Won by an Alien (Stolen by an Alien Book 3)

by Amanda Milo

  The rest of it though?

  I slowly spin, taking in the strangeness. There are chunks of driftwood as well as what look like stones, shells and other odd bits lining the walls. I hear the Kentaur say something—and no, I can’t understand his words but my heart lurches at the tone of ‘goodbye’ in his voice. I whirl just as I hear the soft whush of the door whisking shut.

  “No!” I shout in panic. “Wait, wait, please don’t leave me!” I slam into the door, and try to feel around for a handle, a latch, a knob, a sensor—anything! Panic is making my throat close over, but I try to speak.

  It takes a few attempts and I slam my hand on the section that a moment before was a door—I know it was, I saw it with my own eyes. “Please,” I beg.

  “Vssshhp,” I hear from the other side. It’s the weirdest chirruping-soothing sort of sound.

  “‘Vsshhp’? You lock me in here and you give me ‘vsshhp’?” I slam the heels of my hands on the door, screeching in frustration—and yes, a little fear.

  In answer, he chirrups it back at me, almost in, like, relief; like he thinks I am agreeing with him—then come soft clicks—but not from his mouth, no, clicks like he is tapping the door goodbye with his nails.

  “Whoa, hold up! No, no, no I didn’t ‘vsshhp’ that this was okay! It was clarification not permission! This is NOT okay!”

  My body trembles and I press my hands on the door to still them. Shoving my ear against it, I listen, really hoping that he’s coming right back.

  Really hoping that he’s not keeping me imprisoned here.

  Really hoping that I’m wrong about having even less of a chance to get home than I did before.

  Hope is a terrible thing to lose.

  CHAPTER 12

  TAC’MOT

  Midway into my shift, I take an unsanctioned break to feed a princess. I shake my head and marvel. What an incredible circumstance. I make my way to the galley, wondering what a princess will even eat. With only a vague idea, I start fossicking around. I have heard Gryfala are known for being quite particular. I’m going to have to ask the hob what she’s likely to prefer.

  A deep, threatening boom of noise sounds at my back. “That hole in the floor? You will pay for it.”

  I drop the box I’d been examining and awkwardly shuffle my long feet, pivoting with my heels in order to spin around. “Without disagreement,” I confirm. “You can dock it out of… my… stipend...”

  What is this look on his face?

  He’s folded his arms as he leans against the counter, his horns sweeping back so far they’re nearly scraping the wall. He’s no longer promising bodily harm with a glare. He’s… avoiding my eyes. “I’m not hiring you on.”

  I’m speechless. Brax isn’t one to hold grudges, exactly—instead, his approach, while primitive, is ingeniously effective: he simply beats whoever is causing irritation until his aggression is purged.

  Easy.

  Yet here he is. Not glaring me down. Not expressly threatening me. Not tanning my hide until it’s fit for a floor rug. Not hiring me back on?

  I wiggle my ears. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

  Brax sighs. “You have served seven solars. Don’t you want to… I don’t know. Do whatever it is people do offship?”

  He wouldn’t know because he rarely steps offship.

  I wouldn’t know either, and for the same reason. “No. I want to stay with you.”

  His jaw tics. “Well you can’t.”

  Perhaps today’s new visitors are the cause of this completely abnormal behavior. Ever cautious of his infamous Rakhii nature—and by this, I really mean temper—I try to suss this out with great care. “Our new mechanic is a hob.”

  He lets his fangs show. Or maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, such is his agitation. His tone is expectedly sarcastic, yet his face shows the tiniest flicker of… pain. “Very perceptive. What of it?”

  I squint at him and continue. “And now a princess—” I pause as he averts his face again.

  What is this? I’m deeply unsettled. “W-well… you’re from the same homeland, and have so many of the same experiences...” I trail off at his particularly effective glower. He’s really upped his game lately. I wonder if he needs more fiber pellets in his diet; I vow to sneak more into his rations.

  “I don’t care where a male is from,” he grits out, pointedly ignoring any mention of the princess. I don’t know if he’s aware, but his tail flicks when something has him on edge.

