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

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Won by an Alien (Stolen by an Alien Book 3) Page 8

by Amanda Milo


  I swallow what feels like a ball of tears as a shudder wracks me.

  My nose and cheek suddenly meet an arm. The Mutant has wrapped me up in an awkward hug, like he’s never quite done this before and isn’t sure how exactly this is supposed to go.

  I sniffle, lips trembling up into a smile thinking the aliens I met yesterday didn’t exactly look like they went around doling out many hugs to each other, so this probably really is the first one he’s ever given. Certainly the first one he’s ever given to a human, I’d think.

  I hope. I hope there isn’t some outerspace black market for humans.

  They had certainly all looked very surprised to see me, like they’d never seen one of me before.

  The bowing was weird, but now that I’ve had some time to think of it, is it really surprising that another culture (or cultures since they aren’t all the same kind) would have similarities to my own? Sure, technically, I’ve never bowed to anyone in my life, but is there really a clearer way to demonstrate that you’re welcoming someone? I didn’t think of that—think of it like that—yesterday. Huh. By bowing... that was actually very respectful.

  Also further evidence they don’t hug—they bow. Duly noted.

  I smile again, my lips brushing the skin of the alien’s arm.

  He startles and leans away from me a little, his brishkers raising up high in what looks like surprise.

  I smile wider, and a little sadder. Because if he’s never hugged anyone before, never experienced the simple comfort of someone smiling into his skin before, it is sad.

  He smiles back at me but his comes without the effort that mine feels like it needs. His is wide, and open, and kind.

  Feeling thirst hit me, I feel around for that packet from last night, and check it over in case there is any jelly left. I sigh. Nope. But I do enjoy the slight pleasant tang when I sniff at the package. Faint now; it was however nice and strong last night when I found it. It didn’t taste like much but boy the manufacturer draws you in with that smell. Mmm.

  When I look up again, it’s to see him looking down at the packet in my hands pretty oddly, right before he throws a baffled glance over his shoulder at the door like he can’t quite believe something.

  Pressure in my bladder reminds me that I need to grab his attention and take the opportunity to put my Plan into action. My Plan, the one I came up with last night when this alien abandoned me. Yep, still struggling not to feel a little resentful. Here I was, locked up, scared he wasn’t coming back, and I needed him to. I needed to be able to try to talk to him.

  I back out of his arms and sit up. This gets him to look back at me, and I carefully enunciate, “Bathroom. I have to go to the bathroom.”

  I repeat it.

  He looks into my eyes, taking measure of them individually. His study is quiet, thoughtful. Then he makes a croak-chirp. Although he seems to have no comprehension of my phrase—which comes as no surprise—it’s obvious that he’s all for getting on with our day as he pulls his knees up, rolling over and dropping to the floor, his weight fully absorbed by his ski-like feet. He insists on picking me up right off the bed and after travelling in the narrower hallway to get here yesterday, I understand why it’s easier if he carries me instead of trying to guide me ahead of him or have me keep up behind him, so I don’t fight it.

  I hope it doesn’t take long to get to the bathroom though, because any jostling is going to be dangerous right now.

  I flinch a little when we pass the bowl on the floor. It had been putrid.

  It was so bad, I actually wondered (after I swallowed a spoonful of it) if it wasn’t supposed to be food. Maybe it’s room freshener. Or a bowl of tile grout. Or spaceboot polish, or something equally inedible and I can attest that it tasted like all of those things combined—ugh.

  I shudder in revulsion and he pauses before he follows my gaze down. He cackles at a quiet volume and sets his nails on top of my head.

  I tense, but he only scritches them against my scalp.

  It’s… sort of a mini massage. Like hair ruffling.

  With claws.

  Tentatively, I smile up at him.

  His smile freezes… sliding right off, just like his hand slides off of my head. We both look away suddenly, and after a moment, he gulps a chirp and I have to figure that this is his version of clearing his throat—that is exactly how he just used it. I shake my head—and catch him watching me shaking my head at him. It makes me feel inexplicably pleased when I see that this appears to amuse him.

