fists tightened,
pulling on the mass of hair, forcing her head back and forth.
"Show something, damn you," he whispered, then louder,
"You're not her, but you're mine!"
 He pulled out of her and sat up, semen dribbling into the hair
on his leg as he shuddered again, slightly. And she lay there.