  Like now.

  “And the only experience we share is turning our backs on the ‘Homeland’ that teveked us both over.”

  He straightens and I take that as the cue it is.

  I tap two fingers on the tabletop. “This topic is closed for discussion, isn’t it?” For now.

  He gives me a hard smile. “What gave it away?”

  I take my leave along with some food, and slip into my room to find the Gryfala curled up on the floor instead of my bed.

  She’s been crying.

  I’d expected her to be cross with me. Locking a princess in a ship’s private quarters as if she were a misbehaving companion animal that couldn’t be trusted on the loose? I expected her to be furious.

  I didn’t expect to smell this odd, twisted odor of fear.

  It isn’t the same from earlier; when she’d been panicked and running, or when she’d been startled at Lem’s antics. This smell is different, the emotions taste different. There is a deep flavor of sadness—almost despair—here too.

  Feeling decidedly unstrung, I try to smother the warble that is tickling at my throat. Then I realize I’m scratching at my ribs.

  With effort, I cease this, staring down at her sleeping form, unable to comprehend why she’d prefer to cry on the hard, cold floor versus a much more comfortable surface. But having not had a reason to cry in a very long time, and possessing a fair idea of what would cause her to smell so deeply of heartbreak, I don’t dislodge her from the place she’s claimed. Instead, I quietly begin to walk closer towards her, ever mindful not to spill the bowl of food I had prepared for her despite the maladroit fashion of my shuffle. I set it down next to her head, use a claw tip to tease the strands of mane from where they stick to her cheeks and face, and sweep them behind her ear, before patting her on the back and silently leaving the room.

  CHAPTER 13

  BRAX

  The blanket I have tucked under my arm is an old one from off my bed. It isn’t necessarily the nicest—it is simply the one that doesn’t have any holes.

  It is the nicest.

  Tevek. I am giving her my favorite blanket.

  My steps hitch when the words ‘my most prized’ try to whisper through my mind like a correction.

  But no. Not prized. Not anymore.

  And more shamefully?

  I am going to bring it to her after I’d helplessly cleaned my face with it first… coating it with my suddenly over-active scent glands.

  Heading down the same path as my brother… If Gelert could see me now, would he be happy for me? Or would he pity me?

  I feel my jaw muscles jump as I grind my fangs. I don’t realize I’m shaking my head until I feel my horntips bounce off of the corridor sides.

  I’m bringing this blasted blanket with me now because when I initially tracked her and Tac’s scent to his quarters a click ago, I found her unconscious on the floor; all curled up strangely with her hands clasped oddly, and her knees bent up to her chest.

  She hadn’t touched the food Tac had put down for her either.

  Why he’d left it on the floor, I can’t guess. She is a princess. She’s not going to eat off the floor like an animal, crite!

  I am willing to wager that he didn’t even try to hand-feed her. And where is that good-for-nothing hob? Why isn’t he feeding her and making sure she is warm enough?

  Why do I care?

  I don’t.

  I don’t care.

  The issue here is not about my substantial lack of conc
ern. The issue is this: there is a passenger on this ship who has substandard accommodations and… and it is clear she isn’t going to eat Tac’s piddly offering. If I’d ever bothered to take on a passenger previous to this, I would have been just as concerned with their welfare.

  I snort so suddenly at this that I stumble.

  I roll my shoulders, take a deep inhale through my bared fangs, and force myself to control my pace: walk.

  Not half-run.

  When I find myself shoving my way past Tac’s door, something inside me eases. Some additional source of tension I wasn’t even aware of, not fully. I even feel my spines come to rest along my back, fully relaxed. When was the last time that happened? I shake off the thought and grip the container in my hand even tighter. The container that holds something even a Gryfala would find appropriate. And I’ve brought this blanket, my blanket, because it is obvious to anyone with even half of an operational synapse that if she is not pleased with Tac’s bed, not even his blanket, then she has to be provided something. Any alternative is better than none. I suppose I could have asked the new hireling to provide one, but I hadn’t spared him so much as a thought.

