by Amanda Milo
However. My tail, which is spiral-coiled from her ankle to her kneecap, has no concerns over her taciturn manner and is creeping its way along her side and will soon anchor itself to her arm.
No more worry of falling then.
She blows a strand of hair from her face. “Sooo thees is borreeng. Howw lung wus eye ahsleepuh? Eez eet nyyytuh noww or affterrnoon?”
Unsure if I should nod, or shake my horns, instead—I give in to the compulsion I’ve been struggling so hard to rein in.
I lick her.
“Wut tuh heck! Keheep yor tung uff ahf mee yoo freeekah! Ack! Stohp eet! Yoo—!
I capture her flailing hands easily and snatch her wildly kicking foot, winding my tail around her until both of her legs become passive captives. Free now to roam, my nose makes its way to the hem of the shirt she is wearing. Tac’s shirt. I growl.
“Yoo dee NOTT juss growwl ahhs yoo snifft mee. After you speet on mee? Ugggh lookeh et thees! Yoo left slobber on me, growwws—!” Disbelief does not have a scent, but I believe I am reading correctly that this is the emotion displaying on her face.
She pauses and despite the fact she sounds like she’s chastising me, I watch her avidly. I grunt to encourage her to say more words. When she widens her eyes at me in meaningful warning, I concede and emancipate one of her hands.
“Geee, tanks. Heyy…” she plucks a bit of the fabric up to examine it more closely. Sniffff. “Eet shooldna smehl soo goood.” She bends her head to inhale again, and considering I’m quite familiar with the thrall she’s cast on me, I recognize perfectly well that she can’t help herself from reacting to my thrall on her.
Just as quickly, she rears back, looking nonplussed over her reaction.
Ah. She isn’t aware we are bonded.
She’s shaking her head, staring down at my saliva as it evaporates off of Tac’s shirt. “Eck, no, no—acktooalley, eye don kerr eef eet smehls goood. Stohp dooeng eet.”
Keeping an ear tuned to her because I like the sound of her voice even if I don’t like the chiding tone to her words, I exercise great control when I begin to nose-up her garment to taste the skin of her bared stomach… and make a horrifying discovery. She has a painful looking set of scars. There is a round gouging dip, and a slash.
Someone has sliced this princess open!
This can’t be from when her hobs were killed: these are old. What made this?
Squeaking in dismay, she darts a hand out and pinches my tongue—causing us both to freeze.
She breaks our stare first, narrowing her eyes before pointedly darting a look down at what she has squeezed between her fingertips. “Stohp!”
I manipulate the muscles of my tongue so that it flattens before the sides curl up to cover her top finger. She squeals. “Growws! Growwsss, don’t move it, growws!”
When she tries to release it, I quickly curl the tip up over her hand.
We stay like this for several clicks until she exhales loudly. “Okaaayah, fyyyne. Thees ees ‘stohp’. Thees ees goood. When I tell you to stohp, yoo stohp, jus lyyke thees… buht yoo dohnt haff too holdeh meh hahnd. Weef yoor tong. Deesgussteeng!”
I gather that ‘growwss’ means she finds a behavior repellent. Yet I’ve seen her happily wipe her face with the blanket after I’ve licked it for her.
This princess is confounding.
When she braces a hand on my nose and shoves my tongue back to my mouth, I grasp her meaning perfectly well.
‘Keep your saliva to yourself.’
This pricks at me. A princess allows a Rakhii certain privileges if she accepts him into her service. Bonded we may be; but she has not accepted me yet.
That I so desperately want her to is an irony I’m not ready to examine any further.
Freed of me now, she perches on the edge of the bed again, and I poise to leap for her—only to freeze when she peels off Tac’s dampened shirt, revealing the finer, form-fitting plain tunic underneath.
This is a welcome improvement.
It’s the one she arrived in, and she’s using it as an undergarment. It is plain, yet flatters her. I like the way she looks in it.
But I’d like it better if it was my shirt she claimed as an outer-garment.
