Won by an Alien (Stolen by an Alien Book 3)

by Amanda Milo

  With good reason: she didn’t. I found it inside of the refrigeration unit, and I could smell traces of anxiety.

  I licked the bowl to confirm it. Where she’d touched: not the contents. She’d been worried when she stored it.

  Tac will unwittingly starve her to death with the meals he’s attempting to prepare for her, and her desperation now is obvious as she hangs her head, grits her teeth, and mutters to herself before she takes a grudging step in my direction.

  The shock of elation I feel is confusing.

  But I don’t have time to process it because panic floods me when she suddenly turns, nearly breaking into a run in the opposite direction.

  I lunge in front of her to halt her escape, and I see that she too is feeling panic.

  Why does this unsettle me?

  I do not know, I do not care for it; but to regain her attention, I do what worked last time: I snap my fingers.

  I watch in fascination as she exhales like she can breathe fire.

  At the very least, irritated clouds of smoke.

  But her kind cannot: and for this, I feel a miniscule stab of pity. Because she is riled. It must be frustrating not to be able to emote it.

  I decide it won’t hurt to attempt to pacify her. “Good girl.”

  I’m mistaken. She emotes fine. From her killing glare, I gather she is promising me that if she had the means, by the power of her eyes alone she would immolate me, and this makes me smile.

  She resets from full panic to pure, unfiltered vexation from one panting breath to the next, a change so fluid and an aggression so vehement I’m surprised she’s not spitting venom right in my face.

  I extract one treat from the container I carried them here in. I spent far more time on making them than I want to consider; forming hopper powder into balls and rolling them in syrupy sweetener was also unbelievably messy work.

  Not that I gave a tevek. I haven’t been able to take my mind off the way her happiness smelled when she was feeding directly from the sweetener container.

  Just as I can’t take my mind off the way she hadn’t stirred when I’d separated her from Tac the first night she was here. The unconscious sprawl felt trusting, intoxicatingly so. Knowing she’d require rehydration after producing tears, I’d ripped open a hydration packet, intending to leave it with her, when I’d found them curled up together. She’d moved with the bonelessness of the dead when I’d been careful to place my hands where I wouldn’t come into contact with her skin, or that silky-looking mane, and I’d applied utmost cordiality when I’d shoved her all of the way to the wall.

  I shake my horns and focus. The hopper powder will fulfill her nutritional requirements, and the sweetener will entice her to eat. It’s perfect.

  So is her resigned expression.

  But although she is submitting, she’s not doing so without a token of fight. Her eyes are flashing and her small teeth show themselves most impressively.

  For teeth that have been filed flat, anyway.

  I hold the treat up, and she nods like this all pains her. I snap my fingers once more, pointing to the space right between my feet.

  She snarls.

  I let my brow ridges rise. Slowly, I start to tuck the treat back into—

  “Waaayyyt,” she says quickly before letting her head drop in clear resignation.

  She’s muttering again. “Jerrrk! Jerrrk! Jerrrk!”

  Hmm. This doesn’t sound very complimentary. I tilt my head a fraction and feel my ears perk with an air of superiority I don’t attempt to suppress.

  She whimpers and shakes her head. “Eyy’ll dew whot ewe saay, yore highnasss.”

  “I don’t even know what that means, but I love the way it sounds coming from your mouth,” I tell her with a grin that feels satisfyingly, wickedly, evil.

  When she comes to a stop at my feet, clearly moving against her will, I pull the dust collection device from my other pocket, and use it to stroke over her mane.

  To further reward her for completing the action I desired, I now carefully skewer a hopper ball with a thumb and foreclaw, and offer it to her.

  I expect her to take it off of my claws, which she does.

  I do not expect her to veer from my claws and bite my thumb.

  Both our eyes go wide with shock, and she looks like this was an impulse she gave in to in haste, and she is regretting it a click too late to take back.

  I’m stunned.

