by Amanda Milo
It’s crazy, but this is making me feel protected—something I’ve never experienced before. I’ve had guys back home make me feel handicapped, and that’s not a great feeling. Not at all. But this? I like it. Breslin’s growling over me and squeezing me to his side and making me feel female, like his female, and that’s a whole different thing.
“Uh, bye, Sanna,” Fellmoor calls a little nervously.
“Bye,” I answer with a weak and goofy little wave.
Breslin’s body turns towards mine, and the vibrations rumble to a stop. Kota makes a small huffing sound and I hear her tags clack like she’s looking up and judging me. It’s okay when he growls at people?
Sorry, Kota: it’s very, very okay when Breslin growls at people.
When Breslin’s chin brushes the top of my head and rests there, heavy, hard, and hot—my brain melts. My breasts feel heavier and my back arches into his heavy arm still banded around me and the area between my legs is reacting directly to this alpha male stimuli he’s throwing off. I wasn’t expecting him to go territorial over me—but I am so, so into it.
Wagons roll by in the street behind us; unimportant activity and low-toned conversations passing us by. Breslin speaks into my hair. “Are you a town creature?”
My immediate, silent answer is a solid I’ll be anything you want me to be. I manage to pull myself together enough to try for something less sex attacksical. “I live in the city. Why?”
“You seem comfortable here. I wasn’t sure if you preferred the bustle or if it would disturb you. It disturbs me,” he shares.
“Oh. I wouldn’t say I have a preference now, but this I’m used to. The noise, the people, the hurry to get from point a to point b.”
He doesn’t speak, and when the pause stretches out, I add, “It’s an idiom where I’m from. Like on a map, a ‘from here to there’ kind of thing. Hey! We could coin it here: stick a to stick b. Very catchy, wood’nt you say?”
“Sasspot,” escapes half muttered, half feigned-exclamation, right before he gives me an affectionate squeeze.
I lose his touch from the top of my head when he starts walking. But he doesn’t drag or pull on me; he just takes my hand and we walk in the same direction, hand in hand. He can’t know how standout the whole experience feels for me. “Do you prefer city?”
I shrug, and Breslin’s grip momentarily stiffens. “When I finally convinced my family I was capable of surviving on my own, living in the city was easiest. I can’t drive a vehicle so the grocery store and the bank and my job all had to be within walking distance.”
“You can drive a vehicle now,” he points out. “Excellently, in fact.”
My smile is bittersweet. And not because of the fact that Earth will never let me drive a wagon around my city—any city.
It’s the realization that if my (spaceship) ride home shows up right now, I’ll be crushed. I’m not ready to go home.
I’m not sure how to feel about this.
I lean hard into the solidness that is Breslin. I try to inject my earlier laissez-faire attitude into my voice and I manage about a quarter of it. “Well, I wouldn’t be allowed to take a cart and predator alien horse around Earth’s cities but it’s the thought that counts.”
A heavy weight drops on me again—not emotionally, but literally. Breslin’s resting his cheek on top of my head. The backs of my thighs tighten and my toes curl in response.
The happy chemicals flood me when his mouth moves against my hair. “I don’t like seeing your smile dim.” His lips press down on my head.
I twitch hard. Breslin kissed me and I just had a mini orgasm or a seizure.
Oblivious to my condition, he straightens. “Let’s get you fed before you starve, and then you can tell me what you did for work.” He takes my hand and I let him lead me to the restaurant.
Does reciting sports stats help women calm down the hormone surges or is that just for men? I need to find out, and then I might have to learn about sports. “I have a looong way to go before I starve.”
Breslin misses a step. “Do your kind’s bodies store up fats and nutrients?”
I wave my hands, indicating all of myself. “Can't you see it on me?”
“Can YOU?” Breslin’s tone is disbelieving. “Woman, I hate to tell you this, but I believe you’re blind.”
“Aww, you flatterer, you.”
“You are not fat,” he insists with a severity that’s totally lost on me because it’s warming my heart.