She holds Tac’s between her fingers like it’s filthy.
I concur.
I pluck it from her hands, drop it to the side of the bed, and blow fire on it.
She shrieks. “YOOO BREETHE FYYRE?!”
I watch the flames fizzle out. It’s a flame-retardant fabric: tested many times previous to this, I could assure her—if we were able to communicate. Now the fabric will be dry and won’t turn musty all crumpled in a heap like it is. And how fortuitous: it won’t smell of Tac in here any longer.
Grake knocks hurriedly before barging in. I feel a grumbling trumpet building in my nasal crest. As if we require supervision.
Which he obviously believes is the case, considering that he’s been standing guard in the corridor nearly constantly for all the spans the princess has been with me since Tac retreated. I’ve smelled him.
“She is fine.”
Grake’s eyes meet mine, and although he nods, he still appears somewhat troubled. I narrow my gaze in warning.
“Eyme fyyyne, Grayyk,” she says kindly, and the hob’s wing markings turn an entirely new shade.
It could be that when he is spoken to in a kind or praising tone, his colors change. It could be that simple. I wouldn't know: I certainly haven't spoken to him in either. But it could also be that he’s attracted to her, and this is his attraction display.
I snap my teeth. “Don’t you have an engine to dote on?”
We both know he does. That engine needs near-constant upkeep. The fact that he’s stayed here most of the rotation is no little cause for perturbation.
The look she locks on me is so horrified that I’m shocked that she waits until we’re alone again before she calls me out on my uncivil behavior and reprimands me. “Yoor mean. Stohp it.”
This word again. I’ve belonged to her less than half a rotation, and already I’m being ordered about.
But in an attempt to be dutiful, I nod. I rise from the bed, trying not to take offense at the way she tenses, preparing for an attack. From me. Her mistrust rankles painfully. Instead, of reacting, I walk the length of my chain in the direction of the B.C.U. built just off of my room.
Perhaps that is one of the few upsides to being a dangerous creature of service. We get our own cleansing and relievement facilities built right into our quarters within easy convenience of our chains.
But in actuality, this is more like ‘her’ own bathroom: this room was designed for the Gryfala that possesses a contumacious Rakhii guard. Most everything essential is set up to be easy access for the member of her service that spends the majority of his resting time chained down.
Unfortunately, I come up short just shy of my goal. Truly? Was clothing not considered in their easy-access plans? Frustrated, I grunt and glare.
“Whot doo yoo need?”
I’d been so caught up in my aggravation that I hadn’t realized she’d come closer. Now I try not to secondhand-scowl at her as I stab a claw at the drawer just out of my reach.
She slips past me, careful not to touch me, I note—and silently begins to lift up items for my inspection. I thrust up my chin when she holds up the green one. She starts to hold it out to me, but I indicate it’s for her with another jerk of my chin.
“Ohhh, eye seee,” she says, with an incredibly dramatic roll of her eyes.
Such a sassy princess.
She brings it to her chest then stops, gaze locked with mine as she slowly raises her eyebrows.
I cock my head, feeling my ears lift in curiosity.
“Turrn arrund!” she finally huffs.
I cross my arms over my chest. The chains slap against me, drawing her eyes for a click before she stalks towards me, muttering, “Bee thot wayyy,” and with a cheerful smile, she slams the door in my face.
; I never understood why there was a gap under this door. None of the other B.C.U.’s have doors like this one. But now, as my tail slinks inside to seek out her feet, I wonder if this is intentional, and if I’m not the only Rakhii to need this contact.
I know when my tail finds her, because she stomps on it.
I question whether it was deliberate or accidental, and decide that though she doesn't look capable, I still believe it’s the former. This Gryfala may not be cruel, but she does have a temper. When my smarting limb is clinging to her ankle, I can follow when she relieves herself, hear when she washes her hands, and I also know when she starts searching.
For… what?
If I were Lem, I would be able to sprout eyes on my extremities and find out right now.
