by Amanda Milo
Bash keeps on. “You’ll recall that I shared with you how I’ve been kept by a Gryfala before. I’ll save you the sordid details of how she crushed my hearts—”
“Oh, Bash,” I say softly. Sadly.
“—but she amazed me with her ability to be nothing more than… ‘friends’ with benefits,” he drawls, his eyes incandescent with emotion. “I told her that I loved her; she informed me that I was smothering her.”
I can’t speak. My words have dried up, and my esophagus feels like it’s been decorated in sandpaper. My eyes, thankfully, stay dry, though they are stinging something awful.
“So forgive me,” Bash continues, voice cold enough to give me frostbite, “if I decline the honor of just a fuck with you.”
I force my teeth to unclench and ignore how my voice wobbles. “Bash, that’s not what I—actually, I’d like more for us. So much more.”
I’m not sure if he even hears me. If he does, he’s too far gone in his (hurt) anger to believe me. He holds up a hand, and his claws glint, catching light from his brightly burning eyes. “Done. Consider me done with trying to woo you.”
I wish I could shout out a speech impassioned enough to make him see I didn’t mean to offend him. Heck yeah, I want more, but I’ll settle. I’ve learned to settle, because that’s what guys want.
I thought that’s what he wanted too.
But now he’s too injured to really listen, and I’m too emotional to effectively communicate.
I figure he’ll stalk off, he’s furious enough to leave me all alone in the very empty quarry—but he doesn’t do that. He motions to me. “Come. I’ll take you to the preserve.”
“I can find my own way back,” I mumble.
“And I will follow you to make certain that you do,” he grits out, clearly not about to be budged on this issue.
In the end, I trudge to the compound, feeling him behind me even if he doesn’t speak. It’s one of the rare times in my life where I don’t say anything either, but not because I’m boiling with anger like he is.
I’m not angry; I’m sad. I feel like I’ve lost my friend. I just don’t know what to say to fix this, and I know that anything I utter is bound to make things worse.
CHAPTER 28
ISLA
“My next question... How prolonged can one expect this stage to be? Feel free to approximate,” Dohrein murmurs, sounding slightly distracted, as if half his attention is being put into organizing medical data on the tablet of notes that never seems to leave his hand.
I’m on my back, stretched out on the floor, feeling glum. I’m also pouring my heart out to the girls, which also means I’m baring my soul in front of their mates (and Jonohkada), because most of the guys here do not really grasp the concept of private girl-talk. Now that we’re off the clock and not at work, they expect to be at their women’s side as much as they want. And the women here don’t deter them. They want to sit on their mate’s lap and let him play with their hair while they tolerate me whining and moaning about my relationship problems. It’s adorable to the point of being disgusting—but only mostly because I’m having issues getting my own alien to do this couple’s thing with me.
We’re at the infamous compound, a place that looks like a giant sprawling laboratory from the outside… and pretty much looks like one on the inside too. It’s essentially a labyrinth of human cages. Nice ones though. Less a prison; more like hamster setups. It’s got some weird rooms, like a mud room that started out as a site where the aliens tested our interest in building nests (before one of them simply asked us if our species built nests—I guess some of them were just super excited to geek out and field test things on the aliens they’d never seen before) but now serve as the beauty treatment room where you can take a full mud bath or get a facial. (Been there today, done that. My skin is glowing, but my spirits are low.) Before I came here, I guess this place was one big science kit. You know, like the ‘Grow your own tadpole!’ kits they’d sell at the elementary school fair. But instead of twenty-eight little tanks of full-grown laboratory leopard frogs, the Gryfala and hobs were observing humans in a labyrinth of individual rooms.
They’ve relaxed a lot of that now. They still watch us, but I hear it’s a lot less invasive. Whenever we gather in social settings where the act of observing us is not quite the encroachment on our privacy, they’re especially thrilled. The aliens have kitted out large activity rooms like a gym and a dedicated dance studio, and this socializing room with all of its soft surfaces at various heights (a little suspect, the heights. Like they were wondering if we sat according to hierarchy, but Gracie assured me the various surfaces are for comfy sex. She’s a kidder). That Gracie, who is definitely a natural-born leader-type personality, never takes a floor pillow probably has more to do with her supremely pregnant state and not the fact that dominant humans do not sit lower than non-dominant humans. I’m sure the aliens observing us have not received any misguided impressions about where we choose to park ourselves having any correlation to our personality or social dynamic.
