by Dixon, Ruby
But instead, I find myself reaching into the bag and getting out another handful, then offering it to him. I watch his tongue flick out as he dines, eating them with enthusiasm. His tongue flicks and rasps against my skin, and I'm fascinated by it. I don't even realize I'm trembling until he captures my wrist and holds my hand steady so he can finish lapping up every crumb.
"I'm an awful person," I whisper to him, because right now I'm imagining pouring handfuls of trail mix all over my body to see if he'll tongue me everywhere.
Good lord, what is wrong with me? I barely know the man and here I am wanting to do all sorts of naughty things with him, when it's clear he's not interested in me. It's not like me. I've never been particularly interested in sex, not after I watched Mama taking all kinds of men in her room so she could get her crack fix. That was so repulsive that I never even dated, not once. I didn't want to turn into her. I figured my hand (and imagination) would work just fine if I was getting lonely.
Now, of course, I'm acting like some sort of wintry jezebel the moment a guy's tongue touches my skin.
I put a hand between my breasts. Is it my cootie? I remember Veronica and Ashtar, and the sound that they made. It was impossible to ignore, like the drone of a thousand angry bees. But my chest is silent, even as my pussy throbs with heat.
This is all very strange.
Gren studies me, and I offer him the bag, blushing. "Sorry. I'm a poor sort of host, aren't I?"
"Friend," he says gruffly.
"Absolutely. Friend." And that's all that we are, even if I'm reacting strangely.
I try not to notice that Gren continues to eat until nearly the entire bag is gone. He's starving, so we'll need to figure out how to hunt for some fresh food. The blue aliens—the sa-khui—made it look pretty easy, so I'm sure we can manage something. That's for tomorrow, though. Yawning, I curl up on the spread-out leathers and tell Gren, "Sleep now. Tomorrow's going to be a new adventure."
He lies down across from me, his body stiff and clearly uneasy. He watches me.
I touch one of the leathers I'm lying on. "You want some of these? I didn't even think about making you a bed. I'm a terrible hostess."
Gren shakes his head and closes his eyes, pretending to sleep.
All right, then. I close my eyes as well, hoping I'm tired enough to drift off.
I do sleep, but it's fitful. Every few minutes, I wake up, shivering. It's cold now that we're not moving around, and the temperature has dropped in the night. Every bit of exposed skin feels chilled, and I keep adjusting the leathers, trying to cover myself, but it's no good. I should have brought more blankets, but the one I did bring is currently serving as our tent. I'm already failing at this survival thing.
"Willa." Gren reaches out and touches me when I wake for the dozenth time.
"Sorry," I whisper to him between chattering teeth. "Guess I didn't plan this through very well."
He growls low, and then when he makes the same, dissonant growl, I realize he's trying to tell me something. I struggle to sit up, groggy, and to my surprise, he pulls me across the snowy floor of the lean-to and against his body. I go stiff, but he only tucks my head against his chest and wraps an arm around me, holding me close.
I can't help the little moan that escapes my throat, because he's so warm. I burrow against him, lacing my fingers in the thick pelt that covers his upper chest and tuck myself against his side. "Thank you."
"Friend," he says again, and pats my head like a child.
I fall asleep easily that time, and I don't even mind that his fur's in my face. There's a faint scent of sweat to him, and fur, but I find it comforting and it fills my mind.
I sleep so good. In fact, I sleep so good that my head fills up with all kinds of naughty dreams, dreams of Gren kissing me carefully despite those big teeth, pulling my leggings off and then pushing my knees apart as he comes over me…
I jolt awake, feeling hollow and needy and frustrated. My hand is between my thighs, and I can feel the slick heat pouring off of me from there. Gren sleeps, his breathing even, and for a moment, I want to reach over and caress him between his legs so he can take care of this intense need. I want it so badly that I practically shake with it.
But then I remember how he raced out of the tent when I simply touched his knuckles, and I'm confused. I pull my hand from my leggings and roll away, then do my best to go back to sleep and ignore Gren's presence. That's best for both of us, I think.
