his

raged at herself for it. Somehow, she received the deep-seated impression she hated snivelly women. He must have heard her, because scarred fingertips poked through the hole to touch her cheek.
"Haaeee, doaant . . ."
The words weren't Latin, but they made strange sense. She frowned, trying desperately to think why they should, but it was too late. Whatever had briefly slipped out from beneath the darkness in her mind, it was gone now.
"I'm not crying," she lied.
He actually smiled. The motion crinkled the corners of his eyes and tugged on the hideous burn scar. "Good."
"Rufus, I—" She halted, trying to find the right words. "If there's any way I can help . . ."
The smile vanished. Skin along his temples tightened. "That wouldn't be very wise."
"I'm not afraid to escape. First chance I get. I mean that."
His eyes flashed in the dim light. Then he turned his face away, deliberately baring his scarred throat. "Aelia, that's what they do to slaves who run away. If they're lucky. Lots of poor bastards they kill as an example to the others." He paused. "The brand was supposed to be on my face. I lunged aside at the last instant or it would've been."
"I don't care." Her voice came out low and hard. "I'd rather die, than be raped again and again."
His breath caught. Anger flushed his face. He turned away and swore.
"Don't be stupid. What you're saying is plain crazy. Slaves don't escape their Roman masters, Aelia. Not for long. Too many available patrols and citizens on the watch for runaways. Wouldn't ever work. Just get me killed and . . . and God knows what he'd do to you. Just . . . just forget it, please."
"So you're just giving up?"
Eyes flashed like burning emeralds in the dim