Healing the Alien’s Heart

by Anna Lewis

  “I’m going to make you my wife,” Adam promised me with a serious glint in his eye. “I’m going to whisk you away, take you somewhere special, and make an honest woman out of you.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I replied honestly. “I love you, and I would love to be your wife... just let me get dressed first. Then you can officially make me forever yours.”

  As he smirked at my joke, my soul filled with joy. This was it, forever more. I was going to have a baby with Adam Martin, and while it hadn’t happened in the most traditional way possible, it was still perfect for us.

  Finally, I had everything that I ever wanted, and that settled a comfortable happy sensation in the pit of my stomach. One that I’d spent half my life searching for.

  THE END

  = Bonus Book 5 of 11 =

  The Dragon Twins

  Lara Fox sat waiting for the basket to make its way back around the long, cafeteria-style table, at which she sat at the head. The room was stuffy, the smell of their pizza from lunch still clinging to the air. Lara closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose and trying to make the headache that had been creeping in on her go away.

  It was almost dinnertime, and after being stuck in this room for the past week at the end of a month-long trial, Lara was hoping that she would never get summoned for jury duty again.

  The basket finally reached her, and with a trembling hand, she opened up the first secret ballot and laid it on the table.

  “Guilty,” she said, afraid to get her hopes up.

  This was only about the millionth time they’d voted on the verdict, and she was afraid it was going to go the way it had gone every other time. How they were still at this point after deliberating for so long, she had no idea, but she continued going through the folded papers in the basket, the “guilty” pile getting bigger with each passing moment.

  She was six ballots in when it happened. She opened up the paper carefully, looking at the words in the neat script and sighing heavily.

  “Not guilty,” she said, her voice dropping off, the urge to let her head drop to the table strong.

  There was a collective groan in the room, the single holdout vote apparently groaning with the rest of the jurors so that no one knew who he was. She sighed, looking around at the eleven men in the room and wondering who it was that honestly thought that the mobster on the stand was innocent of murdering a family of three.

  It was baffling to her. They had all listened to all the same testimony, yet somehow, someone in the room didn’t believe that the man was guilty despite the evidence.

  There was a knock on the door, and the bailiff poked his head in.

  “The judge said you have five minutes to make a decision. There is no more time to deliberate. The defendant's lawyer is already huffing about a mistrial.”

  Lara shook her head in disgust.

  “Same answer, different vote.”

  The bailiff looked visibly disappointed.

  “Whatever your verdict is, the judge is ready now. Let’s go.”

  The jurors stood almost as one, filing out the door single file and following the bailiff down the hall and into the room that held the door to the jury box and the courtroom.

  Lara went in last, taking her seat as jury foreman and looking at the judge.

  “Has the jury come to a decision?” the judge asked, looking at Lara.

  Lara stood, looking straight at the judge, knowing that the news wouldn’t be well-received and afraid to look at the audience seated quietly in the gallery.

  She cleared her throat, licking lips that had suddenly gone dry. She thought of her cozy little cottage in the tiny suburb outside of Fort Worth. Lara would have given anything to be there instead of in the jury box, all eyes on her, waiting for a verdict that was going to make an awful lot of people very angry.

  “Did the jury reach a unanimous verdict?” the judge pressed.

  She swallowed, breathing deeply and sighing.

  “We did not, Your Honor.”

  There was a collective gasp and several angry shouts of incredulity. Lara wanted to melt into the uncomfortable chair behind her, but she knew that wasn’t possible. She was stuck, and there would be no leaving until the court was dismissed for the day.

  The judge banged his gavel, looking over at the jury box with a disapproving stare. Lara wanted to shrink even more, even though she knew that his disapproval wasn’t directed at her.

  “I have no choice but to call a mistrial,” the judge said, looking at the mobster over the rim of his glasses. “Another trial will be set, and you will be notified.”

  “What about bail?” the defense attorney asked before the judge could lower his gavel.

  “No bail.”

  The defense attorney said, “This man has been in custody for a year with no bail. You are infringing on his constitutional rights. A retrial could be another year or two down the road.”

  “Then he’ll get credit for time served,” the judge said.

  “You’re assuming he’s guilty,” the defense lawyer shot back. “Innocent until proven guilty, or did we wake up in another country?”

  The judge stopped, looking at the lawyer, his lips twitching as if he had something to say but thought better of it.

  “Bail is set at ten million dollars,” the judge said tersely, slamming his gavel down and sealing the deal before the lawyer could object.

  There was more murmuring, and shout of outrage and anguish from the family of the victims. The bailiff ushered the jury out of the box and out the door. The door closed, muting the sounds behind them as the judge banged the gavel again, struggling to regain control of his courtroom.

  Lara let out a sigh of relief. They were almost done. Now to get on the bus and ride thirty minutes to the secure location where their vehicles were stored to protect their identities, then to make the additional twenty-minute drive to her little house in the hills. She was only an hour away from walking away from this experience and never looking back.

