Craved by an Alien

by Amanda Milo

  The child asks, “What’s a skank?”

  Over Gracie’s groan, I hold up my tablet and call, “I’m eager to learn the same.”

  “Look, it’s not—no, it’s not a bad word…” she attempts to tell a stone-faced Rakhii. “It’s basically a squeaky-clean term for a woman of questionable virtue…”

  Cricket looks up at Hotahn. “What’s virtue?”

  Hotahn’s eyes almost disappear under his slashed-down brow plates. To Gracie, he delivers a gruff, “You started this.”

  Gracie’s voice is reedy, “It’s um, moral standards?”

  The doctor, Jennifer, steps towards me, and I appreciate that she keeps a wise and respectful amount of distance between us.

  “Hotahn will have to walk with his hands cupping Kaylee’s ears if she’s going to follow Gracie around.”

  I tilt my head, considering the small youngling. “Perhaps we can fit her with sound-dulling gear.”

  Jennifer laughs. “I was kidding. Gracie will learn to curb her language.”

  My wings twitch in incredulity and I cross my arms. “We’ll save ourselves time if we just fit the child with the gear.”

  CHAPTER 11

  DOHREIN

  “I can’t believe they’re almost gone,” Gracie says morosely.

  The moment we lifted off of Earth’s surface, we closed ourselves in our guest cabin on Brax’s ship.

  We’re consuming post-orgasms sustenance, and we’re rapidly reaching the bottom of the silvery crinkle sack that contains the treats she insisted we try together.

  They’re both savory and sweet, with salty white puffs glued to a species of nut by a type of solidified golden sugar, and the effect they have on her is extreme. She employs her hidden cheek pouches for the first half of the sack, and only slows when she declares she might forcefully expel them. “If I eat one more, I’ll puke!”

  I add her direct quote as the example in the slang dictionary for the word puke.

  Confoundingly, when I mistake this statement as a concession and attempt to become the sack-wielder of this food, Gracie bares her teeth at me.

  We’re down to a precious few when her damp, powder-covered fingers—from the treats, not my wings—reach in for her turn at the morsels, but lose their grip on the way out. We watch a piece tumble to the floor. “Dammit!” she shouts before turning to me. Matter-of-factly, she pats my thigh. “Sorry, love. I dropped one of yours.”

  I chuff at her, amused at her antics.

  She forces the last three into my hand.

  She proceeds to turn the sack inside out and licks the clinging powder from the sides.

  Our eyes catch. “Nutrients,” she elucidates. “Ribofavin… Yellow Number Twelve… stuff that ends in glycerin and rare compounds. You can’t get this goodness on just any planet,” she expounds patiently.

  “And you shared with me,” I say, and tenderly cup her cheek in my hand. “That was very generous of you.”

  My genuine sincerity—even as, perhaps especially as, she so obviously teases me—flusters her.

  “Eh,” still caught fast, she tries to force her fingers through her mane, attempting to recover her poise. “That was a cunning move to ensure your survival. I’d be so bored without you that I’d be picking fights, and how long do you think I’d last against a bunch of grumpy-arsed gladiators?”

  My eyes are narrowed thoughtfully and I test the word again, thinking we are so very alike as I watch for her reaction. “It was generous. You are… nice.”

  She removes my hand from her face, grumbling, “Nice guys finish last.”

  My smirk is instantaneous. “We have this saying too.”

  This pulls her attention from her discomfort in relation to praise. “What? ‘Good hobs finish last?’”

  “Yes.” My grin holds pure prurient intent. “Because he makes sure she comes first.”

  She throws back her head and her laugh, her full, belly-sore-inducing laugh, is as inelegant as it is loud; but it’s so honest, and so full of mirth, it charms answering laughter straight from me as I catch her in my wings, and pull her close enough that I can clean the food-powder from her fingers and lips.

  ***

  GRACIE

  I look like I lost a fight with a backroom full of Vegas showgirls.

  Glittery dust paints every last inch of my skin—even my toes, because when I was on my back and Dohrein held me by the ankles, I teased his wings with my feet.