For the record, I like the floor pillows. They’re comfy.
But back to Dohrein’s classification of the human stages of relationship grief. Gracie is a total champ and helps his analysis along by providing official terms. “You can call it what it is. This is the whiny bitch stage.”
“Yes, that is the label I have listed here courtesy of your notes,” Dohrein says, still murmuring, and there’s soft tapping as he adds to his notes on this strange-to-him human condition. “Now for the timeframe. It would be helpful to list the common duration of this condition. For science,” he clarifies. “How long would a female in Isla’s situation pine for?”
“Forever,” I mutter.
“Til she gets banged,” Gracie answers, like I didn’t talk at all.
Dohrein remains perfectly professional in his interest. “Does she have to be serviced by the male she initially began her pining for, or—”
“YES,” I say.
“Not always,” Gracie speaks over me easily, on account of her mate sitting like twelve inches behind her, cupped to her back on the sofa, supporting her, sitting sort of sideways with his huge leathery wings flopped over the couch arm.
Dohrein hums thoughtfully. “Are humans like Gryfala where they perish without their males? We’ve encountered the human phrase die of a broken heart, but could find no medical data to support it in Homo sapiens. We would welcome reliable anecdotes. Will one of you perish from pining?”
“I might die,” I moan.
“Fuck no,” Gracie answers. “She gets another twenty minutes to sulk and then one of you helps stand me up so I can kick her in her sorry arse.”
“I’m not sulking,” I complain.
“Moping?” Angie tries to offer helpfully from her spot on the other sofa.
“Brooding,” Mandi suggests. She’s also on a sofa.
“Despairing?” Jonohkada asks, voice tentative. He’s sitting on the floor not far from me. If there was any basis to this human-seating-hierarchy debate, well, you know where we sit.
I point to him, shouting, “That’s it! I’m despairing!” Then I whimper a little, feeling the pity wave roll over me.
All the women in the room groan.
Jonoh is grimacing, clutching his drawing pen or pencil or whatever he’s been using to draw with. “Sorry,” he whispers to his leader, (of course it’s Gracie, who else would it be?). “I thought we were helping to label her—”
“I’ve added ‘despairing,’” Dohrein confirms for him pretty kindly, which is really nice because Dohrein is just a tiny bit standoffish with Jonohkada. He has to know the guy would never dare to make a play for Gracie, plus Gracie sees Jonoh as almost nothing more than a little kid and her personal henchman-boy-puppy. But still, there’s a very real territorial barrier that circles invisibly around Gracie whenever Dohrein is with her and Jonohkada is near. Earlier tonight, Jonoh made the mistake of looking to Gracie for an answer, and he must have looked a
t her for too long because Dohrein had leaned forward, forcing himself into Jonoh’s line of sight, Dohrein’s jaw brushing Gracie’s face as he silently stared pure warning into Jonoh’s eyes. No longer the slightly absent science-geek scholar; he was a deadly mated male protecting his claim on his woman.
I’d thought to myself Sheesh, just tattoo your name on her skin already.
And then Dohrein’s blue-marked black wings had folded around Gracie with a slap that made her gasp—and when he peeled his wings away, he’d left sparkly marks on her skin. Like a butterfly’s powder gets transferred to your fingertips if you brush against them, his wings had dusted Gracie but with boldly printed lines perfectly matching his wing designs. As if that wasn’t enough of a She Belongs to ME, Dohrein kept staring at poor Jonohkada. A serious, pointed look that had Jonoh immediately dropping his gaze and going back to what he was working on.
