Alien Romance: Rusneon Mates Boxed Set: A Scifi Alien Abduction Romance (Alien Romance, Alien Invasion Romance, BBW)

by Ashley Hunter

  Cynthia fell to her knees and started sobbing. She wrapped her arms around her torso and stared helplessly at Rushael. He clenched his jaw and drew in a deep breath, then shifted his weight. He tried to pull his gaze away, but the struggle seemed too much.

  “Rushael, please –” Cynthia begged.

  He dropped his gaze and activated the execution device.

  It didn’t hurt. He’d been honest about that, at least.

  Light rose up around Cynthia, golden and gentle. It tingled and tickled, but there was no pain at all.

  And then she started to dissolve.

  She felt it in her hands first of all. She held them up in front of her, and realised she could actually see through her fingers. The transparency spread up her arms and across her body, and the entire time it didn’t hurt at all.

  She looked up at Rushael one last time, and he met her eyes – and winked.

  Something flickered in Cynthia at that: a little ember of hope, barely acknowledged. Was there still a chance?

  And then Cynthia dissolved entirely. Her vision went completely gold, and that was the last she saw of the teleportation chamber.

  And then her vision came back, and with it all Cynthia’s other senses as well. She was warm – she could feel damp heat on her skin.

  She fell forward and let out a sob of air. She was still alive! He hadn’t killed her!

  But where was she?

  The question prompted Cynthia to try stand up. She raised her head, and decided she would stay where she was for awhile.

  She was surrounded by luxury. It looked like a greenhouse; there were plants all around her, and bright golden sunlight fell on her from above. She was inside – there was white stone under her feet, and she could see white stone walls beyond the plants – but great care had been taken to make this place look like it was outside. There was even a small stream chuckling past just a few feet away, its water bright and burbling.

  Cynthia stood up and wandered over to it. She dipped a hand in, giggled, then splashed her feet in it. It was icy cold, a welcome contrast to the heavy heat around her.

  She was alive! Three simple words, repeated over and over in her head. It didn’t matter where she was, not right now. Rushael had done … something … with the teleporter, and he’d saved her life.

  He’d spared her life, she reminded herself. They’d ordered him to kill her, and he had refused.

  That thought sent a warm shiver through Cynthia’s body, and she ran a hand along her other arm as she pondered its implications. A grin spread across her face as she dared to let herself daydream. She’d seen the wink, but she’d also seen the other times he’d looked at her, and the naked hunger in his eyes.

  She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. She had to be honest with herself; despite the confusion that ran jagged and shrieking through her mind every time she thought of Rushael, she had to admit it was more than a little flattering to be wanted by him.

  She let out a long breath, and found her mood fading just a little. She was still a prisoner, she realised. His prisoner.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As far as prisons went, Cynthia decided, this one wasn’t so bad.

  The greenhouse was only one part of the whole complex. She discovered that fact quite by accident; after an hour or so of wandering back and forth she found a smooth expanse of wall behind a huge tree. She glanced around, then wondered just who she was looking for. She hesitated a moment, then waved her arm at it.

  The wall recessed and slid open, and she laughed. She’d done that all on her own!

  More than a little proud of her accomplishment, she stepped over the threshold and went exploring.

  It was his house, she realised – or, rather, his mansion. She found a library, with actual books, and overstuffed reclining couches and the heady smell of old paper and years-dried ink.

  She stayed there for far too long, running her hands over book-titles engraved into leather covers in languages she couldn’t understand and wondering if there was a way of translating them. Eventually she drew herself away with a long lingering sigh and carried on throughout the rest of the mansion.

  There were no windows. It took Cynthia awhile to realise that, but when she did the sensation of being trapped – of being imprisoned – only rose within her. She almost fled back to the library, but she gathered herself together and pressed onward.

  She found a kitchen, with food laid out on a table. She hesitated, and then realised she was hungry, and decided to eat a little.

  She ended up clearing off the plate, and carried on exploring.

  She found an empty hall, which she assumed was for entertaining guests. She thought of Rushael hosting a party, glass of red wine in his hand as he entertained a crowd. What would he do? Tell stories? Wear a funny hat?

  She giggled, then bit her bottom lip as the sound echoed around her. She didn’t even know if Rusneans threw parties.

  She shrugged off a shiver, and carried on exploring.

  And that was when she found the bedroom.

  The bedroom. There was only one that she could find. It was huge – as big as her entire apartment back home – and the bed seemed sized to fit. It could fit at least half a dozen people, Cynthia thought.

  Did Rushael sleep in it alone?

  The thought stung her mind at the exact same time the bedroom door slid open with a hushed hiss. Cynthia jumped and yelped, and the sight of Rushael standing in the doorway did nothing to slow her heart rate down at all.

  He saw her, and something remarkable happened.

  He smiled.

  It was a vanishingly trivial movement – a mere twitch of the facial muscles, nothing more – but he was ordinarily so impassive that it was as if he had thrown back his head and burst into maniacal laughter.

  In reality, he regained control almost instantly. He crossed the threshold and came toward her, and for a moment Cynthia convinced herself he was going to pick her up and throw her on the bed.

