by Amanda Milo
CHAPTER 17
GRACIE
On my way out, my thoughts are swirling. First things first: draw up plans and design this human preserve aka village.
We can have a town square. We’ll sell all the good stuff: coffee, chocolate—the essentials—plus clothes. Fabric to make more clothes. And I don’t know, whatever else you sell in a square. Maybe produce—
That sounds good. For that, we’ll need farmland. Gotta talk to Laura about the size we’re going to need. She knows all that stuff and I know she brought home more seeds and plants than just cocoa and coffee beans—
Tink ambushes me.
Really, he just approaches from the side. But to my slightly distracted mind, I see a giant figure coming at me, and… I’ve been doing pretty good. But unfortunately for the both of us, he sets off a dark reaction.
I know the minute he smells that I’m freaked, because his ears drop guiltily and he backs up, the set of shoulders broadcasting loud and clear that he’s ashamed.
No need. I’m ashamed enough for the both of us.
I check the flowers to make sure I didn’t crush them, and to give myself a moment to pull my shite together. Fuuuuck, I hate this. This isn’t me. In my old life, I feared no one; if anything, people feared me. I miss that.
One day at a time, I’m getting that back. I rally by clearing my throat and trying to tease him. “Oh, now you want to talk to me? Got sick of the quiet, huh?”
His shoulders relax, probably because I don’t sound afraid. “You think I had a chance to experience quiet? You were a dozen steps away on the gallery. I could hear you.”
I pretend to look confused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
His lip twitches, which makes me want to fist-pump the air. His next words blow my sails right into serious territory though. “Although I… appreciate your effort, you don’t have to defend me.”
I tug on my earlobe. “Yeah, sorry about putting you on the spot like that. That wasn’t my intention. I uh, I see the wisdom in shutting—”
Tink shakes his horns. “I’m not censoring how I feel. You know gladiators. I’m not one. My goal was to join a Gryfala’s service, and Dohartaigh Chose me. This life pleases my nature.”
“But being separated—” I start, but he shakes his horns again.
“I’m not like the Rakhii you know. Controls are in place so that bonding doesn’t become a concern. Dohartaigh’s Rakhii before me, Mabahote…” He absently taps the flat side of his blade to the length of his hand, like a man would tap the end of his pen when he’s lost in thought. “Young Gryfala make mistakes. She learned from hers.”
‘I was young. I made many decisions with my hearts that, in the end, served us as much happiness as they did heartsache.’
Is this what she meant too? Not just Stelen, but this Mabahote? What happened to him?
“Just…” Tink starts. “Keep an open mind.”
All these pieces and sides to the aliens I’m getting to know—that they’re letting me see. I meet Tink’s eyes—Tink’s fiery honey eyes, just like the blooms Dohartaigh was sniffing and smiling over—and I nod. “Deal. I can do that.”
***
Banister. Bannister. Depending on which side of the pond you’re on, like so many other words, there’s a variation in spelling. Sometimes, just to fuck with you, regional colloquial preference comes into play.
I shrug to myself. Whatever you want to call it, I’d been clinging to this railing like it was my personal cripple stick on my journey up here. It’s exceptionally smooth and—I test it by trying to wiggle it violently—sturdy. It doesn’t even budge.
Perfect.
I peer over the side.
That’s a long, long way down. If I fall off, I could break my neck and die.
Or I could walk alllll the way down. Carefully. Slowly...
I snort. Come on. This is me. There’s no way in hell I’m walking down forty-four thousandy steps when I have an alternative. A fun alternative.
I mount this bitch, tuck the flower stems under my arm, shove myself back with the pull of gravity—and bite back an adrenalized laugh when my stomach drops out.
I haven’t done this since I was a kid. Why’d I ever stop?
I’m moving fast!
Around and around I go, the stairs spiraling down, down, down—it’s exhilarating!
Until my hands heat.
Oh crap. When Friction Is Bad.
I grit my teeth. Shite! If I thought the blisters on my feet from walking up all the stairs were going to be ugly, I can’t wait to see what sliding down’s going to do to my damn palms. Owwwwwwwwwwwwch.