Gracie had Dohrein help her up so she could drag her mate to the nearest empty room for a quickie. Apparently what everyone’s told me about a hob’s wing powder is true: it basically makes you go into heat. When the pair returned to the couch, she’d sighed happily and lazily as she’d sank back on the cushions, her hair messed up. Beside her, Dohrein sank down too, looking much, much more relaxed.
I should probably be thinking that Dohrein is a total meanie. But he’s normally super non-reactive—and to have a guy so crazy in love with you that he even sees Jonohkada as a threat…? I sigh wistfully, imagining it. Gracie is such a lucky witch.
Hearing me sigh—loudly—for, oh, maybe the four-hundredth time, makes everyone else in the room groan again.
“Shut her up!” Mandi complains.
“Rein’s timing her,” Gracie says. And I know this means they’re really doing it, really timing me. And that also means she really will kick my ass if I don’t suck it up and pull it together soon.
“How many more minutes do I have?” I ask.
“You’ll know when my boot is planted in your—”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. I got it,” I sigh.
“Is punting a pining female a medically approved method of treatment?” Dohrein asks, sounding stymied.
“Only if you’re a power-drunk pregnant psycho,” I mutter.
“It is for Isla,” Gracie states, and nobody pipes up to say otherwise. Cowards. (That, or they’re sick of hearing me whine and they agree with the pregnant British Napoleon.) Gracie’s got some sort of sewing project in her hands—probably a Voodoo doll—and she’s answering all of her husband’s nosy questions as he observes me ‘pining.’ On the second sofa adjacent to the couple is Mandi—her man-cat is not on the couch with her, he’s claimed the corner of the room closest to her, his shoulders propping up the wall, looking perfectly mysterious as he stays in the shadows both figuratively as well as literally—and Angie’s on the couch parked opposite from Mandi, and her mate, Arokh is standing, tall thigh propped against the couch arm, but not looking very at-ease. Early on, he refused to involve himself in our discussion of my Rakhii-love woes. Something about feeling disloyal to his brethren. He’s also struggling with others being so close to Angie. She’s pregnant, and to his mind, she’s therefore super damn delicate and can’t fend off female attackers, should she receive any. We’ve assured him that none of us ladies are going to claw up a pregnant woman, and he’s taking us at our word as best he can. It’s actually really sweet to see him stress about it. You know, if you can stand to see that level of cute alien coupledom.
Me? Hell no, I’m so relationship-miserable that watching them be all loving and protective and supportive of each other is groan-worthy.
I toe off my socks and fold my arm under my head, wriggling to get more comfortable.
Not far from me, Jonohkada frowns at my position change, because he’s been trying to draw me. This isn’t like a Jack’s French girls session; I have both of my legs for one thing, and Jonoh draws women’s body shapes so that he and Gracie and other design-minded hobs can create custom-fitted fashionwear.
Never having met a man who possessed an eye for fashion like Jonoh, when he asked if he could sketch my shape (on account of me being stretched out and moping and still as the dead, I guess) I innocently asked if he was gay, and Gracie accidentally kicked me in the head. For those of you who don’t need your brains clobbered today, I can tell you that the answer is Jonohkada is not gay. He’s apparently a perfectly straight lover of sewing women’s clothing, and he’s only single because no woman has seen the wonderfulness that is Jonoh. Jonoh turns his tablet around to show me and Gracie an outfit that he’s already started designing.
“Oooh, very Kyudo attire-y,” Gracie muses, eyes flicking over the lines he’s drawn.
“Translator’s not working,” I complain, sprawling myself out further.
From the other couch, Mandi explains, “Japanese archer. A type of martial arts.”
I raise my head enough to look at her, and then I notice her outfit has a similar look. “Huh. Neat.” I wave to Jonohkada. “I’m good with this. Nice job, sir.”
He smiles at me affably and turns his tablet back around to continue his sketching. “What colors are your favorites?”
“Right now, my favorite color is the gorgeous green of Bash’s eyes.” I whimper to myself, sounding like a lovesick puppy. Which prompts Jonoh to sigh.
He disapproves of Bash, but only because Bash had plans to abduct me. I guess hobs develop weird wary aversions to the kinds of males who would steal (willing) women.
Hobs need to relax.