  Without another attempt at words, we’re on the move. At least, until we get to the door, which seems to be a bit on the fritz.

  Now I get to hear a drum-like grumbling. From him, not the door. No, that’d be too weird, right?

  Once he manages to coax the door open, we bounce into the corridor where he heads in the opposite direction from where we traveled yesterday to arrive here, so I’m counting it as an early win. “Bathroom?” I ask, intending to keep the word fresh in his mind.

  I sway into him with his next hop and he holds my eyes the entire time before his throat moves and I hear a trilling note. Sounds like agreement to me.

  “Okay. Thank you,” I tell him, and I get a smile. A big, no-holds-barred smile that makes my lips curve up in return.

  When we reach a blank area of the corridor ‘wall’ that has no tubes criss crossing it, no wire bundles gathered in alien-zip-tied overhead, he stops and does something magical with this hand that makes the spot open, revealing that it’s a door.

  And when it swooshes open, I see what looks like an alien toilet.

  “Bathroom!” I say excitedly, clapping my hands. Maybe I ended up shouting it, because he almost drops me.

  “Sorry!” I grin up at his startled face. “Bathroom.”

  I was right! This can work. I can do this. After all, I have tons of practice, don’t I?

  Violently, I shove away fresh memories of teaching my girls to speak by word-association games. I will have all the time in the world to cry over this when I have them back in my arms. Soon. Soon we’ll have enough words down that I can tell them how badly I need to get home.

  CHAPTER 18

  TAC’MOT

  She must rush through her morning needs. She opens the door far sooner than I expect—I didn’t even hear the cleansing unit running. Instead of letting me take her out of the B.C.U., she cautiously beckons me forward.

  Curious, I follow.

  She grabs my upper arm, pulling down. I humor her and lower my torso, wondering what she has planned. She peels back the collar of my—

  My, this princess likes taking off my shirts.

  She touches near the laser burn on my shoulder. I start to twist to stop her—she has to be careful when she handles my skin if it comes to a point I feel an increase in pain—but she shoves me down hard with her hands. Hoping it unlikely that she’ll flag a threat response with whatever she has planned, I resolve to see where this goes.

  A cool damp cloth drags over the wound and I groan. I hadn’t realized how hot it had gotten. Because it would have cauterized instantly, I didn’t have to worry about infection, but still. It hurts.

  When she’s satisfied, she places the cloth in the sink, washing it out before she washes her hands.

  I stay just where she left me, until she pats my back.

  I rise, taking her small hand between my own. “Thank you. That was kind of you to tend to me.”

  She glances away shyly, but leaves her hand in place.

  I don’t know what makes me do it.

  I kiss her fingers.

  She’s quick to pull her hand free now, and—shaking my head at myself—I move past her to show her where the nanocleanser station is. First, I point to the round, clear porthole into the machine. Looking interested but uncertain, she glances from where I’m pointing, then to my face, and back again.

  I strip my shirt off the rest of the way, crumple it up, and toss it in. Leaving the porthole open, I move to the drawer set into
the wall and pull out two fresh tops. I hand one to her, and dress myself in the other. It is long enough it will fall at least to her thighs. I give her my back so that she can have some privacy.

  I turn when I feel a light tap on my undamaged shoulder.

  I like that she is wearing my shirt.

  I chatter my teeth at myself for the thought, and try to concentrate on accepting the clothes she is handing me. Her skirt and blouse are wrinkled, stained, and as I peer at her clothing, the fibers don’t appear to be cloaked in nanocoating.

  I look up at her sharply, only to see her watching me with consternation, like she can’t imagine why I would find her odd fabric… well… odd.

  I thought Gryfala loved technology. I thought they pioneered most all tech. Lem is right: this cannot possibly be clothing designed by Gryfala. Yet the pirates have all the latest or greatest in everything: they steal it. This Grfyala standing before me is living proof of that. So how… where did this archaic, seemingly custom fitted-to-her-attractively-curvy-form formed garment come from?