I go for a full-on hug. “Thank you. I’ve decided I’m not going to argue with you about this.”
His body relaxes over mine, enveloping me. His voice is rough. “You couldn’t even if you wanted to. I don’t fight with females. I’ve learned it’s a waste of my time.”
I pull back a little. “Really? You’re lucky Meesahrah can’t talk. Pretty sure she’d tell a very different story.”
A hand spans my ribs. “Behave.”
I wonder if he really thinks that’ll work. “Of course. I’m just pointing out the facts, Master.”
Lips brush my ear, and I go still.
His voice is filled with a dangerous dash of warning—and I like it a whole lot. “Do you know what happens to mouthy salks?”
His hand pats my butt like he does in the morning to get my attention—just once, but it’s enough to scramble my brain.
Mini Seizure—or orgasm—number two commencing.
“Don’t make me tie you up and muzzle you next to Meesahrah.”
Breathlessly I inform him, “That’s not really a threat where I’m from. Tying down a woman and gagging her has kind of become popular foreplay.”
Breslin disappears from my side. “Are you saying true?”
I snicker, imagining he’s reared back in shock. “I am,” I confirm.
“I’ll be kritted.” The amazement in his tone is clear. “Well don’t tempt me, you insouciant little fire-lung.” His hand lands on my back again, but midway this time, feeling more polite and gentlemanly. “I won’t be gagging you: count yourself lucky that food puts me in a forgiving mood.”
I smirk to myself. I will do no such thing.
CHAPTER 22
BRESLIN
Gallantly, I pull out her chair but I say under my breath, “Be good in public, Meesahrah.”
I’m expecting her to smile at the very least. Pleasure fills me when she tips back her head and laughs from her belly. It’s such a free sound. Such a musical sound.
She takes her seat, and Kota walks under the table and lays at Sanna’s feet.
I’m pushing Sanna’s chair in when the tavern owner himself ambles over, pleased to see me and more pleased to see the woman at my side. “I’ve heard all about you, miss. I’m so glad to serve you here.” His voice turns teasing. “Is the Garthmaw giving you trouble?”
In the falsest, meekest voice I have ever heard, Sanna says, “Let’s just say he’s shown me the whip.”
I blink down at her in shock. “Really? Do you think I’d take lip like this if I was wielding a whip?”
Sanna sends me the biggest, most innocent smile—and it takes first prize for the falsest one I’ve ever seen. Anyone can tell this female is pure trouble.
The tavern owner gives a rusty laugh and slaps his hand down on the table. In reaction to the sound or the action, Kota crawls forward, passively-aggressively laying herself protectively over our feet. She’s freakishly warm. I’ve touched pelts yes, but I’ve never had a furry creature press itself on me before. It’s no wonder she pants all the time, she’s in constant danger of melting otherwise.
A server hustles to us, but his interest is far from harmless curiosity as he approaches, shamelessly ogling Sanna like she’s the first female he’s ever seen.
I know for a fact she isn’t: the tavern owner’s wife stops by on a semi-regular basis.
Setting a glass of water in front of her, he asks, “What’s your name, miss?”
He doesn’t have a drink for me. He doesn’t even glance in m
y direction.
She places both of her hands on the edge of the table, and propels them forward slowly until the fingers of her left hand meet the glass. “Sanna.”
The owner looks from his employee’s far-too-interested expression to Sanna’s polite one and pipes in with a light, “This is the Garthmaw’s bride.”
That’s when the server stops moongazing at Sanna and notices me. He promptly trips back as he lowers his head a fraction.
“You misheard. I’m hosting Sanna for Ekan,” I inform the tavern owner. His polite smile disappears. He takes the server by the neck and hauls him back behind the bar.
Sanna senses their retreat just as if she could physically watch them.
“Why’d they take off like that?” she whispers. “They didn’t even ask what we wanted to eat.”
“They’ll be back.” But the flirting is at an end. “They left because no one steals from a Na’rith but a Na’rith.”
CHAPTER 23
SANNA
After we order, the meal almost magically appears.