  If it came to it, she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop him from doing so.

  He stopped a few steps away from her, and Cynthia felt her shoulders dropped. She’d at least been prepared for him to pick her up, it seemed.

  He was holding out his hands – palm up, and open. Cynthia stared at them for a moment, and then took a hesitant step forward.

  She put her hands in his, and it was like touching her fingers to electric wire. She had to struggle to keep the sensation from showing in her expression.

  Rushael let out a long breath, and that flicker of a smile taunted his face once again.

  “I’m glad you made it,” he said, and there the sound of his voice sent a shiver through Cynthia’s body. She coughed to cover it, and raised her chin.

  “You sound like you weren’t sure I would,” she said. He frowned, and she smiled to take the edge off her words. The frown vanished, and he gave her a short nod.

  He dropped her hands from his and took a half-step away, then turned to face her again. He was uncertain, Cynthia realised – almost nervous, in fact.

  She tried to make her expression open. He wanted to say something, but was obviously having trouble with it.

  He raised a hand again – it looked like he was going to touch Cynthia again – but then he dropped it back to his side.

  “I … I have decided to try find a way to return you home,” he said.

  Something crashed inside Cynthia. She let out a surprised sound, half sigh and half moan. Something flickered inside her, then crackled to life and began to burn.

  Was it hope? She couldn’t be sure. It might be.

  But there was something else, too. Somehow, in the midst of the flickering fire, there was a sliver of ice.

  Cynthia had no idea how to deal with it.

  So she kissed Rushael.

  It took her by surprise as much as him. One moment, his words were still settling on her. The next moment, she had taken the three steps necessary to reach him, stretched up
on her tip-toes, and laced her arms around his neck. He opened his mouth to challenge her, but she was already leaning in.

  Their lips met. A storm erupted from the caress of their mouths and surged down Cynthia’s spine. She let out a murmur, and felt her knees start to give way. Rushael’s hands circled her waist, then slid lower. He cupped her backside and pulled her close. She could feel the immediacy of his body pressing against her as if their clothing wasn’t even there, and that thought alone only made her temperature rise. This was it, she thought.

  He broke away from the kiss. Cynthia chased him for a moment, and then laughed and let him withdraw. She opened her eyes and let herself gaze on him, awash with the heat of the fire of her hunger. But it wasn’t just hunger: she wanted more than just his body. There was more to him than a cold, emotionless façade. Why else would he have spared her? He wanted more, Cynthia knew it. She searched his face for the confirmation of what she felt –

  And found it absent.

  He wanted her. She could tell that, simply by pressing up against him and feeling what pressed back. But, so far as she could tell, it was only lust. There was no kindness or empathy to his expression – nothing there at all, in fact – and all she had to go on was the way his body was reacting to her touch.

  It was lust. That was all.

  She dropped down from her tip-toes. The moment had passed, and Rushael realised it as much as she did. He untangled his hands from her and pulled away.

  The absence of his immediate presence left an ache in Cynthia’s mind, and she spoke his name. She didn’t want him to go, but she didn’t want to give herself to someone that only wanted her for her body.

  Her body. She glanced down, and felt a moment of self-loathing. What would he want with this?

  The fire was thoroughly dampened now, the moment long past.

  But Rushael was still there, watching her.

  She couldn’t read his expression – mainly because he didn’t really have an expression. The mask was back on; his face was impassive and unmoving.

  Cynthia wanted to tear at her hair. Desire still flickered in her – the fire could still ignite far too easily. But it wasn’t enough. She needed more than just a quick fix; she needed someone who wanted her, not just her body.

  But she really wanted him. The memory of his body pressed up against her, the way he held her and pulled her against him, glowed in her mind. The thought alone was enough to start the fire flickering again, and Cynthia had to force herself to stay calm.

  She drew in a deep breath and clenched her fists, then raised her chin and stared Rushael right in the eyes.

  “What do you want from me?” Cynthia said.

  He tilted his head to one side.

  “You’re angry,” he said, and Cynthia let out a snort of air. Anger was not the right word for what she was feeling.

  She unclenched her fists.

  “No,” she admitted. “Not angry. Just … confused.” She laughed, but it wasn’t because she found the situation funny. There was just too much going on in her head, and she needed some way, any way, to push it away. Even if it was only for a little while.

  Rushael studied her for a moment, and then nodded.

  “I … cannot help with that,” he admitted. It was the first time Cynthia had ever seen him hesitate. His eyes widened as he realised what had just happened, and then he clenched his jaw and regained control.

  “You will be safe here,” he said. “I will not allow harm to come to you. I –”

  He stopped.

  His expression changed. He had an expression, and to her surprise Cynthia realised it was a warm one.

  He was looking at her, and he was almost smiling.

  “I will protect you,” he said. “No harm will come to you while you are here.”

  It was a promise, and it sent a warm rush through Cynthia’s body – quite aside from the heat gathering between her thighs and sizzling along her spine.

  He did care for her, she realised. But he was probably never going to say it – and hearing the words, having him actually articulate what he was thinking and feeling, was the important part.