  Dismissing what I will likely never satisfy and don’t technically need to know, I place her items into the washer also, pointing to the buttons she will need to push in order to run it every rotation.

  While we wait for them to cleanse, I return to the drawer that has my neatly folded selection of pants. Unlike her, it isn’t imperative that my dirtied laundry be washed immediately because I have alternates to change into, thus I didn’t wait to change the bottom half of my wardrobe in order to get her clothing cycling. Mine will sit fine waiting for tomorrow’s load.

  I feel her eyes on me as shake out the legs of my pants. At the thought of her watching me while I struggle out of the clothing I’m wearing, then struggle again to get into the clean set, I feel all of my ears heat.

  I wonder if she would grant me the same courtesy I did her, and avert herself so that I can change.

  When I dart a glance in her direction, it’s to see that she’s ducking her face already. I swallow a chirp of relief.

  As quickly as I can manage, I start the challenging process of changing the bottom half of my clothes, and as I do, I realize she doesn’t smell freshly bathed. She doesn’t smell bad, and the ‘Brax’ is fading, it’s only that…

  Aren’t Gryfala’s very particular about bathing?

  After my shift ended last night, I’d bathed quickly, rushing to my quarters, intending to offer her the chance to do the same, when I’d found her asleep.

  My shift will be starting soon, but I will delay in order to give her time to wash. I step forward and chirp to gain her attention, then wave to the cleansing stall. Her eyes follow my motion, then return back to me, before she shakes her head.

  How… odd.

  I’m completely distracted when the bell chime pleasantly signals that our clothes are clean, and the high velocity spin dryer has done its work. This seems to be of great interest to her, which I find curious in itself.

  “Eye neeed wonn off theeeese!” she exclaims as we pull her items out.

  Having no idea what she said, but enjoying the happily excited lilt to her words, I smile at her and once again give her privacy so she can change before we make our way to the galley.

  Once there, I push through the door, then carefully set her on her feet. I am about to start towards the cupboards to agonize yet again over what to offer her to eat, when she shocks the hells out me.

  She drops into a curtsey in front of Lem.

  Lem almost falls off the stool he’d just seated himself at.

  She looks back at me, little lines forming at her brow. “Whot? Eeetz weeerd eef eye doo eet?”

  “Yeah. We have no idea what you’re saying,” Lem tells her.

  She huffs a long, sad breath and puts her hands on her hips, her head drooping down like a wilting flower.

  CHAPTER 19

  TAC’MOT

  A sparkly stick with teeth slides across the counter.

  We both look up to find Brax.

  “She might need that this morning,” he says gruffly.

  I blink down at it. “Where did you get a Gryfala mane comb? Better yet—how?”

  Brax shifts. “It was in my brother’s things. I guess he was hoarding his mistress’s treasures.” His eyes darken as if he’s recalling an unhappy memory.

  When the Gryfala only clasps her hands, peering down at it with interest, he emits a rattling noise from his nasal chamber. “You don’t even want to manage this on your own?” His tone is full of sharp-edged impatience—yet his hands are gentle as they suddenly ghost the brush over her mane, his claws separating strands before lightly dragging the teeth through it.

  She holds very still, which is either because she is afraid to set an obviously agitated Brax off by moving, or she is processing the fact that this male just took liberties she hasn’t invited. She doesn’t chastise him though.

  Curious.

  But when he finishes and slings the brush onto the counter, she jumps.

  “Brax,” I pin all my ears and chatter my teeth at him—a surprise for us both. I’ve never done this to him before.

  But it’s the Gryfala’s softly admonishing tone that has his scales changing color. Shockingly, instead of turning to a brighter, more threatening orange and red shade, his scales even out to a soft, burnished gold.

  His stripes still stand out against it, but they don’t look as harsh now, for some reason.

  He moodily stalks across the galley, but pulls to a stop when she starts speaking to him. His back is facing us, and while I know he can’t understand a word she utters—when she’s finished speaking, he actually bobs his head in a low nod.