  At this very moment he’s meticulously re-inking my smeared-mark areas, and his voice sounds like it holds stupefied amazement when he utters a self-deprecating, “I’ve developed such an appreciation for the Rakhii that manage to restrain their impulses.”

  Having me walk around visually unmarked was rough for him and he’s making up for it.

  It’s a hob thing.

  He’s nearly fucked me into an orgasm-stupor, but I manage to work my muscles enough to reach for and squeeze his bicep. “You did great.”

  “I feel no guilt over marking you in the clothing changing station of the store,” he confesses. “It was the most satisfying wingclasp I’ve ever performed.”

  “Performed, huh?” I grin at him. “No need to feel guilty—” I stretch like a satisfied cat—and once I have that thought, I pat myself on the back for not making a dirty comment. If only Cricket was old enough to appreciate my restraint. Since she’s not, appreciation duties for my herculean restraint should fall to Akita but I know he won’t care.

  That’s fine. I’m perfectly capable of singing my praises all by myself. “I’m proud to own every wing clasp you’ve ever dished out.”

  “As you know, that’s not entirely accurate.” Dohrein looks kind of adorably ashamed.

  He’s already unburdened his conscience about this: when he met Angie, he grabbed her and lost his wing virginity to her.

  Oh, he’s not entirely ashamed he did it: he still gets a tiny, tiny kick out of Arokh getting possessive of Angie as if Dohrein’s and his hotwings are either a temptation or a threat or whatever goes on in the grey matter between Rakhii horns.

  What bothers Dohrein is this sense of… I don’t know: he wants all his experiences to have been ours alone, and that’s a touching thought. But he needs to stop letting this be a burr under his saddle.

  I tug Rein into leaning down enough that I can pat him on the head. “And here I thought you were the pragmatic one. If it makes you feel any better, I fucked half the underworld.”

  His head is level with mine, which means his eyes are level with mine too. They search me now. “Underwater Dome,” he corrects slowly.

  I shrug. “Same difference.”

  The look in his eyes turns calculating. Not cold, not mean, not threatening. Nope, this is his ‘what you’ve said is interesting and I need to mull it over and/or write it down—preferably both’ face.

  He makes this face a lot.

  I find it cute, so he’s lucky.

  “You smell good,” I blurt.

  His lip curls. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” I agree. “Like driving with the top down on a summer day.”

  His head cocks, and I’m sure he’s trying to line up my experience with whatever his alien experience is.

  It wasn’t so much that I loved to drive—I loved the wind in my hair, a quiet road, and miles to unwind. I used to feel much like that on a boat before a dive.

  For obvious reasons, the enjoyment has pretty much been harpooned out of those memories now.

  That’s fine. I’ve got Dohrein. Dohrein is summer skies and peaceful serenity for me. Clean, fresh air.

  Not fetid, murky, dark water. Not the stench of brine and fish.

  Not the taste…

  I don’t even realize my breathing’s all fucked up until Dohrein starts purring—and this is his sleep-inducing one.

  My fists relax against his chest, my eyes ease closed, and my bones feel like they’re candle wax. The sleep-purring gives me that feeling of sinking into a hot bath, only it hit
s me two thousand times stronger.

  Like really good tequila. One purr, two purr, three purr, floor—I’m a very relaxed lights out. It doesn’t land me blackout drunk: the purring is a soothing, comforting cloud.

  That’s the only part that’s comparable to a cloud. The hot planes of his body are rock hard, so strong, and when he brings his wings around us, I believe it when he tells me: “You made it out. I’ll watch over you. You’re safe, Gracie.”

  I drift into another night of peaceful sleep, his presence and the vibrations from his chest a near iron-clad cure against nightmares.

  ***

  The next morning, we enter the kitchen to clapping.

  I look at Rein. “Fucking finally.”

  His mouth curves. “It’s past time someone recognizes our brilliance together.”

  “Damn straight,” I glance down at where I’m holding the hook of his wing talon in my hand. “We are awesome. They see this.”