I resist the urge to yelp. I’m resigned to my fate and I’ll go down with my dignity dammit.
Suddenly, my stomach pitches again but this time, it’s because I’m airborne—all I see is iridescent, inky black traced with streaks of electric sky.
I’ve been hobbed.
Carefully, Dohrein tugs the flowers free from under my arm, and I sort of dangle for a second as he works to get us adjusted so that I can hug onto his front.
This must be what it’s like for a bluegill when it gets itself snatched up by an Osprey. Not the settling-their-fins-around-bird-hips part—that’s just ridiculous—but the being ripped into the air part.
It’s not bad. Feels thrilling. I bet the bluegill doesn’t enjoy it like I am.
“You’re so lucky I’m not afraid of heights,” I pant. This is normally the part where I’d feel him up inappropriately to test his ability not to drop us both, but my hands are sorta fucked up.
My chest slams against his; he’s got us fully koala’d. I carefully wrap my arms around his neck and bring my knees tight against his ribs.
Dohrein’s wings pump down, jacking us up a good two or three meters, and his voice echoes off the tower’s stones. “Are you insane?!”
I look down below us, and give in to the urge to whoop. “THAT was AWESOME!” Squeezing my knees so that I can lean back in his arms, relying on the iron grip of my thighs to ensure I don’t fall, I examine my hands. “I just need gloves, and I’m ready to go again.”
“That answers that,” he mutters.
He folds his wings and we dive, dropping to the ground at a speed I can fully enjoy—this time, my skin isn’t trying to start on fire. “You make everything better!” I shout happily.
He looks down at me like I’ve lost my freaking mind.
When he sets me on the ground, I realize the state of my hands could be a hindrance, and I want no setbacks to my plans. I ask, “Think Tink can spit on me?”
Dohrein carefully takes my fingers, starting to cluck at the damage, but hisses when he sees the blood forming under some wicked blisters. “Not Tink.”
“Because he belongs to your mom?”
“That is precisely the reason,” he confirms.
“But Zadeon’s okay? He’s allowed to expectorate on me?” I find this hilarious. It’s the whole concept of it being considered rude for a big horned alien to spit on me because he belongs to a dangerously possessive little alien.
We may be even smaller than Gryfala, but I think they’re underestimating the possessiveness of humans. “You know what we should do?”
Still examining the state of my hands Dohrein murmurs, “Is it reckless and dangerous? Yes, please inform me of your plans ahead of time. Perhaps I can distract you before you manage to carry them out.”
“Orgasms work,” I offer before sharing my thought. “We should keep an unattached Rakhii on tap.”
Dohrein’s eyebrows do that thing where they hike up to his hairline and he rocks back—but he’s still holding my hands so it feels like we’re suddenly dancing. “You don’t go anywhere near an unmated Rakhii.”
He doesn’t say this like he’s laying down the law. He says it like he’s pointing out a fact. I scoff. “We just flew to Earth with a bunch of them.”
He gives me a this should be obvious but sometimes one has to lead a human look. “You didn�
�t go near them.”
Arrogant arse. He’s right though. I didn’t really get close, except to maybe shake out Hotahn’s ears in a bid to curb him from emptying a daycare (I can imagine it: ‘Parents just ABANDONED their offspring!’), and I definitely—weirdly—didn’t go around asking to be spit on.
That last part because, somehow, it never came up. Go figure on that one.
“Does she require aid?”
The voice makes Dohrein’s spine shoot straight. His wings protectively half-clasp around me, momentarily blocking my view—before he gets control of himself and they fold, clamping tightly to his back.
I look over his shoulder and see Stelen.
He’s resting on his heels, elbows over his thighs, perched on the banister midway above us.
Dohrein stiffly turns to face his father, and Stelen’s gaze moves over him before he addresses me directly, asking, “Well?”
His tone could almost be considered contrite.
I let my hands drop. I’d slide them into the pockets of my pants, but I’m pretty sure that move would make even me cry, so I don’t dare. “Nah. We’re good. ...Thanks though.”