I, however, am not Lem. This is perhaps for the best, because if eyes unexpectedly sprouted out of my tail right now, I believe she’d panic and that stomp she gave me a moment ago would seem like fledgling’s play by comparison.
I have excellent hearing, and with both of my ears pressed up against the door like this, it is almost as if I can see her. From the location of my tail that is resting like a bracelet about her ankle, I know she’s standing in front of my stored clothing. From the soft sounds of her rummaging I know she is examining my possessions.
Which are now her possessions.
This should infuriate me.
Why doesn’t it? Even the mere thought of my brother’s mistress still makes me so angry I can’t think.
This one… I can't STOP think—
*clink*
“I FOUND EH KEE!”
CHAPTER 43
BRAX
My tail snaps in agitation, but the Gryfala looks thoroughly unimpressed. She repeats the same teveking word we’ve been working on for a quarter of a span. “Sstaaay.”
She takes a step backward.
My tail strikes, ready to curl around her—
“Stohp.”
My tail falls. The loud clank as it hits the floor invigorates her though. “YAAAAY!! Brax, yoor noht hoepless! Yoo deed eet!”
I puff a pacified blast of smoke. I may despise the patronizing tone she took on halfway through this session of her issuing her repetitive, nonsensical command, but this genuinely happy praise and upbeat visage is an improvement I would welcome any rotation.
I reach out to steady her when her feet suddenly leave the floor; but then I see this is… some sort of… new dance? She has danced over the littlest things and her patterns are all different. And this one may be the strangest yet. I had no idea Gryfala’s would stoop to perform something that looks so… undignified. Little kicks with odd hopping followed by some… hip wiggling. My ears flick in consternation.
She holds up her hands, panting, her lips curved up high. “Okaay: letts tesst eet.”
I sigh so deeply that smoke plumes swirl on either side of her. She bats them away and clucks disapprovingly—but her eyes are dancing. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, and she looks… energized in a way she has never been. This was what she must have been like before pain drowned her peace. She was carefree.
If teaching her Rakhii simple commands makes her happy?
I will endeavor to learn. For her.
I still release an extraordinarily put-upon sigh though. This garners me a bright, hearts-lifting laugh and teaches me two things: she appreciates dramatics, and with that one beautiful sound, I don’t feel so very put-upon any longer—her reactions affect me.
“Staaay,” she says, and her smile is so infectious, my lips twitch.
Until she takes two steps back.
“Stohp!” she calls when I unconsciously move to follow.
My ears flatten. She sends me a raised brow to go along with the command, and I find my body obeys with very little struggle when I force myself to fall still.
Much, much dancing now. She makes a high-pitched, “Whooop!” noise, and she hops close enough that I can catch one of her wrists with my tail. Instead of trying to shake me off, she moves into my space. I’m so pleased by all of this, that I don’t realize why she takes my hand. I can only focus on the fact that she is touching me and it feels… right.
“Eet worrkkd! Yoor free!”
I look down. The weights fall from my wrists before my mind can make sense of what she’s done. Nooo…
In here, I am calm because there are no outside forces threatening what we have. If we step outside our door, everything will change. Everything will become a threat. But I can’t effectively relay this to her. I can’t warn her that she’s playing with lit matches and an explosive.
Nooo… it is not safe for me to walk these corridors freely.
Not safe for the males on this ship.
Well. Maybe except for Lem.
I squint, trying to judge where he falls in my jealousy’s attack-radar.
He doesn’t even ping it.
Eh.
But Tac? She wants to return to Tac. Tac, who smelled of her claiming him when he entered the galley. The violence that I’d felt towards my friend who even now feels akin to a competitor… He would be my first target if I lose my senses! And Grake? Grake must stay far, far away from me.
Because strangling hobs is my family’s dark specialty.
CHAPTER 44
TARA
Brax had been so reluctant about losing his heavy metal cuffs. He had held his ground, even going so far as to lean back when I tried to lead him out of the room.
