Rescued by an Alien: Alien Mate Romance (Stolen by an Alien Book 2)

by Amanda Milo

  “Don't let them talk to you like that,” she seethes when she reaches me.

  “They weren’t talking to me.”

  “You know what I mean!” She makes an aggravated sound and kicks a trashcan.

  Clear across the room.

  Zadeon’s eyes are no longer the crazy-intense that was wreaking all havoc on my insides, making them flutter and be all confused. He’s gone scary-dark and laser focused. “How did they talk to you?” he asks in a dangerous tone.

  Gracie stalks across the room to retrieve the can - kicking it all the way back in place.

  I can’t tell if Dohrein is furious or amused, or both.

  “What about how they talked to you?” his fangs show.

  Furious. He is furious.

  I back up…

  Right into Zadeon.

  Arms come into view on either side of me…

  I reach out and grab the sleeves of his suit.

  That’s all the encouragement he needs.

  Zadeon tugs me back into the most protective, comforting hug I’ve had in hours.

  Topped only by the other times he has held me, come to think of it.

  Sexy, alien-sweaty male and because I can’t see him, I let myself feel.

  Let myself absorb this.

  Like this, he feels really… good.

  My head comes up when Dohrein hauls Gracie off the floor and carries her fireman style to the other side of the room. She grabs one of his wings and tries to strangle it.

  She’s got a lot of rage, that woman.

  “What did they say to you, my dream?” Zadeon angles himself so that he can see my face and still hold me.

  Even my momentary pulse of pleasure at his endearment cannot stop the ugly surge from their words. Ugh. I crumple a little in his arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “What happened!” This is from Angie. She’s striding up to us, but before she can get close, Arokh catches her hand. When she looks back, he looks over my head - at Zadeon - then he quickly shakes his head at Angie.

  I look up at Zadeon then too.

  I don’t see anything too worrisome, exactly. Through his suit under my hands I can feel his muscles are taut but that’s because he’s snuggling me tightly. Then he tilts his head down and I see his eyes.

  His pupils are almost entirely black.

  They don’t look anything like snake eyes now.

  In fact… they look very, very… pretty.

  Scuffing on the floor alerts me to more bodies entering the gym. One of them belongs to Mandi.

  She’s so young. The youngest one here, actually, and she seems to take pleasure in stirring up conversation of my auction day. Again. And again. The other day she asked if the bites the snake men took out of me had healed everywhere....

  My fingers unintentionally tense on Z’s sleeves.

  In reaction, he growls, “OUT.”

  Room. Clears.

  Except for Angie and Gracie and their aliens.

  Turning from where she’d been glaring at Mandi’s back, Angie faces me again. “Ignore her.” She takes a deep breath. “You know? What you need is therapy," she soothes.

  “Yeah but since we’re fresh out of therapists she's kinda SOL,” Gracie snaps, coming up fast on my other side. “What she needs is for everyone to stop reminding her that it happened. She knows it did, okay? It sucked, but it's done now - stop looking at her like that and leave it the fuck alone, and don’t keep bringing it up!”

  “Gracie is wise,” Zadeon cuts in, his voice rumbling from his chest right into my back.

  Looking a little dazed at herself, Gracie tries to paste on a shaken smirk. “Awww, I like you too, Cujo.”

  Dohrein is assessing her, narrow eyed.

  So am I.

  Her tirade was very enlightening.

  But she summed it up well.

  It would help if people stopped and let me just… what, forget? I can pretend to forget. Pretend I don’t have nightmares, pretend I don’t feel scales in the dark. Pretend until it doesn’t seem real anymore and I can get over this.

  I can pretend like a boss.

  Until one day it won't be pretend, and I can just move on. It won't be in my face anymore, trying to define me.

  I just need that chance. She’s right; I need people to leave it alone.

  Angie tries again to be well-meaning. “Everyone deals with it differently, Gracie-”

  Gracie’s voice could slice the roof off of an SUV. “I. Get. That.”

  She seems to struggle to modulate her tone. “Bad shit happens. You can get over it. Thousands and thousands do it every day. I’m telling you, I don’t want to hear-”

  She scrambles for a moment, while everyone can only stare at her. She bares her teeth. “She doesn’t want to hear it brought up any more!”

  And just like that - she’s out the door. Doesn’t so much as say goodbye.

  Dohrein is right behind her, his wings out a little. I’ve seen him do that before. Like he’s ready to wrap her up in a hug if she wants one.

  Early on in our internment, she ordered custom clothing; the whitest outfit ensembles that these Gryfalas had probably ever designed (they are a little obsessed with color) - something Dohrein was all too pleased to have her choose since it shows off the markings that his wings leave behind.

  Gracie wears a ton of those marks - on her skin, on her clothes - the patterns overlapping and creating wicked cool motifs. The dust that imprints from the wings is eyecatching and bright. Dohrein’s in particular is distinctively bold. She wears them all like a badge.

  Or armor.

  Angie clears her throat. “I had a point in all this. I was trying to say - you need therapy, but since that’s not an option - I thought maybe you could talk to someone who has… who is dealing with a similar experience.” Her eyes are lowered now, her voice a study in tactfulness.