  Yes. Yes I did. And I walked right past his new quarters and went to mine straightaway.

  My intention had been to pick her up, to place her on the bed—but my brother’s adulatory ramblings about the heavenly feel of his princess’s skin…

  I don’t dare risk a touch. Instead, I dump the blanket on her and walk out before I can do something even more rash and dangerous.

  Forbidden.

  Then immediately, I turn to storm back in—confusing the track mechanism on the door. It halts a little more than halfway…

  Barring me from her.

  The oddest anxiety grips me and I grab the door harder than I mean to, forcing it all the way open.

  I step through, watching with dismay; it is shuddering as if it has been beaten. I grab it again, giving it a jerk to assist it closed.

  It makes an unhealthy whiikjutttk grinding noise.

  Hmm.

  Damned door. I level a glare on it, willing it to cease with its pitiful complaining.

  And my confused, traitorous hearts make an unwelcome, joyful leap when the most alluring snicker of suppressed laughter I’ve ever heard sounds from behind me.

  CHAPTER 14

  TARA

  I slide my glasses on just in time to watch as the annoyance melts off the alien guy’s face—right before a look somewhere in the territory between irritation and determination replaces it.

  This alien is strange.

  Almost defiantly, he had dropped this blanket on me—not even bothering to unfold it first; just plop and I’d let out a quiet oof. It’s heavier than someone would expect, even heavier than a wool blanket.

  And it smells incredible.

  I twist to snatch it up, bringing it to my nose to inhale with an appreciative moan. What is this? Someone needs to get Snuggle and Downy on this scent, stat. I’ve never found a fabric softener that could make my mouth water, egads!

  I glance up to see that I’ve managed to shock the big alien. I bite my lip and smother a laugh as I, with considerable effort, force the hand clutching the blanket away from my nostrils and into my lap instead.

  The only warning I get is in the form of a grunt right before something is thrust at my face. I reel back a little, readjusting my glasses. At this distance (shoved in my darn face), I can see the details well enough I don’t need them: I just feel more comfortable, more confident with my glasses on. It also allows me to read his expressions a little clearer. As much as I can, anyway, being that he’s, oh, an alien.

  Tentatively, I reach a hand out to accept it from him; a sort of squeeze bottle, I see now—but he snatches it back at the last minute. Not like he’s being a jerk, but like he changed his mind about something.

  “Oookay,” I say finally. “You want me to have it but not touch it. Do you see the problem with your plan here?”

  He seems to be trying to work through this little hitch himself. Every time he inhales, he sucks the air in past a mouthful of sharp, sharp, sharp teeth.

  I can’t tell if he doesn’t know that he looks extremely scary, or if he just doesn’t care.

  Unlike the Kentaur with his chirping cackle-calls, this one is making bass clicking noises under his breath. He crosses the room, making such a big sweep around me that I don’t even feel threatened, even with how big and tall he is. It’s nice that he’s so thoughtful, really.

  Even if his face doesn’t look like he’s trying to be thoughtful at all. In fact, he’s sort of glaring at me as he slams his butt on the bed, motioning at me with his hand.

  When I don’t move, when I don’t immediately know how he wants me to move, he holds the bottle up, wiggling it back and forth like I’m supposed to feel enticed.

  I feel my mouth tug sideways. He could have just given it to me over here. I’m not sure what he’s playing at. I’m even less sure that I like it. I cross my arms.

  Smoke comes out of his nose.

  He wiggles it harder and there is a loud *CRACK!*

  Instinctively, my spine snaps straight.

  I look, and see that the noise was created by him clicking his fingers at me. My eyes narrow.

  Did he just… smile?

  I squint at him—not because I need to bring him into focus, but because I can't figure him out.

  There is another CRACK! before he seems to give up, heaving an aggravated sounding breath before he’s reaching out, plucking my sleeve—he has a long reach!—and like it’s nothing at all, he hauls me closer despite my bare, cold heels trying to catch some traction. They catch nothing; he basically figure-skates my rear end across the tiled floor. He releases me when I’ve come to rest between his knees. Deftly, he adjusts the half-falling blanket until it’s poncho style around my shoulders.