“Try this, Sanna,” Breslin rumbles and I feel something thin and flaky press against my bottom lip.
I’ve had people try to feed me, and I really wish they wouldn’t. It embarrasses me a little; do they think I can’t do it on my own? I’m not in the process of adapting to my blindness: I’m adept at being blind. It’s all I’ve ever known, and I do just fine.
But Breslin’s approach does not at all make me feel like he doubts my capability. The timbre of his voice and his nearness are putting me in a distinctly receptive state too, so without question I open for him.
The thing tastes like malted vinegar and has an unexpected, shreddable, stringy texture I vaguely associate with vegetable squash.
“Like it?”
I tip my head. “Yeah. I think so.”
He chuckles. “You’ll love dessert.”
I scoff. “Of course I’ll love dessert. That’s the best part of every meal.”
I can almost see Breslin shaking his head. “So you’ve said before. Females and their love of treats.”
The dessert-is-the-best-part discussion is one we’ve had quite a few times since I came to the farmhouse. He is an alien that, thankfully, has a sweet tooth of his own and he keeps a fully stocked goodies pantry, so I haven’t morphed into a ravening beast.
And trust me, if the man didn’t have sweets to share, I would have.
“Speaking of females,” I start. “A little off topic, but you’ve introduced me to quite a few people in my time here, and most everyone’s been super nice. Your people are incredibly welcoming and just… good. But they’re all men. All of them. Where are the women?”
Breslin finishes crunching down on something, and I hear his glass lift before it plunks down. It sounds empty, and I have just a second to think that before our server is apologizing and easing in to refill our drinks.
I seek out my glass, take a sip, and with my free hand I locate the spot where I need to return it, keeping my hand as a placemarker until I get my drink back in its spot.
We thank him, and Breslin says, “There are still some in the capitol. All but a few females live there. Occasionally they’ll choose to dally in the outland areas but we rarely keep their attention for long… despite our body chemistry’s best efforts,” he adds on a wry tone. “The government used to pay women to come and stay this far out, but when they stopped, so did the supply of wives.” He pauses and I hear him take another bite. “There’s nothing glamorous about farming and we’re too far from attractions to be of interest.”
“But,” I start. “It’s such a rich way to experience life.”
Breslin’s fingers catch mine—his lightly dusted with the flavorful spices of what he was eating. “It’s a simple life. It’s not for everyone.”
“What happens if women don’t come out here?”
Breslin’s slow to release me, almost as if he’s reluctant, but he sets my hand palm down and gives it a tap before I hear him crunching again on his food. Mouth full, he manages, “Then most of our generation will die off alone.”
I’m horrified.
He must see it. “Maybe the government will realize they need us after all and they’ll promote the wonders of pioneering and women will show up in droves. Maybe another planet will take over this one and fill it up with their own people as settlers. Those of us who farm—”
“Or train cool animals,” I cut in.
“Or train… cool… animals,” he adds slowly, and I get the sense he’s working over the translation, probably thinking of the literal reference to temperature, not the impressive definition. “We can’t change women’s perceptions; if they don’t like farming, then they don’t like farming. That’s that. Men have tried to bring wives but they rarely get to keep them; the females of our kind tend to desire a more exciting lifestyle than what we can offer here.”
Robotically, I take another bite of my food, using the more solid globbed thing (alien potatoes? Bland but filling, whatever it is) as a buffer to herd the little pieces I think of as avocado-corn (for their nutty flavor but little squared sizes) onto my spoon.
Patrons mill around us. Kota’s chin rests on top of my feet.
Someone bumps into our table—and rushes to apologize. So polite.
Everyone’s so nice here. These are hardworking, good men. Lonely men.
The thought that most women I know would kill for guys like these plays at the back of my mind. I mean, not every woman would want to live on a farm, Breslin’s not wrong about that, but a tiny, crazy voice in the back of my mind whispers that if the Na’riths stole the right women… maybe their selling-humans plan wouldn’t be all bad.