Alright. Working on a hunch, I slide off the leather bracelet that Tac made me. It has enough length that it wraps a couple of times around my wrist, so when I unwind it, it’s easy to use it to cuff us together.
And just like I’d guessed: Brax lets me do it, and only after this does he follow when I tug him forward. Obviously, he could snap it, but I’m hoping that since he isn’t interested in hurting me, that he’ll be careful not to snap it and hurt me as we go around the ship. Yes, he’s a real danger to the guys, not me—I did pick up on that between my super sleuth skills and all the little territorial Brax-growls that went on whenever the guys tried to drop in.
I don’t know how my ass got suddenly stamped all ‘Property-of-Brax’—but I didn’t agree to this. Now that I’ve had a chance to do a little ironing-out of my issues, I don’t think Tac agrees with this either, at least not entirely. I guess he should have spit on me first.
I am enormously grateful that Brax’s form of ‘marking’ is spit and not urine, or he’d have lifted his leg all over me by now.
As it is, he felt it necessary to give me a thorough ‘sliming’ before we could leave the room.
I’m still shaking my head over it. Crazy alien. At least his spit smells good, and dries fast. And speaking of aliens, I need to find one, and make up. Because I feel really guilty for the way I ignored him when he came to check on me. It’s not his fault I have hang-ups. It’s also pretty much not his fault he had a part in triggering them. He is not responsible for the events that happened in my past and I’m not convinced his actions in these circumstances were as callous as I instinctively took them to be. He doesn’t deserve—doesn’t seem to have done a thing that actually qualifies for how deeply betrayed I’d felt.
And since I can’t actually say any of this to him in a way he’ll understand, making up is basically going to be a hug. That’s the gist of my plan. It’s basic, but, I’m hoping it’s a good start. Clear. Concise. I just have to keep this giant stripey golden grouch from losing his mind when I do it.
We’re almost to the service room when an alarm blares. I should be used to it: I’ve heard it enough times, but I still flinch. Brax’s hands carefully come around me to cup over my ears.
I blink, facing forward and processing the warmth of his hands and the thoughtfulness of his gesture. Is this the same guy that insisted I kneel for him?
Pressure is gently applied, his hands pressing slightly in, then down, so that my head tips back enough that I can see him looming above me. He shakes his head, causing hi
s horns to scrape tracks on the hallway walls.
“‘No’, you don’t want me to bug Tac right now?” This is the most serious-sounding of the alarms. “Or you just don’t want me to see Tac at all?”
His eyes narrow as he studies my lips, before his gaze travels to mine again. He looks frustrated—boy can I sympathize. This no-talking isn’t exactly what I’d call a good time either.
Another alarm starts to blare.
I sigh. I work to pull my chin down until Brax let’s up on the pressure, but like a sweet dork, he keeps his hands over my ears as I guide us to the maintenance closet, then to another deck, one where the alarms can still be heard, but only barely. It’s almost silent here. This is Lem’s level, with his side of the hallway being the quietest place in the whole ship. I pull the baggie of mop-cleaner chunks from my pocket. Earlier, when I’d been confused, and scared and—I think—sort of understandably-angry: Brax handed me the mopping-soap bars. The ones that were kind of therapeutic to snap into little tiny pieces.
Oh, I’d snapped. I’d snapped alright. I threw them, I kicked them, I’d stomped on them. I’d used all the strength I possessed to grind them between my hands.
Admittedly, I wasn’t all that strong: when one piece refused to break and tried to ruin my fantasy—the one where I’m hulk-capable and in control of everything I want to be—I’d felt so incensed. Powerless.
Until Brax had reached over me, closed his hands over mine, and crammed our hands together, pulverizing that soap.
Now I turn to him and motion for the bucket he’s been wheeling behind us, courtesy of his tail’s guidance. He scowls.
“I can mop.”
His scowl grows deeper.
I point to the mop handle he’s got tucked under his arm. I look him right in the eye, and I snap my fingers.