  My voice holds no emotion. “You know someone who got the crap kicked out of them before they were taken captive, held down, and brutalized by aliens?”

  She winces. Then nods.

  “Who?”

  Chapter 19

  ZADEON

  I do not like this. I DO NOT LIKE THIS.

  I can’t do this.

  I pound on the door.

  It opens instantly - proving that, just as she promised - Callie is directly on the other side, as close to me as she can be and still have a door between us for privacy.

  I resort to begging. I do not care about my pride when it means there is otherwise a barrier to my mate. “Please - please let me in. I won’t interrupt, and I won't interfere.” What if he says something that makes her cry? “I will attempt not to intervene unless you need me,” I amend.

  She tilts her head, considering or weakening to my plight; I cannot tell. The gesture is paired with the biting of her lip, then she looks over her shoulder.

  She must receive an affirmative answer, because she opens the door wider and I barrel through - throwing a hand out to steady her when I see that I shoved the door right out of her grip. She just shakes her head at my apologetic look.

  Crispin sits on the edge of his bed, his mate is at his side, one of her hands in his.

  He wears a shirt that has the customary slits at the shoulders, the ones meant for his wings.

  If he still had them.

  Unlike Gryfala - and unlike the humans the Gryfala are currently entertained enough to cater to - I doubt hobs get issued new clothing on anything but a rigid, stilted schedule.

  The surplus of hobs is such that resources are allocated to them last, and without as much consideration. In the scheme of things, once they are out of the rookery, unless they are greatly favored by a princess, they simply don’t matter enough to bother with.

  They are still better off than the Rakhii; who always have been and no doubt always will be minor afterthoughts.

  But this hob will be reminded of his losses every time he does something as simpl
e as dressing for the day.

  I think of Callie. And her scars that she hates to look at, but can’t cease thinking about.

  Yes. The pain Callie is experiencing is one that Crispin is all too familiar with.

  His eyes are hard as they stare me down.

  And in this, I let him be dominant. I look away first - not right away - I’m not afraid to meet his gaze. I’m simply letting him know I still see him as an equal, acknowledge him, but acquiesce that he is allowing me in his domain, in his mate’s nest, all in order for him to be able to help my mate.

  I’ll owe him.

  If this helps her at all - I’ll owe him… though I cannot fathom what I could do to repay him.

  “You can still have your privacy,” I inform him. “I will face my mate, and I will not hear you.”

  Realization lights his eyes, and I see his shoulders relax a fraction.

  He nods once.

  I give him my back, and drop to my knees before Callie.

  She looks startled. I reach out my hands. “You have nowhere to sit. Would you like to lean on me while you have therapy?”

  A small, single puff of laughter escapes her slightly parted lips.

  And she slowly accepts my hands, her fingers curling between mine until we are locked.

  She steps closer - and I tug her into me.

  If I had to guess, I’d wager she gasps at this.

  But I don’t know for sure. Because I press the side of my face into her side, and rub up and down once (an incredible feat of restraint on my part) before settling firmly against her.

  I have been so careful not to force my touch on her - not in any capacity, not even to comfort without her permission. But this feels so good.

  So right.

  My horns sweep back and outward, and we’re in the perfect position for her to satisfy a curiosity she’s apparently had about them. She drops one of my hands only to take my horn in her grip - feeling the ridges and running her hand over the smooth and the carved areas.

  It makes no sense to push her about anything - yet would she be stroking my horn right now, with her softness pillowing the side of my face, if I hadn’t essentially forced the issue?

  A matter to think on.

  Later.

  Right now; there is only one thing I want.

  This.

  This closeness, this connection - I wish we had been able to enjoy this from the very beginning.

  I close my eyes and lean into her… almost knocking her over.

  “Sorry,” I grunt, and readjust.

  She pats my horn.

  I’ve only ever had someone touch them to notch another battle win on them.

  This is… I squelch the purr I notice is working its way out of my throat. Rakhii don’t even naturally purr - not for their Rakhii mates. And Callie tells me humans don’t purr for their mates either.

  There are so many strange instincts battering me about my female that I don’t know what is right for her.

  But I settle for resting against her - bracing her, even, as she does indeed lean on me.

  This.

  This is glorious.

  I hope this Crispin can help her.

  Because we should do this every rotation.

  We can stand just like this.

  I hear his low rumble behind me, but I make out no words. He has his privacy.

  I hear Callie respond; and she too has her privacy. I can feel the slight vibration from her speaking, but I can’t make out even her words.

  It saddens me. The thought that one day there will come a time when I cannot hear any of her sweet words at all.

  CHAPTER 20

  CALLIE

  Crispin gets it.

  His woman, Laura, watched his attack too. So did his friends, and an entire ship full of evil aliens.

  And the evil ones took turns mutilating him in front of everybody.

  So… he wins.

  Not that this is a competition - I don’t really think that.

  Still.

  It shouldn’t make me feel better… but it does.

  Not better - that’s not right. I feel less… alone? I don’t get it. I should in no way be reassured that someone went through a horrifying experience let alone one that is worse than mine.

