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

by Amanda Milo

  I stop for a second, and search his features for any sign that he’s following along.

  His eyes have narrowed and his eyebrows have swept low, like he’s concentrating. And that bossy mouth of his is pressed in a flat line and not barking out commands so… I’m starting to feel giddy.

  He’s listening to me!

  I’m hit with a tidal wave of relief so strong my eyes water. “I have to get back to them. My—” My voice breaks and Brax’s shoulders go back. I think the depth of my emotional swing is surprising him. “My babies need me. And I need them! Brax—”

  His entire body twitches.

  “—you don’t know how much I miss them!” Annnd, here come the tears. I let the tears fall. I can’t stop them now anyway. It’s like opening up about this in any way also opens the floodgates holding my heart back. “I’m scared for them; and I’m scared—w-what if I can’t… I have to get back!”

  CHAPTER 30

  BRAX

  I watch in absolute horror as she brings her arms up—brings her arms up as if an invisible person is being held—and rocks herself. Crying. She is crying and desires comfort.

  I feel the dust collection tool’s handle weighing down my hand as if it were made of stone. It may as well be; with the level of distress she’s exhibiting, she needs more alleviation than this can provide.

  She needs more than I can provide.

  I return the collection tool to my pocket, and when my hand brushes against the container, I extract it and am thankful I can at least offer her—

  She begins to expel tears at an increased rate.

  “Bayybees, Brax! I dohhnt waaant foood, I need my bayybees!”

  She rocks herself harder, then drops her arms, only to mime her desire slower, as if I could misunderstand what she is attempting to encourage me to do.

  But I won’t do this.

  No.

  But I know who will.

  Gritting my fangs, I turn, intent on leading her to the service bay and to the male she has already as good as claimed—when I hear her rushing to reach me.

  I pivot and slap my tail between us, keeping her well back from touching me.

  The overproduction of fluid from her eyes coupled with the action of her head angling down to look at my tail causes her tears to drip off of her cheeks and nearly sizzle as they hit my scales.

  Not in actuality, but considering the reaction this sets off inside me, it’s as good as true.

  My fingers tense, and my arms move of their own accord, intent on—

  She grabs my tail with her bare hands.

  Tevek!

  I bellow, “TAC! HOB!”

  It’s the hob that reaches us first, and when I see the state of him, I scowl. He looks like he had to crawl into Engine Four. Curses!

  “What have you done?”

  I gnash my fangs with each word. “Purr for her.”

  “What?”

  “Do it: purr!”

  “I don’t—I’ve never…”

  Disgusted, I snarl, “Are you a hob or aren’t you?”

  He purrs.

  I hear Tac’s voice coming up behind me. “You bellowed?” Then he must take in the scene, because he leaps around me and catches a collapsing Tara. He doesn’t see Grake’s outstretched, grease-coated arms go slack as the hob accepts again that he never even had a chance.

  Not to catch this Gryfala.

  This Gryfala. I need Tac to take her, and leave. Immediately. Because I saw her eyes pleading with me. I have seen her watching me, just as I have watched her.

  Unlike Grake, I do have a chance with this Gryfala.

  I just have to convince myself that I don’t want it.

  Somehow.

  CHAPTER 31

  BRAX

  Tac bounds off with Tara resting limply in his arms, Grake trailing anxiously behind them.

  I want to follow.

  I want to snatch her from—

  Screeeech!

  I twist around to see that Lem has shut the interior porthole hatch and ceased with his spying. I decide to focus on a new target. I pound on the door. “What is our ETA?”

  Lem’s reply is sharp not in volume or tone, but I can hear his reproach and irritation all the same. “Enough with your excessive noise, please. You’ll upset the children.”

  Immediately, I feel regret.

  Because Lem’s frags aren’t thriving. They never have.