  Reaching back to grab the lone pillow on the bed, he tosses it between his feet. That would be right in front of my folded legs for anyone not taking notes.

  I look back at the door, wondering where the Kentaur is, why he left me alone, and why he is letting this one boss me around like I’m a dang dog. At least, I hope it’s a dog. I’d rather him treat me like a dog, I think than a—

  A shudder of apprehension runs through me.

  Another grunt from him has me slowly turning back, taking a deep breath to calm my thoughts. I think that’s exactly what he wants: me to calm down. Because this grunt of his is sort of a long, extended ‘Hey now. Chilll out’.

  I mean, I think.

  I eye him. He isn’t acting like this is sexual at all. So far, there isn’t anything he’s done that’s given me that impression in any way. Which is a relief, but still, do I really have to kneel between his—

  With another snap of his fingers and a downward stab of his order-happy claw, he lets me know unequivocally that yes, yes in fact he does intend for me to kneel between his knees.

  “Well, if YOU insist,” I say somewhat snidely as I shove my hair out of my face. I wipe the salt crusts from my eyes and sniff, feeling galled as I unfold and lift first one knee onto the pillow, then the other, then heavily, obstinately, plop my derriere onto my heels as a tiny (but totally not insignificant) show of protest.

  A not-insignificant show of protest that has him lifting a brow.

  I cross my arms again.

  He shakes his head. He utters one word in warning that, even in alien, suspiciously sounds like, ‘Behave’.

  No way.

  No way he did not just order me to behave in alien.

  Temperamentally, I slap my hands over his knees, completely, utterly enjoying, relishing his flinch of surprise—

  And then I wonder just what in the heck I’m doing. I jerk my hands down. This alien could do worse than kill me: he could HURT me. He could hurt me BAD.

  Just as the possibilities begin to fill my head, bouncing around like cheaply shot shaky-cam horror flicks, he clicks his tongue and grabs my chin
with the tips of his claws.

  Surprisingly, he isn’t digging in. He isn’t touching me anywhere except for those very sharp points that, somehow, he’s able to keep from actually piercing my skin. It’s like being hugged by a pin brush. Not painful, but you’re aware of the potential.

  His nose bumps mine.

  I jerk my head out of his grip, the wild notion that he’s about to kiss me at the forefront of my brain. But after a beat it’s clear a nosebump was all he wanted.

  He watches me, not ordering me to do anything now—for the moment. Just giving me time to think his action through, I think.

  I guess… he did it to get my attention off of being afraid? I stare into his eyes, and he stares back, not aggressively, just…

  It’s weird, but the bump was kind of reassuring. He could have snapped me like a snowpea for slapping his knees…but he didn’t.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and feel stupidly, ridiculously pleased when he pats one of my hands. Well, the fingernails. He’s very carefully only tapping his skin against my fingernails.

  Huh.

  A glance down has me forgetting about his weird way of reassurance, and instead seeing how his hand dwarfs mine. It’s huge. I quickly run my eyes up a strong wrist, a beautifully thick arm, to a meaty, muscle-covered shoulder, over to the other equally body-builder proportioned limb and down. He is huge. Even under the spacesuit-pants he’s wearing, it’s clear he is built.

  I look up at him, grateful again that so far… odd or not, at least he’s been sort of nice. Mostly nice. Basically. I mean, he seems a little rude and bossy, but at least he’s been super careful.

  Because at his size, it wouldn’t take him much effort to pulverize me.

  He wiggles the squeeze bottle enticingly while I give a very, very loud, very long sigh, and I definitely see him smile this time. I try to reach for the bottle to steady the end of it, but he pulls it back with a frown.

  “Oh YOU want to do it. Of course you do. You control freak,” I accuse.

  I of course, get nothing for my comment—not a flicker of recognition. It’s kind of unsettling, not to have the ability to communicate with someone right in front of you.