“Hmm,” Dohrein murmurs to himself. “I came across a proper term for someone who becomes obsessed with the color green.” He taps on his tablet, probably searching for the word.
From the floor, Jonoh offers, “Viridiphile. The term you’re looking for—” he shoots a pitying look at me, “is viridiphile.”
“Ah, yes. Well done,” Dohrein says, sounding genuinely pleased. “And since we’re on the topic of words, I came across one you might like. One that’s almost ironic considering our discussion. Squabash: to crush, most often with criticism.”
“Oh, that’s very nice,” Jonoh says.
I flop my hand in Jonoh’s direction. “Your brains are amazing.”
Jonoh smiles. “You could say we hobs are Philonoists, to borrow your human term. We love knowledge.”
Dohrein is back to tapping on his device. “Also logophiles. We love words. Jonohkada in particular.”
“That’s neat, Jonoh,” I tell him.
He draws his wings closer to his body, but I see the citrine-marked insides turning brighter at the compliment.
“You’re still here?” Laura asks, entering the room being carried piggyback style on Crispin’s back, her hob who has no wings. Seeing no place to sit, or rather, seeing no high-up place where he wants his woman to sit, he chooses to stand.
Let me just repeat: he’d rather carry her on his back than set her on a floor pillow with the lowly folk (me and Jonoh)—it’s so romantic I could swoon.
“Yeah,” Gracie answers her. “But she’s only got—” She reaches back and tips Dohrein’s tablet in her direction so she can read his timer upside down. Since alien time is different than what we’re used to, I’m not sure if she’s actually reading it accurately or if she’s making it up when she finishes “—three minutes left of this, and then I’m going to start kicking her arse until she gets up.”
“Hmm,” Laura murmurs, her arms crossed easily over Crispin’s collarbone. “You know what this pity party needs?”
“Bash,” I answer.
“Ice cream,” she says, answering her own question. Crispin is practically wearing her like a blanket. This pair is basically snuggie-ing each other. It’s disgusting in its level of domesticity. Disgusting and wonderful and if I can’t have it, at least I can have delicious calories.
“Comfort food sounds good,” I say. “Bring on the ice cream, please.”
“Would you like assistance gaining your feet before Gracie aids you in her spe
cial way?” Jonohkada asks politely.
“Sure,” I tell him, and flop my arm in his direction.
Smiling wryly, he clasps my wrist, and I clasp his—and then he so easily has me up on my feet that I blink at him. “Dang, you’re strong,” I tell him like he doesn’t know. He may not be Rakhii-sized, but his gentle nature does not equate to weak, either.
“Thank you?” he answers, looking unsure. And then he wrinkles his nose as he gently releases my wrist.
“What was that for?” I ask him.
Jonoh winces like he’s been caught doing something rude. “Sincerest apologies.”
“What was the look for?” I persist.
Jonoh glances to the side, so I glance over too and find Dohrein and Gracie, the science couple, neither one of them respectively busy with their notes or their sewing anymore but instead unabashedly staring at me and Jonoh. “Go on,” Dohrein says, his writing instrument poised over his tablet.
I swing my head back to look up at Jonohkada. “Yeah, go on. Tell me.”
Jonoh exhales, and even in this, he somehow manages to express a genuine nice-guy regret. “You… smell.”
I rear back. I sniff myself. “I stink? I still smell the shower gel I used this morning.” I shake my head. “And besides, I can’t be funky enough to worry about yet. I just started my failed date-woes tonight. I’ve got at least two days of lamenting my rejected status and stewing in my skin ahead of me before I’m stanky enough to toss in the tub.”
Jonoh looks uncomfortable. And a little confused, like he’s having trouble following everything I said. “You scent strongly of a territorial Rakhii. You’ve been marked.”
I stare at him. “Are you saying I smell like Bash?”
Jonohkada’s eyebrows go up. “Oh yes.”
Hope blossoms inside me. And you know when the apples of your cheeks ride up in your vision, changing your eye shape? My cheeks have popped up big time, proving I’m smiling huge. I probably look crazy. “He marked me good?”