  Angie snorts—and I don’t know how she even heard us, because she’s the one clapping. She hasn’t stopped clapping.

  I still her hands—then I let them go and take a step back, because Rakhii.

  Arokh is staring me down. Compared to most of his kind, he’s pretty laid back, but he’s still got the touch her and you die switch—controlled with the spray Dohrein’s made, but not gone.

  Technically, I should have known better. He’s the mildest guy (for a former gladiator), yet he still doesn’t like anyone even putting their arse on his and Angie’s bed. Something about considering their special space their ‘nest.’

  Rakhii. Geez.

  I don’t engage: I just watch Angie twist to grab up her drink. I dare to ask, “Why were you clapping?”

  The black gold nearly spills over the rim when she uses both of her hands—thereby her precious drink—to gesture at Laura. “Crispin and Laura are heroes, that’s why.”

  I bite my lip for a second. “How much coffee have you had?”

  She nods. She keeps nodding. “I can hear colors.”

  “Yep, okay. You're cut off.” I take the mug from her quaking hands.

  Arokh carefully catches her fingers and bends to peer at her face. “What is the matter? Why are you acting strangely?” Gone is his glare; his voice is all concern.

  I don’t waste the coffee; I tip it end up and swallow it down myself. Dohrein’s narrowed eyes watch me drag the back of my wrist over my mouth, and I shoot him a smile as close to innocent as I get before I answer for her. “What’s wrong is she’s mainlined enough caffeine to power a small city.” I push the empty mug into Arokh’s hands. “Give her a couple of hours and she’ll be back to mostly not-normal.”

  She tries to show me her cute middle finger, but she’s shaking so bad she ends up with a trembling trio. “Thanks.”

  Dohrein gives my arse a boost with his wing so that I can reach another mug from the cupboard, and I wiggle it at Angie. “No, no—thank you. With that half a thimbleful you didn’t spill on the floor during your manic dance, I now have the fortitude to make my own cup.” I glance over at Crispin, whose head is cocked like a dog as he watches a woman under the effects of over caffeination—and even more entertaining, an overprotective Rakhii struggling to understand why his mate enjoys this sinful-seeming drink. I whistle to get Crispin and Laura’s attention. “Heroes: since I’m going to the trouble—and only because I’m already going to the trouble—would you like some brew?” I glance around the kitchen to indicate Grake the hob, Amy the human, her sister Tara, and Tara’s mates Tac’Mot and Brax. “Don’t all shout at once, but I could be generous and make you guys some if you’d like.” Lem’s here too, but he drinks his food with his fingers and he’s looking at us like we’re willfully swilling poison so I only wave to him instead of offering to share the black magic.

  Laura sounds hesitant when she admits, “I don’t... drink coffee.”

  It’s my turn to nearly spill the midnight gold—the instant granules for now, because aliens don’t have plugins for human coffeemakers. “I’m sorry, what? Here, drink some coffee: you’re not making any sense.”

  Everyone’s staring at Laura. Even the aliens—probably because they think this means she’s essential mineral coffee bean deficient, but still. She feels a little pressure from all the eyes on her.

  “What? I’m sorry! I hate coffee, okay? You guys are as bad as my parents.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “What did your parents say when you came out?”

  She rolls her eyes—but I see her lips twitching. “When I finally told them that I’d tried it, but I hadn’t liked it, they were almost on the phone with the hospital, trying to find out if I’d been switched at birth and really belonged to some odd little coffeeless couple.”

  I make a sympathetic face. “That must have been hard.”

  She starts to open her mouth but I cut her off. “I mean, their own child! They must have been devastated.”

  She laughs. “Shut up!”

  Angie sidles up to me. “About parents. Did you visit yours?”

  She’s asking because Laura went to hers. I rub at my breastbone, instantly battling acid burn and it feels like someone’s wrapped a fist around my heart and is trying to wring it dry. “Nope. You?”

  “Nope. Mine weren’t worth seeing.”