  She couldn’t wait.

  ***

  Lara turned the key in the lock, walking into her little house and putting her purse down. She carried groceries into the kitchen and closed the door behind her with her foot. The latch clicked, but she would have to return to lock the deadbolt.

  “Stop being paranoid,” she said, admonishing herself for still being so nervous about everything.

  It had been almost two weeks since the trial ended, and she still felt anxious every time she heard a car door shut down the street, or saw a car she didn’t recognize going down the road.

  Her anxiety over the case and the outcome had been so bad that she had unplugged her television and kept her radio off in the car just to avoid any chance of hearing news about the trial. The public had responded in much the same way as the courtroom full of spectators. People were angry, and they were looking for someone to blame. There were already rumors swirling around that the jurors had been paid off by the mob, and Lara wanted no part in that. She was ready to go back to her quiet life, sewing handcrafted dolls for her online shop.

  Lara’s dolls were popular, selling out almost as quickly as she could make them. The custom orders had a two-month wait time, and people happily waited. What had started out as a hobby just eighteen short months before had turned into a business. Within six months of opening her little online boutique, she had been able to quit her job at the box plant in Fort Worth.

  Not that building cardboard boxes wasn’t glamorous, she thought with a smile, so glad to be done with that chapter of her life. She had kept her head down and kept busy at the box factory for five long years, never getting a raise, nor a promotion, working herself until she could hardly stand up and then wash, rinse, repeat. She didn’t miss that life, and her dolls sold well enough for her to quit her job and build a sizable savings account. She had even taken a vacation, something she hadn’t done in a while.

  The court case had set her behind, but she had managed to keep fr
om getting too far behind by sewing in her hotel room near the courthouse. It hadn’t been ideal, but the court had no control over what she packed, only her media access. Once she got home, she had shipped out the completed dolls, getting to work on the others that were backlogged and completing them in record time without sacrificing quality. Which was a good thing, since the forty dollars a day that she was being paid for jury duty didn’t cover much, even if the room service meals and hotel were included.

  There was a knock on the door, followed immediately by the doorbell. Lara smiled. Her fabric had arrived, and the delivery man was eager to get her signature and get back on his route.

  She grabbed a bag by the door, opening it and smiling when she saw her regular delivery guy.

  “More fabric,” he said cheerfully.

  “Thank you. I finished Jasmine’s doll.”

  She pulled the little doll out of the bag, handing him the dark-skinned baby doll with natural corkscrews and deep brown eyes. The man smiled, his eyes shiny as he cleared his throat.

  “Lara, this is beautiful,” he said. “It looks just like my baby girl. She’s going to be so happy when I pick her up from kindergarten.”

  He reached for his wallet, but she stopped him with a wave.

  “I won’t take it, so don’t even try.” She was resolute, so he gave up, and instead fished a snapshot of his daughter out of his bag.

  “Keep the picture. That way, when you’re having a bad day, you can look at her and know that you helped put a smile on her face.”

  “Thank you. I hope she likes the doll.”

  “She’s going to love it. Thank you, again.”

  He jogged to the delivery truck, jumping in and leaving with another wave.

  Lara set the box down and locked the deadbolt behind her. She hooked the chain in and set the alarm that she had purchased the day after court had ended. It was only lunchtime, but she had nowhere else to go today. As she had the past two weeks, she would spend the rest of the day sewing, listening to classical music and shutting the outside world out.

  ***

  Lara stepped out of the shower, toweling her curly brown hair dry and running her fingers through the damp curls. She looked at her reflection, glad to see that the haunted look she had been faced with since the trial was beginning to fade. Sitting through a triple murder trial had been emotionally exhausting. The evidence had been gory and heart-wrenching. It was more death than she ever wanted to see. The nightmares were finally gone, too, though she still struggled to fall asleep at night.

  She got dressed, not quite ready to go to bed, even though it was after ten at night. The little doll on her sofa beckoned. After a hot shower to work the kinks out of her neck and the stiffness out of her hands, she was ready to get back at it.

  Slipping her canvas shoes on, she worked her hair into a messy braid and tied it with a band as she walked down the hallway, toward the front of the house.

  She was almost to the living room when she saw a silhouette in the window by the door, and she froze.

  Who was on her doorstep at ten at night?

  An instant later, there was a knock on the door, followed immediately by the doorbell.

  Lara stood there for a moment, just a few feet from the door, wondering who it could be and trying to convince herself that bad guys didn’t knock.

  “Who is it?” she called out with a trembling voice, looking through the peephole at the man on the porch.

  She didn’t recognize him.

  “Ms. Fox, Federal Marshall. I need to speak with you.”

  Lara was rooted to the ground where she stood, the words taking forever to sink in. When they did, she shook her head. There was no way that a Federal Marshall was at her doorstep.

  “I’m not expecting anyone,” she said, yelling loud enough to be heard through the heavy door. “Leave your card and I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

  She had no intention of calling him back.