  Like others of his kind, he reproduces by cutting slices off of himself. In theory, these shards of tissue go on to grow into a fully functional being of their own. But once his kind leave their homeworld, their frags fail. But it doesn’t stop their instinct to try cultivating them. Lem was a hypochondriac long before he arrived here, but it’s become more pronounced with every batch he has to watch wither and die.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage. I mean the words. I know how it upsets him every time he loses one. And despite his every and best attempt at cultivation, this formation is also failing.

  “In response to your ETA question, let me consult…” and I tune out his explanations until he gets to the actual result.

  However, his answer does not appease my worries.

  Directly on the other side of the door, I hear, “What is that smell?”

  I back away.

  The entire length of this conversation, Lem has been speaking through the barrier of the door to the control room. I know why he doesn’t open it: he’s worried about contaminating the environment of his reef of little lifeforms.

  So when the bolt is drawn back and he comes spilling out in a hurry, his bulging eyes brimming with curiosity and intrigue, I realize this situation is as dire as I’d suspected. Instead of answering his question, I order, “Cut the arrival time in half.”

  This causes two more eyes to pop out of the top of Lem’s head. They all blink at me. “That will deplete the fuel cells.”

  We don’t have a choice, Lem.

  “We’ll refill when we…” I have to force the words out as if I’m grinding my fangs on them, “Touch Homeland soil.”

  ‘Never!’ I’d screamed. ‘I’m never coming back here! You’ve cursed me and I’ve done nothing to deserve it!’

  In reality, I hadn’t. I’d been innocent—just a pup, really. I hadn’t deserved it then.

  Now though… Now, I’m afraid I can no longer say the same.

  Lem suspects. Tevek, maybe he knows.

  The closest planet is Homeland, and the males on this ship are running out of time.

  CHAPTER 32

  TAC’MOT

  Grake’s wing colors are just starting to subdue by the time we reach my quarters. He remains outside the door, not following me in as I cross through. “I didn’t expect her to collapse. Only the academy males get to train and hone their skills to gain effectiveness.” He doesn’t sound bitter; simply matter-of-fact. Perhaps even a little proud.

  After I place her on the bed, I turn to eye him. “Ever wonder if they’re wrong?”

  He’s quiet a moment, before his lips thin and he shakes his head. “They’re not. I’m not fit for service. I could never manage what you and…”

  He trails off, but I’m confused. “What I and… who? And managing what?”

  Grake’s jaw drops a fraction, before he’s looking over his shoulder, shifting his wings in order to see past them. I attempt to focus on him until Tara makes a noise that absorbs my attention from him completely.

  In her slumberous state, she moans words that sound like names in a forlorn, pleading tone that tears at my heart.

  I think that Grake must offer to stay, but all I remember is waving him off. There’s nothing he can do for her right now: a hob’s purr should comfort a Gryfala and that his isn’t, despite the fact he managed to tranquilize her... I don’t see how having him purr more at her will help.

  I check to be sure she’s wearing her own blouse under my shirt; she is. Which is luck, because I have to remove this top layer. It smells like she’s rolled on Brax today
. I leave her briefly to forcefully feed it into the nanocleanser’s hatch.

  Ugh. Good riddance!

  I have to wash my hands twice before I can no longer scent his musk transference on my skin. It’s with a much lighter heart that I hop back to my room.

  For the first time in rotations, when I stretch out on the bed, we are finally reunited in our special form of embrace: she’s warm in my arms and freezing the tevek out of my legs. Ahhh. I missed her.

  I sigh gratefully into her mane, and wonder what I will do when I have to say goodbye to her. I will be happy for her, be happy that she is once again at home among her, and Grake, and Brax’s people. But I will miss this—her—to a most painful degree. I’ve never known such a soft feeling of contentment. It makes me feel so… so warm towards her. She turns in my arms, eyes still closed, features still pinched and showing distress. I gather her closer.

  I grimace as I adjust one of her feet to a warmer spot on my top leg. “You’re almost perfect,” I mutter into her mane. “Despite your horrible excuse for a circulatory system...” Without any thought, my lips brush her temple, and almost in answer, my chest constricts in an exquisitely painful spasm. My whisper is hoarse when I finish; “And I like you very much.”