A tiny wash of guilt tries to rise up—but the server interrupts. “What would you like for dessert, Sanna?”
“Ooooh, dessert!” I clap happily before inclining my head towards Breslin. “Let’s see if Breslin can guess what I’ll like best.”
Dryly, Breslin declares, “The day I try to guess a female’s mind is the day I’ve lost my own.”
I turn back to our server. “It means he doesn’t know.”
“Feisty salk,” Breslin says under his breath. To the server, he says, “Bring one of everything, and two slices of the custard pie.”
I smile in the waiter’s direction. “I like his idea too much to argue—”
“That’s a first,” says Breslin.
“I’d kick you right now,” I tell him, “If I wasn’t afraid I’d catch Kota by accident.” Over Breslin’s chuckle, I inform the waiter, “His desserts go right here,” and I pat the area on my side. “He doesn’t deserve any of his own. And please and thank you for mine!”
CHAPTER 24
BRESLIN
Sanna samples everything, but when she arrives at the custard pie, I watch her devour it and it pleases me in a way I’ve never experienced—giving her satisfaction is intensely gratifying.
I nearly choke in my amusement when she pushes her abandoned desserts at me in some sort of silent trade—because her next action is to stalk the sound of my fork on my custard plate. Little thief!
Trying not to grin, I groan as if the taste hitting my mouth has put me in the throes of ecstasy.
Sanna twitches and sniffles a little.
I goad her. “Creator this is good.”
The whimper I hear could almost be from Kota, but it’s from Sanna’s own lips right before her spoon dives for my pie.
I bring my fork tines down and pin her ravening utensil. “You have atrocious manners!” I chastise, but the sound of scraping followed by the chink of my plate being tipped alerts her to what I’m doing.
She uses her freed spoon to verify that I’ve dropped my slice onto her plate.
She’s not laughing anymore. “You’re sharing with me?”
“Sharing? Salk, I gave you the whole thing.” Just like my kritted heart. I drain my glass, desperately swallowing down the words. I’ve heard rut makes a male chase his female of choi
ce hard, but I won’t have Sanna feeling trapped.
To occupy myself, I snatch one of her abandoned desserts, biting off the same end she tasted from, and find it almost as sweet as I imagine her lips to be.
“You didn't need to give me the whole thing, Breslin.”
Too late. “Take it, Sanna.” I roll my shoulders back, trying to ease the tension I feel. “I’m glad to see you happy. It’ll have to tide me over for a time. We’re about to spend a few days apart.” Her spoon clatters to her plate, pie untouched. “My reactions to other males around you are getting sharper-edged—and it’s only going to get worse. I’m going into rut.”
Now she pushes her prized treat aside entirely. “So many questions,” she says in a grave tone. I’m ashamed of how gratified I am when the first concern she voices is: “You’re sending me away?”
I clap my hand on the table, not meaning to be loud, and not intending to add force to my words, just conviction. Still, a momentarily alarmed Kota huffs at me before she resettles herself over our feet. “I should have set that in motion. I should have Commed Ekan. He would have made the trip. It’s too late now; I’ll bunk in one of the wagons in the barn.”
Sanna grimaces. “It’s going to be that serious? That can’t be very comfortable.”
Only the embrace of her body will be accepted as comfort while I’m in rut but it feels uncivilized to put it so plainly. “I can assure you it will be no joking matter—and comfort is a limited commodity in the state I’ll be in.”
She takes my hand, and I enjoy her touch even as I grow a little too hungry for it. I study her with a ravenous intent, watching sorrow and compassion mingle over her features. She’s imagining me suffering, and although she’s right to fear that I will, I’d rather spare her the unpleasantness. I set her hand over her discarded spoon’s handle. “Don’t worry over me. It happens every few seasons to every male.”
She doesn’t pick it up. “Unless you… mate?”
“Unless I have my lifemate. A male suffers through his seasons of rut until he joins with his lifemate. Don’t let the dessert go to waste, Sanna, I want you to have what makes you happy.”