  It’s quite conciliatory-looking.

  What is this?

  Tentatively, she reaches out and pulls the brush towards herself. She looks so perplexed that I move in to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She looks up at me, and—

  We’re startled apart by the plate that’s dropped to the tabletop with a bang.

  “Here,” Brax snaps.

  Blinking, I ask, “What is that?”

  “Something sweet enough she will actually eat,” he bites out. “Last night before I fell asleep, I remembered my brother going on about how it was ‘his’ mistress's favorite.”

  The Gryfala doesn’t automatically take a seat at the table. I’m not sure I would either. My eyes travel to the dish bearing a food I’ve never before seen. It’s hot. At one point it looks like it was flaming hot, evidenced by the bubbling, still-steaming middle despite the fact Brax had it on the table cooling before we entered. This is no thawed rat he’s grabbed for himself. This took preparation. This took ingredients. This took a recipe. Clearly, he had this made long before our arrival in the galley. How… interesting.

  “Move,” Brax says as he shoves between the Gryfala and I.

  Feeling a little stung, I hop back, but I am too curious to make a fuss over it.

  Because Brax looks near to snarling—but not at her. No, more like he’s fighting with himself. He turns, reaching to pick up the dish, and moves it to the counter where the Gryfala is still standing, frozen.

  Tentatively, she reaches out to take the spoon he’s holding out to her.

  “No. You’ll eat it from my hand, or not at—” he starts to insist, but just as suddenly, he drops the spoon like it’s liquid nitrogen, and backs away.

  She bites her lip, retrieving it before it can sink into—and below—the food.

  “Tank yew.”

  The words are softly spoken but clear, thus it is easy to guess their meaning.

  Brax opens his mouth—before he just as suddenly shuts it, and ignores her. He goes so far as to slam himself down in a chair and violently chase his food around with his fork.

  The Gryfala takes a bite of what he has prepared for her—and whimpers.

  Brax’s tail flicks.

  When she cleans the plate—which takes her almost no time, and I feel terrible because I know this means she has been very hu
ngry—she stands and approaches Brax and it is almost comical how tiny she looks compared to him.

  I don’t know what possesses her to do it.

  She places a hand on his arm. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter that her intention is seemingly to give a simple, innocent thanks. Brax shoots to his feet, the momentum causing his chair to backflip. I hop forward to catch her when she stumbles back.

  “Give Gryfala a click and they’ll take a lightyear!” he snarls as he breaks for the galley door, his toes spreading wide with every stomp of his feet. For some reason, they seem to fascinate the Gryfala more than his behavior shocks her. She lets me guide her to a seat, collecting her new brush as I right Brax’s chair.

  “He spent nearly a full span preparing that for her,” Lem says in an amused tone. “For all the times he’s sneered at even the mention of Gryfala, I find that very interesting.”

  I look down at the Gryfala thoughtfully. She gives me a tiny smile and I return it before responding to Lem. “As do I.”

  CHAPTER 20

  TARA

  This place is huge. Right now, I’m on what I refer to as the third deck. I’ve no idea what one really calls the different levels of a spaceship, but since I’m the only one that understands me anyhow, I say I get to make up my own terms.

  I drag the heavy bucket, then gratefully drop it to the floor. It’s not heavy with water—actually, it’s got very little water in it: it’s just a heavy dang bucket. I guess if you’re a giant space alien, these sorts of materials make sense. It doesn’t bother them to lift them, after all. They make it look easy.

  This last I know for a fact, because the one with horns actually hauls this thing around, which is what clued me in to the fact that it even was a bucket. It doesn’t look like any bucket I know: it looks like a round top, stainless steel garbage can, but I saw him using it: it holds mop water!

  And he mops the floors every day. Which I wouldn’t have expected. You’d think the big boss—which, he sure acts like, which everyone else treats him like—you wouldn’t think he’d be the one to do the heavy mopping.

 

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