  What I should be is furious. I should be the one fighting to get away from her clutches right now; yet she is the one scrambling back.

  I receive a second jolt of shock: I want to follow her.

  I quickly examine my digit, and find it bears no mark at all. No saliva seems to have even transferred; certainly no venom. If I hadn’t been watching her, if I hadn’t felt the pinch: it’d be as if it never happened. She didn’t truly bite me.

  Why don’t I feel relieved?

  The way she’s covering her face with her hands, verbally castigating herself and pleading apologies right now brings me no pleasure either. To see such a proud creature essentially cowering in fear? I should revel in this. But I can’t. It unsettles me. Pleasure and revelry are so far from what she is stirring in me.

  I want to comfort her. I feel drawn to her, I feel the desire to ease her distress. No! This is wrong!

  Why doesn’t it feel wrong?

  My poor brother.

  But bitter memories have their usefulness. Being reminded of his inculcation at the hands of another Gryfala is like a shower of ice shards being rained down on my horns.

  CHAPTER 23

  TARA

  I’m scared he’s going to hurt me back. I’m terrified that he’s going to hurt me back. What had I been thinking?

  But then he sniffs—his big nose going up in the air, his chest looking about four times wider as it expands with oxygen—and he rears back, his quills clacking a little.

  Taking in the fact that he hasn’t pummeled me with those great big hands, or bitten me right back with those great big teeth, I suck in a breath before saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t actually have a death wish, but I bet you’re having a hard time believing that right now…”

  I wince.

  At this, something resembling a snarl comes out of his nose, and I flinch.

  When I get the courage to peel open an eye, it’s to see him staring down at me, looking very disturbed, if my alien-expression-reading skills are up to snuff today. It’s not like I’m sure: it’s kind of a new talent.

  I wish he’d stop staring at me. I wish he’d do something, even say something: I have no idea what he’s thinking as his eyes are fixed so intensely on me. The backs of my knees tingle and I’m so uncomfortable that when the alarm starts to blare this time, I nearly pee on myself but I’m relieved because it means he’s going to go away.

  Instead of turning and walking away though, he crouches right where he’s at; a fair distance from me since I backed away from him a moment ago. He pulls the container of food out again, and his reach is long enough that despite the space between us, he still has no trouble offering up another treat right to my mouth.

  I can’t believe he’s giving me another chance to bite him.

  Then again, I don’t have a death wish. I’m not going to pull that move twice.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I lean forward and close my lips over his claws, pulling the treat off of them quickly and not looking at him again until I’ve finished chewing and swallowing.

  A second alarm starts up, and I realize I’m fidgeting and growing pretty anxious about the warning alarm itself—at the fact that he’s not leaving to go fix whatever that’s for.

  That’s when he brings the feather duster up and makes a point of petting my head with it again. Reluctantly, I meet his eyes.

  He doesn’t look angry.

  Determined, but not angry. I’m glad and ridiculously filled with gratitude that he didn’t retaliate. Being decent and not breaking the human into bite size pieces is su
ddenly reason enough for me to want to rejoice. But despite that… I am so confused! I don’t know what he wants from me, what the purpose is of what we’re doing right now.

  I’m feeling really darn sorry for pets all of a sudden. We bring them into the house, we blather at them in a foreign language, and when we see them doing something we like, we decide when to reward them for it, decide to assign the behavior a command, and we expect them to repeat it.

  Thing is, I don’t know what the command is here! I don’t know what behavior he’s going for. Or was it simply reassurance?

  A third alarm starts, and it could just be me, but it sounds really serious this time—and I can’t help it: I basically let out… a whine.

  This is my life. I’m a dog. I’m a spacedog to three crazy aliens. I’ve been taken from my puppies and adopted by aliens who are, in one form or another, trying to train me in very different ways.

  The backs of my eyes burn. It’s the ‘my puppies’, specifically, the thoughts of ‘my puppies’, that have me sniffing back tears.