  When I pull back to gauge her unconscious expression, I am heartened that she looks less upset.

  ***

  I believe I wake up because she leaves my arms.

  And when I open my eyes, my body rising to a sitting position with a start—worried about her state, worried about her—she gives me a facsimile of a smile.

  It would pass for one if it didn’t lack her usual bounce and brightness. “Ohh ghood, yewr awake. Wee haff too tawk. Sumhoww. Eetz eemporteent!”

  I nod to what sounds to me like statements that require an affirmative reaction. Then I look down at what she is holding.

  And dread trickles into my stomachs.

  She’s collected a branch from my belongings. She holds it up, both of us examining it. “Theyyre ees nowt won stufft toy on thees shiip! Yoo gyyys!” she then settles the branch across her arms, laughing once as she looks down at it, then she’s shaking her head. “Preetend eets a baybee, okaay?”

  I don’t know what she’s saying.

  But I can see what she is asking for.

  My branch.

  She wants sticks.

  She continues to talk but even if I could understand her, the implications rushing through my mind would still likely drown out every word she’s attempting to relay to me.

  She wants to build a nest. SHE IS NEEDING TO NEST!

  “—neeed yore hellp! Pleese, pleese, Tac! Kahn yoo hellp me geht bak to myy baybees?”

  I leap to my feet and bound off the bed. I have to duck in order to avoid crashing my skull into the ceiling. That was a little more bounce than I was prepared for. Calm yourself! “I’ll be back!” I tell her, and my heart lifts when I see the hope on her face.

  Yes, Tara! I can make you happy again. I don’t know how yet: but I know what you need now!

  I head for my compartment on bay 5. There is a little cubbyhole where I have totes of stored belongings. When I was young, Brax noticed I—true to my kind’s nature—have a habit of collecting organic matter. Though there was no overt show of it, in small ways, he fostered my cravings and impulses by making brief, unscheduled stops on planets with seaside coasts where I could rummage through empty shells and a selection of interesting driftwoods. Ever since, my collections have found their way to stowage, saved for whenever I’d want to revisit them. A kindness then, and maybe a useful bit of luck now.

  As I dig, my thoughts are racing. And I can’t explain my relief! I could bound through the ship, trilling happily. Tara and I—the relationship between us has felt so out of balance since our kiss. I’d thought—and to an extent, still think—that she scared herself. She’s just lost her guards. She’s made it clear with Grake that she’s not yet ready to take on new hobs. Thus her impromptu advance on me was more than she realized she was ready for.

  I can understand that.

  I shift my focus to the matter of her nesting. If she could feel the instinct building, why didn’t she recruit the hob? ...Unless the instinct wasn’t triggered until our kiss. Maybe this is why she has avoided Grake: avoid attachments, avoid the urge?

  I tear through each tote, until I’ve managed to collect an arm’s load that I hope will meet her needs.

  “Why are you… no.” Grake’s voice is alarmed. “No, she isn’t—here?”

  I shove my pile into his arms and start another. “She brought me one of my sticks.”

  Grake’s voice sounds worried and every word lacks confidence. “It could be anything.”

  “She was very specific in lining it up across her arms, like she was ready to receive a bundle of them.”

  “Creator…” Grake breathes and his wings flap once, making him nearly lose his balance off his feet. “Where are you going to stay?”

  I feel like I should pat myself on the back. I was so swift in reloading branches this time that I already have a perfectly balanced stack. It would seem I have a knack for taking care of a Gryfala.

  Finding a beautifully textured piece of wood I must add, I lift my jaw and fit it against my throat, using my chin to lock down the bundle. Slowly I ask, “Stay?”

  “If she’s nesting, she’s claimed the space.” He blinks at me. “She must feel comfortable in your quarters. If she begins to build the nest in there, you won’t be going back in.”

  I stare at him, uncomprehending. “Can’t we… can’t we set her up in a spare room? Those are my quarters. Are you certain she won’t share? Tara is very—”

  “Female,” Grake finishes. “Yes. She is. Haven’t you noticed how she’s already taken over your room?”