His tongue presses into his lower lip, and man—I’ve seen Dohrein do this. It’s weird, how intensely I despise the way this male has treated his son… and yet I see so much of his son in him.
He nods, and as soundlessly as he landed, he alights off the banister and leaves us alone.
Tense now, no longer in a teasing mood, Rein gathers me to him, and flies us home.
***
DOHREIN
On one wing I’m reluctant to disturb Zadeon considering he has a new pup and a recovering mate—but my mate is hurt. There is no other choice.
Or so I believe.
We approach just as Arokh and Angie are working very hard to make their own exit of Zadeon’s dwelling a silent one.
“Is my tiny, adorable, honorary nephew sleeping?” Gracie whispers.
Arokh’s horns bob.
“We’ll come back then,” Gracie murmurs. “Let them sleep while they can sleep.”
As I place the flowers outside the door and make a note to send a Comm to the couple to pass on congratulations from my dam and sires, Angie excitedly squeaks, “Baskian’s so cute!”
Gracie’s smile is strained. “That little guy is ovary dynamite.”
Arokh’s nostrils flare. “I smell burnt human blood?”
Angie eyes Gracie with mock censure. “Been performing human sacrifices again?”
Gracie holds up her hands. “I have a comeback, but I’m on my best behavior because I could use some magic spit.”
“You’re exercising best behavior? Does it hurt?” Angie teases.
Gracie’s eyes dance. “The more I have to bite back, the more painful it gets.”
Arokh waits out their banter, then sends a questioning glance at Angie before he makes a move.
Angie smiles openly. “I’d love it if you spit on Gracie. By all means, do!”
Gracie’s chin lifts. “You’re too kind, you know that?”
“Thank you, thank you.” Angie covers her mouth when she gets a better look. “What the heck happened?” she whispers. “Were you shagging on carpet?”
Gracie begins to spasm, which is only a little less alarming than watching her skin turn a painful-looking shade of purple.
She holds up her damaged hands at Angie in accusation before she turns to me and buries her face against my chest.
To stifle her laughter.
She can’t cover her mouth with her hands, and she can’t laugh because she’ll wake the new babe and disturb his parents.
I wrap my arms around her, and grin as I help her suffocate herself.
When she regains control, she pulls back, her eyes streaming, her breath coming in laughter-repressed shudders. “Okay, spit on me quick, Arokh. I gotta get out of here.”
Arokh has excellent aim, and—mindful of Gracie’s aversion of being crowded by males—he manages to stay well back as he ejects saliva on her torn-up skin.
“If you peel up the blisters and apply that under them, it will heal that undermost layer,” he offers.
“Yay,” Gracie murmurs. “Seriously though, thanks.”
He inclines his head.
To me, he extends his hand.
Slowly at first, I move to reciprocate, tapping my fingertips to his in wonder.
Friendship achieved.
CHAPTER 18
DOHREIN
I’m viewing Hotahn’s group when Gracie steps in front of me, rises up on her toes, and plants her rump between my thighs.
I have no objections.
My hands slide to her knees. I bury my nose in her mane, inhaling her scent.
“I love it when you do that,” she tells me.
“I’m rather fond of it too,” I whisper into her neck, and watch her shiver. I press my lips to her skin. “The only thing you lack is the scent of popcorn.”
Gracie guffaws, tossing aside her sketchbook of designs. “Well maybe we’d have popcorn if I had a cool alien who could heat it for me, but—”
Her words cut off when I stand to her challenge and dump her into my seat. “Here,” I thrust a chilled glass cylinder into her palm. “Hold my beaker. Watch this.”
Biting her lips, mirthful tears leaking from her eyes, she nods, clearly too amused to form words.
When I return with the small golden kernels, Gracie’s eyes dance with curiosity.
I open my chemistry cupboard and select my widest glass flask. I motion for the beaker she’s holding. “The creamed yanak milk, if you please.”
When I light the powered burner—no Rakhii required—I send her an excessively prideful raise of my brow.