  The alien snatches my chin in his claws, which makes my jaw drop open in shock—handy, because he crams another treat in my mouth and lets me go fast, making an ‘eat!’ motion.

  Yes, like this makes it all better. I choke a little as I snort.

  One side of his mouth kicks up.

  I blow out a ragged exhale. At least he’s really not mad at me. And apparently, he doesn’t want me to cry. That’s got to be a good sign.

  My nerves are still a mess from the rising level of alarm in the alarms, but I catch on that he intends to feed me each and every treat he brought. So I eat fast, and when I’m done, he stands, eyeing me for another round of uncomfortably long seconds before he draws the feather tip down the side of my temple, brushing the corner of my eye, my cheek, my jaw.

  And then he’s gone.

  CHAPTER 24

  TARA

  When the alarms stop, I take it to mean the grouch got wherever he needed to be.

  It’s quiet enough that I can hear the soft whir of the germaphobe’s suit when he approaches. This guy. What is his deal? I’ve seen him obsess over anything involving my fingerprints and a surface. He is a bona fide neatfreak.

  I’m guessing he doesn’t have any kids.

  He’s kept such a distance from me, that I’m surprised when he gets closer than normal. And at first, I think, okay, maybe he needs to get past me.

  But no. He doesn’t pass me and keep on his way down this corridor. No, he’s definitely, specifically seeking ME out. And when he checks both directions, his manner cautious before he returns his attention to me, I get super, super nervous.

  And I see that he’s wearing rubber gloves over his suit gloves. I try to smile to show him I’m friendly. “You look a little ridiculous.”

  He squirts me in the face.

  “Hey!” I squeal. “What the—”

  He squirts me again.

  He’s got a stupid little spray bottle in his hand! I’m opening my mouth to holler bloody murder—the big alien can pulp this guy—

  When the scent registers. Huh. This stuff smells clean.

  And… feels… sort of weird clean-tingly.

  It makes me feel clean and… I sniff myself. It is making me smell antiseptically fresh! I’ll take it: no shower and a little hard-work-mopping have taken their toll on me.

  The alien is soaking me in rapid squirts now, darting quick looks over his shoulder like he’s got to make sure he’s not caught.

  I could be wrong, but I’m getting the feeling that not everyone in the household (shiphold?) agrees on the proper care and raising of the pet human. I’m guessing this guy’s vote to give me a bath was vetoed, and he’s taking matters into his own… gloves.

  I mean, where I’m from, some people bathe their pets every day, while others think this is excessive. Some animals can go their whole lives without getting a bath.

  “Yikes. Guess I’m glad I’m not one of those pets,” I say, and his outer glove squeaks as he draws back his fingers, pulling away from me a little. Like, “How unsettling; it’s making those noises again.”

  I ignore his squeamishness and stay still.

  This does explain why I couldn’t find a shower in the bathroom though. Aliens on spaceships wash via spray bottle. I guess… I guess it makes sense. Dry shampoo is a thing on Earth. I should have paid more attention to the ways astronauts live day to day.

  Then again, if I’d known to pay attention and prepare… I put on the breaks and shake off this particularly painful train of thought.

  At this, the alien pulls back, hesitating. I motion for him to go on. “Please. Continue.”

  He looks even more surprised. But pleased too. He brings up his other hand, and in it, is a soft looking towel. He performs the world’s most impersonal, brusquely applied toweling, and he continues to administer the spray as he goes, and when the first towel is damp enough it’ll need to be wrung out, he brings out another towel.

  By this time, I’m lifting up my hair so that he can make sure to get my scalp fully treated, and the back of my neck, and I’m giddy and trying not to laugh. A BATH!! I’M GETTING A BATH! I’ve been reduced to becoming excited over an alien sanitizing me on the sly.

  This is just sad.

