phdfan

“Where are your scars?” Isabela asked.  Fenris, midway through changing his undershirt, turned to see her standing in the doorway.  She had snuck up on him again.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, pulling the shirt over his head.

“Surely you suffered the lash at one time or another.”  She walked in without invitation and picked up his belt, lying on the table.  “It’s what all good slave masters use.  Captains too, for that matter.”

Fenris felt his lips twist of their own volition.  “There was no need for such crude methods,” he said.

“Why punish the body when you can scourge the mind?” she asked lightly.

“Something like that,” he agreed, watching her tap the coiled belt against her palm.  It was too close to the truth.

“Sounds useful.”  When he raised an eyebrow, she continued; “Recalcitrant crew members.  Sometimes a little encouragement is necessary.”

“Perhaps I am lucky not to have been under your command,” Fenris said dryly.

“Or maybe you’ve missed out,” she said, and laughed before dropping his belt back onto the table with a clank.  “Anyway, Hawke wants you.  She’s waiting at her Estate.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, and reached for the belt.