“You’re so sexy when you get nerdy,” she sighs, beaming at me.
I adopt a patient expression. “I know.”
“And modest,” she adds with feigned sincerity.
“Now, now. I’ve never made claim to that,” I murmur, using tongs to rock the beaker, tilting it back and forth to keep the yanak milk from burning. When it’s bubbling slightly, we add the kernels.
The golden shells crack more violently than gratusi eggs, and leap into the air as if they’re alive.
“The heat causes internal pressure.” I hum, only pausing when Gracie places her hand on my chest—I resume when I realize she’s attempting to feel the vibration.
Gryfala learn their hobs this way. Warmth bathes my hearts that Gracie is seeking to know me in all ways, and me alone.
Without taking my eyes off the kernels, I catch her with my wing and bring her even closer.
“They bust open and that’s what makes them jump and pop,” she agrees, voice as level as mine as we view our experiment with rapt focus.
When all the kernels have puffed into edible form, I remove a pestle from an empty herb mortar bowl and dump in our results, then move for our seats—
Gracie tugs me to the stuffed lounging furniture she calls a sofa.
Humans love sofas.
Rakhii love lounging on sofas because nothing interferes with their horns and the cushioned seats don’t pinch their tail base.
They pose a special challenge for hobs though. I tend to drape my wings along the back and over either arm, letting them crumple limply where my body and Gracie’s rests against them. It isn’t painful, just takes a bit of getting used to. The seat itself is quite comfortable.
There’s one in nearly every area now, thanks to my fellow industrious hobs. Early on in the human’s arrival, hobs flocked to the females, hoping to be added to harems.
They flocked Gracie too, and one day I went searching for her only to find her directing half a dozen hobs to drill, sand, and upholster as if they were her slaves, not her romantic admirers. “Hey, they said they’d do anything I asked. You should’ve seen the ideas I considered but benevolently cast aside—I restrained myself. I should get points.”
Bemused, I’d cut her a smile. “I am still taking your toys aw
ay. Don’t glower at me.”
Now I join her on this pinnacle of lounging, and when I hand her the food, I tug her legs over my lap so she rests on me crossways.
We test our experiment and watch our Rakhii viewing window in companionable quiet until Gracie asks, “Rein?”
The hidden danger in this food is the odd organic shrapnel that lodges itself between your fangs. They dig in worse than burrs from a pultja weed. “Hmm?”
When she doesn’t say anything more, I stop attempting to lick it free, and give her my full attention. “What is it, mshula?”
She smiles softly at me. “Your beaker popcorn tops Rakhii popcorn.”
I give her toes an affectionate squeeze.
But even though she faces forward again to resume viewing, I can’t pull my attention from her. She’s so unguarded in this moment.
It’s beautiful.
She’s beautiful.
I take her far hand and tug her so she sprawls on me—lithely catching the mortar bowl and setting it aside.
I growl into her mane, making her laugh again.
She grinds herself down on my lap, making me lose focus of everything but her.
She’s aware of her effect: her teeth flash in a wicked grin. My eyes narrow.
She rights herself and airily declares, “Oh, that’s right; you wanted to watch some Rakhii nanny cam…” Her body jolts. “Why does that sound dirty? It has to be the word ‘cam.’ It shouldn’t be nanny. That’s just wrong.”
I’m having difficulty achieving any semblance of higher thought due to my throbbing cock stealing all the blood from my brain, but curiosity works wonders. I feel compelled to hear more about this. I lean over her and tip up her chin so that I can see her face. “Explain.”
Gracie opens her mouth to speak, but she’s cut off by Cricket asking Hotahn if he wants to go outside.
“Do you wish to go outside?” he counters in a gentle fashion.
Her tiny shoulders shrug. “Only if you do.”
Hotahn’s troubling answer is, “No.”
“That Rakhii lied to me—I knew no was his favorite word. What’s his deal with taking them outside?” Gracie wonders aloud.
His reluctance has been nagging at my own mind, since I first noticed his hesitation to take his charges outdoors.