  But I’m too desperate to get in a funk over it. I would however like some time alone with his spacesoap so that I can wash up a little more privately all over, but I’m not sure how to tell him this and I don’t want him to misunderstand any gestures I’d need to make in order to try to relay this request, so I take what I can get and I even help work the foamy lather into my scalp before he towels my head with a determined efficiency.

  When he deems me finished, he steps back and carefully fits a stopper over the end of it. Work done, he eyes me critically. I’m finger combing my hair but I pause to give him a grateful smile. “THANK you. Seriously. I was growing things, I’m pretty sure.”

  He sniffs, his expression still mildly distastful—seeming to agree with me even if he can’t understand my words.

  Then he gives me a small smile.

  Small, but this right here feels like a pretty big deal.

  CHAPTER 25

  TAC’MOT

  She finds me in the service bay, where I’m monitoring the fluid and gas levels of various tanks and lines.

  Not surprisingly, she is incredibly curious about all of it. She seems unfamiliar with any of the equipment though which seems odd, but I suppose it simply means her area of interest landed somewhere other than ships.

  Her current area of interest is well and alive in here now, judging by her rapt gaze. “And this,” I say, pointing to the hexagonal foam insert, “Is the filter, and when it turns puce like this, this indicates that it needs to be replaced.” We work in tandem, and she looks up at me triumphantly when we succeed in removing it. I smile down at her and help her fit the new one in place. “It runs well, but only if we’re vigilant about maintaining it. Always something needing maintenance on a ship, right?”

  She watches my eyes and my mouth whenever I speak, and I know she wishes as much as I do that we had a common language. Despite this hurdle, we are managing fairly well. A few clicks later, and we’re side by side, peering down at a maze of machinery. “And we keep track of this one,” I tap the dial reading, “—so that Grake will know when to adjust the coil, see?” She follows along, nodding to confirm that she understands.

  My claws sift into her mane, and she goes still.

  So do I. I hadn’t intended to do this. I’d only thought of doing it—it wasn’t my intention to take the liberty. I clear my throat.

  But I don’t remove my claws. Instead, I meet her eyes and say softly, “You must have been very bored all these spans, with nothing to keep that Gryfala mind busy.”

  She studies me, and I take in the beautiful spots on her face, which never alter or fade, no matter what emotion she’s feeling. Her undercolor though is another matter entirely.

  Right
now, it’s darkening, which has essentially the same effect as if her spots were to change like mine do, with the pigmentation heavily affected, and it’s so very becoming.

  So is the fact that she drops her lashes, and seems to grow flustered.

  It’s stirring something in me. A hunger. For her.

  Dropping my hand, I swiftly hop back, and try to busy myself with finishing my shift, and keeping her mind engaged.

  It’s in the middle of attempting to do just this when she speaks, and her voice rises at the end of the word that comes out of her mouth, as if she is asking a question. “Tac?”

  I drop the calibrator I’d been using.

  Her eyes follow it to the floor, before they’re back on mine.

  “Yes! Tac! I’m Tac’Mot!” I bow—That’s right, Dam and Sire: I remembered my manners!—as low as my torso will fold without me having to put my hands on the floor for balance. That would be humiliating. But perhaps I should bow deeper, I don’t want her to feel insulted—

  She laughs. And the only thing sweeter in all of the galaxy is the way her soft, gentle hands feel when they latch onto my arms and playfully try to tug me upright. But I see that her expression holds very real discomfort. It’s as if she doesn’t want me to bow to her. As if she wants to see us as... equals.

  CHAPTER 26

  TAC’MOT

  “We take one of these,” my hand goes into the basket, and I dig around for one of the washable marking pens. “And we mark the corresponding number on the floor where the level indicates.” I bend down, and this time, I do put a hand on the floor in order to keep my balance.

  Tara—that is her name: we finally know the other’s name!—doesn’t seem bothered by this though. But she is perplexed by something else, something I hadn’t even considered would worry her. She points to the floor and says a few words before looking over her shoulder in concern. And I think I hear her say the word ‘Brax’.