Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
His morning scent is masculine, with a hint of the seed he spilled inside me. I still wear some of it on the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I can feel all of his many marks on me, some obvious, others subtle.
A tray is settled on the bed.
I do not emerge from the covers until the servant is gone. When I do, new scents await me. Coffee. Toast. Cured meats. Eggs.
There is a full and generous spread. And I am starving.
“Good morning,” he murmurs as I slide up.
I meet his flinty gaze with more than a little shyness. There is something about mornings that makes everything seem new again. I only met this man yesterday, and though he has taken my virginity, which in some ways makes him the person who knows me best in this world, he still feels like a stranger in so many ways. We know one another carnally, but other than that, we know very little.
“Hello,” I say.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” I say.
He hands me a piece of toast, dripping with butter and slathered with a generous amount of jam. I cannot believe it. I have never been permitted to eat in bed except when very ill, and if I had been, I am sure that I would have been encouraged strongly to eat over the tray.
This is the first hint of my new husband being anything other than a complete stickler for rules and formality, and I find it intriguing.
“Aren’t you worried about crumbs in the bed?”
“It will be stripped after we get up,” he says. “The sheets are sticky anyway.”
I blush as I realize why that is. We have made a mess of the bed already, and of ourselves.
I bite into the toast, feeling rather decadent as I do. Many other bites of many other delicious things follow, along with coffee that is bitter and yet rich. I find myself wriggling my toes with happiness as my belly is filled.
Arthur reads on his tablet as we eat, catching up on the news, I suppose. I chance a few glances over at the words on the screen. The emblem of The State appears on quite a number of what look to be communications. I probably shouldn’t be seeing these things. They look important. That only makes me more curious, of course.
He clears his throat.
I look up at him under my lashes. I have been tucked up against him, not quite under his arm, but very close. I am not hiding what I am doing.
“Are you enjoying the reading material?” He asks the question dryly.
“Not really,” I say. “I don’t know what half of it means.”
His brows rise. “You don’t know what it means that the West is falling?”
I shake my head in a silent no.
“Do you know what Soma is?”
Again, I shake my head.
“You are aware that there are those in this world who rebel against and reject the authority of the Artifice?”
“Yes!” I say. “I knew that one. Terrible, isn’t it!”
It’s good to know what to say in a certain situation. I don’t know if I really do think it is terrible, but I know I should be saying that.
“Well,” he says. “It is all related. In some ways, it is three different ways of describing the same phenomenon. Soma is part of the cause of the rebellion, which in turn threatens the stability of society in general. The drug spreads the rebellion’s message. Much of the enforcement of law and the art of war these days is around controlling the spread of that dangerous substance.”
“What is it? Soma, I mean?”
He hesitates for a brief moment before answering me, almost as if he is wondering what sort of answer to give. “It is a powder that once ingested, infects the mind. You have spent a lifetime learning how to be in the world, the rules of proper society, so on and so forth. You understand your place, and sometimes, I presume,” he says, his voice dipping into a hint of censure, “you know how to behave yourself.”
“Mhmmm…”
“Soma destroys all of that,” he says. “It gives the user the sense that there are no rules whatsoever. The rebels we suppress are mad on the notion that they should choose which laws they follow, and which they do not. They are erratic, unpredictable, disorderly, and dangerous.”
I like listening to him talk like this, with passion and stern gusto. I can just see him laying down the law to these feral rebels who dare reject the Artifice.
“Soma is also very valuable as a traded commodity, in large part because of how potent its effects are,” he continues. “What you were just peeking at are reports that the West Coast production of Soma has…”
I accidentally interrupt him with an ill-timed yawn. “I’m sorry,” I say, catching his glowering glare. “I didn’t mean to… I’m just tired. This is very interesting of course. Please tell me more about Sonma.”