  Cynthia nodded. “Thank you,” she said.

  There was a long silence, protracted enough that it actually started to become awkward. Rushael took in a deep breath.

  “Have you seen the library?” he asked.

  Cynthia nodded. Again. Awkwardly, and very much aware that she was simply bobbing her head at him right now.

  “Yes, I have,” she said. Rushael deflated a little, and Cynthia felt a pang of sympathy. “But I’d love to see it again.”

  Rushael recovered, and nodded at her.

  “Follow me, then,” he said. And he turned and waved the door open without even checking to see if she was obeying him. Clearly he just assumed she would do as she was told.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Cynthia let out a huff of air and followed along after him.

  At least she could check him out without him noticing from this angle, she thought.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There was a translator for the books, it turned out: a pair of slim glasses that automatically rendered the text into English. Rushael explained their use to Cynthia with a cold and detached air, and then paused when he went to offer them to her.

  “Would you like to wear them?” he asked.

  Cynthia took them from him without comment. After a second, though, she did offer him a smile. He nodded at her response, and then left her alone in the library.

  It was like that over the next few days. He would appear suddenly and silently, exchange a few tense, loaded words with her, and then leave. He always seemed on the verge of saying more, but never stepped over that threshold – not even when he showed her to her quarters.

  She had to admit, they were absolutely luxurious, with an entire wall dedicated to all kinds of exotic plants and a walk-in closet overflowing with … well, subtle variations on a single dress. Apparently women never wore trousers here.

  It was … pleasant. Cynthia hated to use that word for what amounted to a gilded cage, but Rushael had promised to send her home, and when he did talk to her it sounded like he was making progress.

  Then came the fifth day.

  Something was different. Cynthia could tell as soon as Rushael appeared. For one thing, he joined her for lunch – he hadn’t had a meal with her since the breakfast onboard his ship. He seemed agitated – or, at least, agitated in comparison to how he normally acted.

  Cynthia found it a little surprising that she knew what was normal for him, even though she’d known him for less than a week.

  He dropped his fork into his plate and let out a long sigh. Cynthia paused with her food halfway to her mouth, and decided to echo his gesture – minus the sigh. He frowned, and Cynthia had the sudden panicked realisation that he thought she was mocking him. She floundered, and he raised a hand.

  “Cynthia,” he said, and the mere act of him speaking her name sent a shiver down her spine. She let out a shaky breath and laid her hands on the table, then swallowed and raised her eyes to meet his.

  He looked away. Then he looked back at her.

  “I must be away,” he said, and Cynthia tilted her head to one side. “There is an uprising on Uriës – on the southern continent – and Zai-archon Verek has determined I am to lead the war party that is to put it down.”

  Something cold and dreadful began to coil in Cynthia’s gut. The aftertaste of her meal – normally a simmering, shimmering delight that sizzled for an hour or more – curled to ash.

  “You’re going to war?” she asked, and her voice felt and sounded so very small. It shrank even more when Rushael nodded, and Cynthia found herself unable to speak at all.

  She wished she had a napkin. Or that she knew where to put the dishes. Or that there was somewhere for her to go or do right now. Anything, anything at all.

  She swallowed. And swallowed again.

  “When … how long …” She still coul
dn’t form words properly. But Rushael guessed her meaning. He picked up his eating utensils and pushed food around on his plate, then spoke with a cough.

  “I cannot know for certain. These Uriësi, they are … pernicious.”

  He stopped, and his jaw clenched. He raised his head and held Cynthia’s eyes, and something in his gaze sent an electric tremor up her spine.

  “I look forward to coming back, though,” he said.

  Cynthia felt the heat rise on her face.

  “Rushael, I –”

  He leapt to his feet and slammed his hands down on the table. Cynthia reacted as if her seat had just had an electric charge run through it: she jumped and let out a little shriek. She clapped her hand to her mouth, horrified at the sound that had escaped.

  But the feeling was nothing compared to what came next.

  “I love you!”

  If Cynthia had been electrified before, she was struck by lightning now – an icy cold lightning that left her apoplectic with shock, unable to move as she stared at the alien creature leaning with both hands on the table across from her.

  He looked just as surprised as she felt. Evidently, he hadn’t meant to let those words fall from his mouth.

  He stood upright, and smoothed his hands down his front. He made a small sound – something like a grunt or a sigh, tinged with self-reprimand. He was utterly fascinated with the front of his clothing.

  “I must apologise,” he said. “I did not mean to sound so … angry.”

  He paused.

  He drew in a breath.

  He raised his chin and looked Cynthia in the eyes.

  “Cynthia Withers, I love you,” he said. “I cannot stop thinking of you; you occupy my mind and push out all other thoughts. You –”

  He stopped, and looked ashamed.

  “I do not want to send you back to Earth,” he said. “I am sorry, but I cannot bear the thought of sending you away.”

  Cynthia started to melt. That’s what it felt like, at least, with the heat on her face being matched by the heat between her thighs. Her hands started to tremble, and her breath came shorter and sharper.