  I am heartbroken for him - but I feel less… ashamed, somehow, now that I’m not alone. I hope Crispin sheds his misplaced feelings of shame too.

  I see Laura rub the flat of her palm up and down his arm.

  I hope Crispin doesn't feel alone anymore either.

  And now, with Z cleverly managing what is basically a hug - using only his chin clamped over my body and the grip of one of my hands - I feel a little more at ease in this ‘therapy session’. Zadeon’s big back and broad shoulders in front of me, with his huge horns sweeping out - I feel like I’m behind a podium.

  A podium with handlebars.

  Hi, I’m Callie, and I was…

  ◆◆◆

  ZADEON

  “We’re going to try something,” I inform her prone body, which is limply draped across the bed.

  A position she's held virtually all day.

  “Hmm?” she responds without much enthusiasm.

  “Up with you,” I explain my intentions - not order her to do so - human or not, it just seems wrong… but when she doesn’t move, my eyes are drawn to the pad of her foot, to the line there that always draws my eye.

  What is it from? Does it have a purpose? What does it do?

  I don’t know, but I do know she has moon-ringed cute little feet.

  And the oddest, most unhelpful toes. Shrunken and stunted, I’ve never seen her use them to pick up objects. She doesn’t walk on them directly - she uses the meat of her foot and her heel.

  Strange.

  The toes themselves don’t appear to spread enough to absorb much impact when she steps. Bizarre - no doubt. But somehow, they still manage to be cute.

  Although… I’m struck with the thought: I suppose hobs must have similar feet.

  I have never even noticed.

  I shrug and lean down to examine Callie’s more closely.

  Hers, after all, are the only ones I care about. I carefully raise a single quill tip on my tail, and use it to trace the utterly fascinating line.

  Instantly, she sucks her whole foot into her body, just - it’s GONE!

  This thrill rushes over me unexpectedly.

  That was…

  That was… FUN.

  I’ve never felt more like a predator than in this moment.

  Her arms are wrapped protectively over her knee, and I can see I’ve managed to not only shock her, but I’ve also managed to capture all of her attention.

  I want to drag her foot back out and do it again.

  That reaction was highly entertaining.

  As I lunge to catch her other tiny foot in my hand, I quickly learn that it is also highly addictive.

  She’s shrieking as I wiggle my quill across the bottom of this foot but - and this is surprising - it doesn’t make me anxious.

  I’m grinning like an idtrek and she’s not afraid. She doesn’t smell of fear at all.

  Somewhat regrettably though, she’s able to gain enough breath to form the command “Stop!”

  I listen.

  I cup her foot in my palm for only a click longer before I set it gingerly on the twisted up blanket.

  But I am feeling incredibly satisfied. “You’re up! Would you like to go to the fitness chamber?”

  “I think I peed on myself,” she complains.

  “No,” I assure her. “You didn’t.”

  She twists to look up at me with raised face ridges. “And you’d know because…”

  I shrug. “I’d smell it.”

  Her lips pull back in a grimace. “That’s… so…”

  “Would you like to go to the fitness chamber?”

  “FINE!” she huffs.

  I see her try to turn away quickly.

  But not quickly enough.


  I don’t know if she is aware, but this is the first time she’s gotten out of bed with a smile.

  ◆◆◆

  CALLIE

  He is spoiling to do something, I can tell now.

  He’s like a bored puppy.

  No - more like a bored kitten. A tiger kitten.

  I shoot a glance at his face - see him licking one of his huge fangs.

  A sabertooth kitten. Inactivity is dangerous.

  This is a male who isn’t used to containing this sort of energy. I mean, his profession was one that required him to engage in mortal combat on a regular basis. Yet here he’s had to sit, trapped inside of four small walls, horizontal on a soft fluffy bed for upwards of sixteen hours a day. No stimulation.

  It's a wonder he hasn’t torn the whole place down from boredom and pent up energy.

  “How often did you… gladiate?”

  He’s either not expecting this question, or he hasn’t heard anyone shove this noun into a verb form before.

  “All the time.”

  Hmm. Men and their economy of words. “How long were your breaks in between?”

  He inhales. “As long as it took to arrive at the next one.”

  Oh. “Sooo what you’re saying is, you want to hit the Gym?”

  His nostrils flare. He’s not angry; he’s wired. “If you do.”

  “Yeah.” I feel my eyes narrow as I draw out my next words. “After all. I’m up.”

  The big fucker grins.

  I sniff. “Let’s go.”

  My brush in hand, I walk to the wall and steel myself as it ripples into my reflection. I grip the brush handle tightly, and try not to look below my chin.

  I do though.

  I always do.

  They covered me in punctures.

  I know that I can’t wash them away. God knows I’ve tried. I am filled with such frustration and self loathing every time I see them. And the Replay.

  It’s like I stomped on the fucking button.

  I’m reminded, over and over, every time I have to look at myself.

  So I won't.

  Fresh start.

  It won't make them go away, but it will give me a chance to get my head on straight. Give me a chance not to dwell on it every day.

  “Z?”

  I feel his heat approach my shoulder. I don’t meet his eyes in the reflection. I don’t even look at the reflection now. “If you ask them, will they take away the mirror capability from the walls?”