  Mine are. My family is amazing. But what the hell would I tell them? By now, they’ll have been forced to believe I’m dead. If I showed up saying, ‘Mom, Dad! I’m so happy to see you! I’ve been abducted by aliens and we’re only here for a pit stop—you see, I fell in love with one of them—a good one, not one of the evil ones. You both take care of yourselves and don’t worry about me in outer space, okay?’

  They would’ve dragged me to the nearest mental hospital.

  And when Dohrein would break me out, they’d grieve for me all over again, because I would choose—I did choose—to leave rather than stay.

  They’d ask me, “Gracie, what about us? What about your life? What about your career?”

  Absolutely nothing good could’ve come of it. It wouldn’t be giving my family closure by saying goodbye: they’d be scared out of their minds for me.

  Still, part of my heart plummets, crushed that I had the chance to say goodbye one last time… and I didn’t take it.

  I’ll never see them again.

  Before, I had no choice. This time, I had to make the call. And it sucked.

  My eyes feel hot.

  I snarl.

  Angie straightens just as Arokh lunges between us.

  I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t making the noise at her. Chill.”

  “If you wish me to believe that, maybe attempt not to smell of aggression, and stop growling at my mate.”

  Before I can volley a pointless argument—and trying to calm down a Rakhii when his mate’s safety looks like it’s in danger would be pointless, I can guarantee it—Dohrein steps in and fucks up already ruffled feathers. “Strive for calm. I realize you have a significantly strong response to fear, but my mate has already reached her arse-kicking quota for this rotation. She has told me so.”

  Arokh’s eyes narrow. “Was this before or after she attacked one of the new humans?”

  I gasp. “That was yesterday!”

  I take in his unimpressed look and I concede with a nod. “Okay. That didn’t help my cause. Geez, we’re bad at this.”

  Angie’s leg jitters as bad as her hands as she looks at Amy and Tara. “Who’s ‘we?’”

  “All right, all right, it’s just me. Everybody chill though, because I’m fine.” And… I am. My old life is gone. There’s no getting it back—not in a way that ends with me being happy.

  If I could have Dohrein with me on Earth, that’d help, but I can never go back to my life before I was taken. That’s never gonna happen.

  I have to let it go.

  I’ve dealt with all this. Months ago, in fact. It’s only hitting me again now because I was this close and the temptation to connect with my loved ones was
strong.

  I did the right thing, letting them go. It’s time to move on.

  But there’s no question about the hob at my side: I’m keeping him. Dohrein’s arse belongs to me.

  I can find a new career.

  And this weird group of friends… they can be my family.

  I bump Dohrein with my hip so that he stops looking so tense.

  I hold out my hand for a shake but I do it about a meter apart from Angie, because that’s as close as I’m trusted to be near her all of a sudden.

  She pretends to take and shake it, and the aliens watch us in fascination as usual and Arokh relaxes and another crisis is averted.

  I make my way to the counter, knock back my coffee, groan in contentment, and measure out more granules. Riding herd on aliens is exhausting.

  CHAPTER 12

  DOHREIN

  I’m seeking something. Something I cannot quite… I’m not sure what it is I’m craving—

  Craving?

  My eyes find Gracie, who is greedily rooting for another of her chocolates.

  She’s rather desperately reaching for it, actually.

  I clap my hand down on it.

  “Hey!” she yelps, her gaze flying to mine. “That’s mine?”

  I give her a hard stare. “May I have it?”

  If I had asked for a bar of protein, she would have said ‘of course.’

  If I had asked for a water gel packet, she would have handed me a box of them.

  If I had asked for her shirt, she would have peeled hers from her body.

  But in this moment, over this morsel of nutrition, she hesitates. Her panicked gaze darts to the chocolate trapped under my hand. “You’re going to melt it,” she warns.

  “Is that what’s making you anxious?” I murmur.

  She eyes me as if she finds my behavior alarming. “Yes! What’s wrong with you? You’re being weird.”

  “You are being ‘weird,’” I retort, closing my fist around her chocolate and snatching it off the table.

  It flattens, and I feel something warm and sticky squirt onto my palm.