  “I was going to say ‘reasonable,’” I murmur. But I have noticed she’s been adding little things here and there. I like this about her. It reminds me of Wanbaroos; we line our homes with many interesting slivers of nature. I had assumed Gryfala were the same and she was settling in. “I thought she was adding personal touches.”

  Grake nods rapidly. “She is. Her personal touches. Your quarters became her quarters. It’s the way of females. Gryfala almost always own everything from the outset so she’ll see nothing amiss in claiming your former room.”

  “Hmm.” I let my back arch over as I leap past him, clutching Tara’s bundle and heading back to see her.

  “Wait! I need to discuss Brax with you. It’s vital.”

  I have a gravid Gryfala to attend to! Anything having to do with Brax can wait. “Let’s discuss later,” I tell him. He might continue to try to speak to me. I wouldn’t know. In two kicks, I’m long gone.

  ***

  I want to surprise her. Against Grake’s protestations, I lay our collections in a small spare bay that had stored a shipment of yanak-soft rugs this time last solar.

  This solar has by far been more interesting, and this space is about to house more excitement than it has ever seen.

  I’ve only had half my ears tuned into Grake’s urgent whispering, “Brax—whuh whuh-whuh—temperament—whuh, whuh—maim—whuh whonded—aggressive!”

  I shrug. Brax, temper, threats of maiming, and aggressive is Brax. Our resident disagreeable Rakhii. But I do pay full attention to him when he says, “The Gryfala will prefer a selection of leaves for lining, and mud for building.” I also catch that I’ll need a substantial amount of soft grasses.

  Huh. Where to get grass?

  “—and his entire family! ...Tac’Mot?”

  Scratching at my back, my elbow bending oddly which, for some reason, always makes my face muscles contort, I spare him a glance. “Yes?”

  Grake’s fangs show when he drops his bottom lip and inhales harshly. “Brax. Serious danger. Did you hear any of this.”

  Finally! I manage to drag my claws over the spot that’s been plaguing me and I groan in relief. “Yes; maim, whonded—”

  “Bonded!”r />
  “Fine, bonded and aggression: got it. Grake, I’ll agree to reconvene with you at a later date on this very important matter, agreed?”

  Grake throws his hands up and his wings flare. “Don’t say I didn’t try.”

  I nod amiably. “You gave it your all. Now. Have a wonderful rest of your rotation and thank you for your assistance.”

  “Right.” But he throws this over his shoulder, seeming to make an ‘I wash my hands of this’ motions as he goes.

  I stare after him a moment. The hob needs to learn to relax.

  How to obtain grass? I wonder if she will be able to accept substitutes. Even if we had a way to obtain mud; the presence of unwashed, non-sterilized particulate matter on this ship will find Lem having a conniption of epic proportions. Unlike my driftwood pieces, he won’t be able to heat-treat her mud unless she would consider a nest of terra cotta shards an acceptable alternative.

  Somehow… I doubt it.

  Unconsciously, my hands mimic Grake’s ‘I wash my hands of this’ movement—and I do, for now. I’ll jump over ideas in my mind, see if anything kicks loose. Once I adjust a pile, I grab out my favorite from the towering bundle and hop my way to Tara.

  She greets me enthusiastically when I enter—not irritably, not aggressively, thus proving my supposition that she’s not overclaiming territory, as far as I can see—but she seems confused why I’m guiding her back to the bed until I hand her the prettiest branch I own, similar in size to the one she has already claimed, which was also yellow. This one I am gifting her now has yellow bark that feels spongy and is raised up in a textured, vastly interesting pattern but she essentially has two matching branches.

  I’ve never had to share my collection before. I feel the most miniscule twinge of regret; giving up two of my prized possessions.

  That is, until I get to experience her reaction.

  She releases an extremely high-pitched burst of elation—and my heart leaps. So does she: she bounces to her knees then hops up and down, shrieking pleased-sounding words and adding my name liberally and with great affection.