I don't know why I'm acting like this. I put my hand to my chest, but it's still silent. Huh.
Maybe all this time I’ve just secretly been a big ol’ horndog and never knew until now.
6
GREN
Willa’s scent changes throughout the night. I sleep lightly, attuned to the faintest of noises, and then after a time, I do not sleep at all. I can survive off an hour or two of rest, and the rest of the evening, I spend holding her close and breathing in her scent, learning her body. I am entranced by her breathing, the sounds she makes while she sleeps, the feel of her against my side. I’ve never been able to sleep next to another, but I recognized her shivering and fitful rest and wanted to share my warmth.
More than anything, I wanted to touch her. Perhaps she is foolish for eagerly moving into my arms and curling trustingly against my side. I am a mutant beast, a fierce gladiator that has won dozens upon dozens of bloody victories in many arenas. But she holds onto me and gives sweet little sighs as she sleeps, and I know I would fight every ooli, mesakkah, a’ani, drakoni, and szzt if they tried to separate us.
Willa does not know of my fierce thoughts, though. She slips her fingers through my fur and I find myself craving her touch, hoping that she will wake up and put her hands everywhere on me. That she will caress the stiff pole of my cock and make my seed come forth. But she only sleeps, and eventually my erection dies a slow death, because I will not touch it. To do so is a betrayal of her trust as she sleeps at my side. So I lie quietly and tell myself this is enough.
But then her scent starts to change.
I am not sure how or why, but it does. It becomes sweeter, more enticing. Did I think my cock ached before? It is nothing compared to how it feels now. It extrudes again, thrusting into the frigid morning air and she lets out a little moan in her sleep, her hand between her thighs. I am panting, I realize, and I grab a fistful of snow and rub it against my aching length, determined to make it recede once more. Eventually it does, but only when I breathe through my mouth. Something about her scent is making me react this way. I wish I knew more of females, so I could know what would cause this.
She stirs, and I go very still, making my breathing even as I close my eyes. She wakes, turns over, and then pulls away from me.
And I feel an intense sense of loss as I gaze at her back.
I wanted her to turn to me, to see that she slept next to me, and smile. To feel her hands on my body. Instead, she has pushed away as if I disgust her.
Perhaps in her eyes, I am yet a monster.
It does not matter. I will be a good protector to her. I vow this even as I grab another handful of snow and place it against my throbbing groin.
* * *
Later that morning, Willa indicates to me that we need to hunt. She gestures at the food we have left, and then the spear, and it does not take long for me to grasp what she means. “Food,” I tell her, but she only gives me a puzzled smile and indicates the pouch of rations again. I find our lack of communication frustrating. Her words sound very different than mine, her language a musical series of sharp sounds mixed with harsh syllables, whereas mine is growled inflections and low notes.
But I keep trying. “Hunt. Food.” I gesture at the spear, then at the rations, then at the distant hills. I mime using the spear to stab at something, and then eating.
Her speckled cheeks grow red. She tries to growl the word for “food” in praxiian, but it comes out garbled and nonsensical, but she understands now that I am speaking to her. We share words, and I
“Shhhhpeeeer,” she says slowly, indicating the weapon.
My teeth get in the way, but I repeat her as best I can, and she looks thrilled at my mangled attempt. She does not care that I am not perfect. It makes it easier to share words, and as we try to communicate, we use gestures and sounds, and it almost becomes a game.
But we need food, and I cannot spend all day here learning her words, not when she needs to be fed and kept safe. We take the spear down from our lean-to, and I put it in her hands, indicating she should follow me. Then, I begin to hunt. I circle outward from our small camp, searching for scent trails. I crouch low from time to time, my face near the snow, and the human keeps behind me a few steps, her hand on the spear, struggling to keep up with my speed. I slow down my pace, because I cannot leave her behind, nor can I carry her. We must figure out a way to work together and this is foreign to me. I have always fought alone, and thinking of another pricks my frustration even as it fills me with pleasure. If only she were faster, or stronger, or her feet did not sink into the snow…
Then she would not be Willa, though, and I would not change her for anything.