  “Ms. Fox, we don’t have a lot of time. You’re in danger, and if I have to kick this door down to get to you, I will.”

  Her stomach dropped at his words. Kick her door down? Was he serious?

  She backed away, her mind racing, trying to figure out what to do. She was halfway down the hall when the first kick hit the door. The door bent on the hinges, groaning against the frame, but holding fast. She screamed, covering her mouth and quashing the sound before it traveled. There was another kick, this time accompanied by a splintering sound.

  Running as fast as she could, she fled down the hall toward the back door. She threw the bolt and undid the chain in one swift motion, just as the front door crashed open at the other end of the house.

  She opened the door, and took a step at a run, coming face to face with the man that had been on her front porch just seconds before. Trying to reverse her momentum mid-stride, she slid and landed soundly on her backside.

  The man advanced. Kicking back and pushing with her hands, she crawled backward, then flipped over and got on her feet, taking off and going into her room. She closed the door behind her, crying out in frustration when she looked at the bare doorknob. She didn’t even have a simple thumb lock to twist. She held the knob and braced her feet, but the man was bigger than she was, and obviously faster, circling around the house before she could even get to the back door.

  The handle turned in her hands though she tried with all her might to hold on. He pulled on the door. She was able to hold it closed despite his strength. Her fear sent adrenaline coursing through her veins, the terror giving her superhuman strength.

  But her strength, even in the moment, wasn’t enough to hold the door closed. She felt him yank the door hard, and her hands slipped. She stumbled backward and turned, running toward the bathroom.

  “Stop!” the man shouted. “We’re here to save you.”

  Like hell, she thought, jumping over her bed instead of going around, but even that shortcut wasn’t enough to gain ground. She felt a hand go around her arm, and she was yanked off her feet just a few inches from grasping the doorknob.

  Writhing and twisting, she fought ferociously to get free. Her fingernails connected with skin, and she heard him hiss in pain. The moment of satisfaction was brief as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her off her feet. He dropped her onto the bed and grabbed her wrists, clamping her hands down to her side and holding her still.

  “Listen to me, please. We don’t have time for this.”

  She kicked at him, fighting even harder. He was inches from her face, trying to get her attention, but she wasn’t listening to his words.

  Then he said something that she couldn’t help but hear, loud and clear.

  “Do you want to die, Lara? If you want to die, just say the word and we’ll leave you here for The Cleaver to take care of you. But if you want to live, you have to listen to me.”

  She went still, his words penetrating as no others would. She knew that name, and she knew where she had heard it.

  The defendant in the case was Jimmy the shiv, a less than subtle reference to his affinity for knives as murder weapons. During the court case, a man known as The Cleaver came up, but Jimmy denied knowing him. Lara hadn’t been fooled and neither had anyone else.

  She didn’t want The Cleaver to come for her, and she didn’t want to die.

  “Good,” he said, breathing heavy. “Now listen to me. You have five minutes to pack a bag of clothes, toothbrush and toiletries if you want. No ID, no credit cards. Just some clothes and some toiletries. Got it?”

  She could hear someone rummaging through her closet, and she saw the blue backpack she’d had since college fly across the room and land on the bed. The man at the closet looked at her and smiled, doing his best to make her feel at ease. It was the man from the front door. No matter how he tried to make her feel at ease, she wouldn’t feel comfortable with a man who just went around kicking in doors.

  “I need my purse,” she argued, looking down at her hands and not looking a
t the man that held her quietly on the bed.

  “You have four minutes now,” he countered.

  Angry, she looked up at him, but her anger was gone when she saw his face. He was the man from the front door. She looked over his shoulder at the other man, then back at him.

  “Twins?” she said, seeing no other explanation.

  “Three and a half minutes,” he said. “Get up and pack, or I’ll pack for you.”

  He handed her the bag, letting her go and standing close by. She wanted to argue but thought better of it. One man was imposing enough, but two; she couldn’t fight two. They both wore Marshall’s shields on chains around their necks, and snugly-fit Kevlar vests over their tight white shirts.

  She got up, going to her dresser and grabbing handfuls of clothes, shoving them in the backpack and zipping it shut.

  “I can’t stress to you how important it is that you hurry,” the twin she had scratched said.

  “I’m trying,” she shot back.

  She went into the bathroom, filling the second pocket with toiletries and zipping it tight. She checked to make sure that they weren’t watching her, then opened the vanity drawer. She reached in the back, grabbing a folding knife and a handful of cash she kept in the back of the drawer, and shoved it into the inner pocket, zipping it shut, then shutting the outer pocket.

  “Thirty seconds,” someone called out, his voice impatient.

  “Chill. I’m done,” she said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and tightening the straps. “Let’s go before my neighbor comes out with his shotgun.”

  The second twin chuckled, ignoring the first twin when he shot him a look of disdain.

  “I’m still taking my purse,” she insisted.

  “Not a chance in hell,” the man growled. “You take orders from us, not the other way around.”