So I force myself to be patient. I force myself to creep slowly when I scent a trail, instead of leaping after it. I keep the distance we travel in mind, because we cannot get too far from our camp and our supplies. I smell felines again, and even though I want to steer her in another direction, I head after them. Felines are dangerous, and I do not know how big they come on this world. They can range greatly in size, and it would be smarter to hunt down a plant-eater…but for what I have in mind, I need a carnivore. I sift through scents for what feels like hours, and I know Willa must be getting impatient, but she waits behind me in silence, studying the landscape and watching me with trust in her gaze. I cannot let down that trust. When I find a fresh scent in our vicinity, I pick up the pace, tracking it, and when I locate the source—a den—I pause long enough to indicate to Willa that she must stay safely up on the ridge.
She nods understanding, and then I disappear into the rocky crevices, hunting down the creature. It is a feline with snowy white fur and scarcely large enough to go to Willa’s hip. If this is the feline wildlife here, we are safe. I push my way into its small den fearlessly, attacking it with my claws and ignoring its swipes at my hide. I smell other felines nearby even as I do, so I make this hunt quick. The creature sinks its teeth into my hand. I smack it against one rocky wall of the den and crush its skull, and then it is dead. Tucking my prey under one arm, I emerge from the burrow, only to see Willa standing at the entrance, her face pale and her scent awash with fear.
“Gren!” the human female calls out, her gaze barely flicking over the feline in my grip. She runs her hands over my fur, worry on her face. “Yusokay? Sinjurd?”
I go completely still, aching with hunger at her touches as she moves her hand up and down my arms. My cock thrusts out again, hot need pulsing through me, and the bloodlust still roars through my body. She is soft and vulnerable in front of me, with a body that would be easy to pin down…
I growl a warning at her when she steps closer, and Willa skitters back, startled, her eyes wide.
“It is not safe here, female. I warned you,” I tell her, even though it is useless to spit words at her. She will not understand them. She understands my tone, though, and hurt crosses her speckled face. Willa takes a step back, then two.
Immediately, I am filled with shame. She was worried about me. She touched me, gladly, and I reacted by frightening her. I am angry because my cock aches and throbs and I cannot do anything about it, and I worry that before long, I will just be a walking erection with no relief in sight. I take these frustrations out on her and she does not deserve it.
“I am…sorry,” I tell her. They are not words I have ever said before. “I do not know what it is to worry over another.”
She studies me, her expressive face so full of emotion. Her eyes glow a sad blue, and then she reaches up and caresses my face. “Friends?”
I have never wanted anything more in my life. “Friends,” I agree, and caress her cheek.
7
WILLA
I don’t reckon I’ve ever been so scared as when I saw Gren emerge from the cat’s den, his eyes wild and flashing. He got mad at me for following him, but I heard the howls of the cat and raced forward, worried he was gonna get hurt.
I should have guessed that someone as big and scary as Gren could take care of himself. He emerged with the dead cat—about the size of a mountain lion—slung under one arm and a fierce scowl for me. It fades quickly enough and he apologizes, but I make sure to keep my distance as we head back atop one of the snowy bluffs. There, Gren crouches over the kill and slits open the belly, letting the organs spill out before grabbing one and offering it to me.
I swallow hard.
I know this is food. I really do. I know we’re in a survival situation, and he’s trying to feed me. But when I look at the dead cat with the innards hanging out, bad memories flash through my mind. I close my eyes, and I can still see Uncle Dick’s pit bulls, fighting to the death. I can see one nearly-white dog covered in blood, limping to get away, with her guts dragging in the dirt behind her. Even though she won her fight, Uncle Dick’s dogs never went to the vet, so he took her down with his shotgun a short time later. I remember that day with horrifying clarity, because it was my twelfth birthday, and one of Uncle Dick’s buddies tried to sit me on his lap and squeeze my tits.
So when I see the wet, steaming organ held out to me, my throat locks up. I give Gren a subtle shake of my head. I can’t.
Even if it’s a matter of life or death, I can’t. Maybe if it was roasted over a fire, or I didn’t see him claw it out of the critter’s belly, but…I just can’t.
I try to smile and push it back toward him. “It was your kill,” I manage. “You eat it.”
Gren nudges it toward me again, growls, and makes a mime of eating.
Again, I shake my head. “It’s not you, it’s me.” I reach out and touch his cheek gently, then turn away from the dead animal. “I’ll just eat some of the trail mix when we get home.”
Of course, that thought’s a mite scary, too. Home is now a half-ass tent against the side of a cliff? We can’t survive like that. We’ll have to figure out something better. For the first time, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake—not in freeing Gren, but in us fleeing together. Should I have fought harder for him to be accepted? Shown them that he was no monster and integrated him into the tribe? Somehow?
It’s too late for that now, and I wonder if I’ve killed us both.
He takes a frustrated bite, chewing with a show of sharp teeth, and I gaze out at the wintry, desolate landscape. Vektal and Harlow and Liz and their mates all live here. They look happy and well fed, so there must be food and places to sleep that are warm and safe. We just have to figure this out. But as I look out at the endless white landscape, I’m realizing how big this world is and how alone we are, just the two of us. It’s intimidating.
If I’m going to survive, I’m going to have to learn to adapt.
So I swallow hard and watch Gren finish off the liver (I think it’s a liver). When he digs into the critter’s belly and pulls out another organ and offers it to me, I swallow hard, take it from his dripping claws, and take a bite.
I’ve never tasted anything worse or more revolting. It’s chewy and slick and warm. My gorge rises, but I force myself to keep chewing, staring determinedly out at the snow.
I didn’t come this far to just come this far, and neither did Gren.
I somehow manage to choke down a few mouthfuls as Gren eats his fill. When I’m done, I wipe my messy, bloody hands in the snow. As I turn around, I see Gren cutting into the creature with his claws, pulling out gobs of meat. “Right, we should figure out a way to carry this back home with us. I’m glad one of us is thinking of survival.” I take the empty pack I’ve brought along with me and begin stuffing it full of snow so the meat will be kept on ice until we can figure out how to build a fire and smoke the rest.
He finishes with the creature, leaving a steaming pile of meat next to me in the snow, and before I can ask what we’re going to do with the carcass, he grabs it in one hand and begins to drag it behind him.
“Gren?” I get to my feet, wondering if I missed something.
“No, Willa.” He learned “no” earlier, and for a moment, I’m proud of how far we’ve come in language in an afternoon, but then he continues gesticulating, and I try to follow his trail of thoughts. He indicates he’s going to pull the carcass behind him, and then touches his snout-like nose. It takes me a few moments to grasp it.
Scent. He’s leaving a scent trail.
“But why?”
When he puts a finger up to his brow and curls it, I realize what he means. He’s putting down a scent trail to mask us from the others, the horned aliens. The sa-khui. My eyes widen. “You’re so smart.” I nod eagerly at him and indicate he should go. When he gestures that I should stay, I nod and go back to packing up the meat. Maybe we’re not so doomed after all. Gren’s clever, and I didn’t think once of disguising any sort of trail we left. I don’t know who’s helping who at this point—I might have assisted him in escaping camp, but he’s going to keep me alive with that sharp mind of his.
And then I feel terribly guilty because why shouldn’t he be smart? Just because the others tied him up like an animal doesn’t make him one. “Do better, Willa,” I tell myself. “He’s different, but that doesn’t mean he’s less.”
It’s important that I never make him feel like “less” because he’s not. Not to me.
* * *
Once Gren finishes sweeping our trail with his carcass, he abandons it somewhere in the hills and returns to my side. I heft the pack of meat onto my shoulder, but I’m feeling its weight and I know we have a long way to go back to our little camp. Gren tries to take the bag from me and I protest. “You’re the one doing all the work,” I tell him, but he only touches my cheek, calls me his friend, and slings it over his big, brawny shoulder. In the next moment, he hauls me up and pulls me against his side, carrying me once more, and my protests are ignored. With a few subtle gestures and flexes, he tries to tell me that he is strong, that he’s not tired.
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