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

by Amanda Milo

  But I really, really have to piss. Teveking inconvenient.

  I kiss her swiftly then wheel around, pivoting and leaping from her so abruptly that another laugh is startled out of her.

  Success.

  After I relieve myself and approach the sink, she steps back, content to continue swishing dental cleanse solution as she makes her way to take care of her own private needs.

  And as I toss my clothes into the nanocleanser, I find that new delights await me today in all ways: she comes to stand in front of me, and shyly takes off my shirt along with her underblouse underneath of it. I don’t even attempt not to stare as she brings her arms behind her, which pushes her mammaries together and up—Creator, what a view—then she unfastens her mammary harness.

  I slowly suck in my breath, and when she muffles a whoop of laughter that devolves into breathless snickering—they! BOUNCE! —I know without looking down that I’m covered in mating receptor markings. And just as mine are for her, I pretend that hers are displaying themselves for me. I boldly approach her this time, watching in stymied fascination as her eyes widen and her breathing accelerates.

  “Noh sehhx,” she says. But her voice escapes weakly, and breathy, and strange words or no, I can hear perfectly well that there’s no conviction behind them. Still, I pause, in case she is saying she is not interested at this time.

  This seems to snap her out of whatever concern has been gripping her.

  My cirri feel as if they rise right off of my head when she suddenly reaches down and takes hold of my swollen shaft.

  Crite! My hands are gripping her elbows and her smile is playful.

  “Wahnt me to stohp?”

  Why ask me questions I could bungle and answer in catastrophic ways that, to her, might sound like I want her to stop touching my cock?

  I do not. I do not want her to stop touching my cock.

  I croak in relief when she doesn’t wait for me to respond; instead, she treats my member like it’s a handle, tugging me until I’m positioned…

  Over the sink basin?

  Not… precisely… what I had been envisioning...

  I peer down at her in lust-fogged consternation.

  She leaves me briefly to start our clothing in the nanocleanser and I’m no fool: I don’t move. She is grinning, thoroughly pleased when she prances back to me and proceeds to give me a thorough... rinsing. Which is quite considerate really—not unwelcome in the least; in fact, I feel very, very cared for—but I could have just as easily washed in the cleansing stall which I’ll be hopping into anyway.

  Clearly, this isn't the point. She wants to show that she cares for me and she has well and truly succeeded. This female. She’s taken my heart.

  Thankfully, this is not the only thing she takes.

  With a little rub against the head of my cock for good luck, she turns her attention to soaping up her hands with a slippery helping of foamy hand sanitizer lather.

  Then she grabs my shaft.

  I chirp in horror. Is this safe?!

  What of skin reactions? What if—

  She swipes her thumb over my tip and squeezes each and every glans of my cock.

  I clack my teeth as I lock my knees so my hips don’t drive forward.

  No boils and don’t fall off, and I’ll live with it.

  She proceeds to jerk my seed out of me until my eyes cross. She carefully rinses me clean, pats me dry with a towel, then she leans down and plants a kiss on my still twitching shaft.

  I’m not recovered enough to go after her when she whirls around and trots gaily over to the nanocleanser to collect her outfit from the dryer basin.

  Just as my lower mandible regains the ability to close, and I’ve settled on the best way to demonstrate a ‘Good Rotation!’ to her—she’s washed her hands, is rising up on her toes, and throwing her arms around me to hug my ribs—then she leaves me.

  I can only stare after her.

  Is… is this what I can expect out of wedded life? Did my sire and—

  Ugh, *clack-clack-clack*. I shudder, halting the rest of this thought. I don’t actually want specifics about my parents’ personal morning routine. Definitely something one doesn’t wish for specific particulars on: questions regarding mating and mated bliss are best posed in a species-wide, abstract fashion.

  I nod to myself and shudder again.

  Is this what mated couples enjoy for the rest of their wedded lives?

  I bounce on my heels, thinking of what I can do tonight to show her that I care.

  I wish she’d stayed to enjoy the cleansing stall with me, but…

  There is a primitive benefit: she smells like me.

  She hasn’t washed, though we haven’t technically mated yet, she hasn’t washed off the smell of me after a night spent in my arms.

  A previously unknown, primal part of me is suddenly well satisfied at this realization. It’s so strong, and so sudden it begs the question. How do hobs cope with having to share?

  CHAPTER 37

  TAC’MOT

  Before I start my shift for the rotation, I want to make sure she eats, especially with her nesting coming on. ‘Going broody,’ Grake calls it. Her body will need fuel.

  Brax has been so territorial about preparing her meals, I’ve hopped aside to let him perform this element of care. But now that Tara is my mate, I have an uncommonly strong urge to be the one to bring her sustenance.

  Maybe it will spur her to claim me again.

  The thought puts an extra hop in my step.

  I reflect on much. It wasn’t that I was against the idea of servitude or service towards a female, but now, I comprehend it. I can completely understand why a hob would agree to join himself to a service, to settle for sharing in order to enjoy the experience like the one I just enjoyed with the galaxy’s most incredible Gryfala. I slow to a complete walk as I make my way down the corridor—it’s a cumbersome way to move, but I’m not self-conscious when I’m alone, and the relaxed pace gives me time to think as I plod along.

  And there is much to consider. If she can’t hold off going broody, how long will she need to nest? What will she do if she’s not done and we reach her—now our—Homeland?

  Our Homeland. I’m mated.

  Happily mated. Hoorassa! A hoot of laughter warbles up my throat. Me. Mated! I never thought I would be able to say these words.

  My stomachs issue a ghastly rumble. I’m starving. She must be too. Especially if—

  I catch Brax’s uncommonly strong musk and a strange awareness steals over me, causing me to pause, my hand pressing the galley’s swinging door open just a few inches. I feel the air from the corridor get gently sucked past me and into the room, probably carrying the smell of last night right on ahead of me. I didn’t wash. I decided if Tara is luxuriating in it; I will proudly do so also.

  I certainly won’t mind reliving any moments from last evening in the least.

  My happiness is expressed in an audible fashion as I hoot again and bound in, heading straight for the cabinet across from me. It has the ground hopper powder that serves as her base diet. Brax had warned me, saying it has to be ground up very fine or a Gryfala will reject it. I’ll endeavor to do better in the future, but I’m afraid I wasn’t careful to double check my work the other rotation and when she found a whole leg in her bowl… I feel the skin at the base of my ears tighten at the memory of her reaction. I thought it might put her off eating it entirely, sweetener or not. But in the end, I think she believed it had fallen in there. She was so reluctant to eat it that I finished her bowl and made her a new one. Not only was she extra vigilant about pushing the finished product around, checking for anything amiss, she also vigilantly attacked the galley—cleaning it with a fervor, as if she intended to rule out the future possibility of a stray insect ever going near a bowl again.

  She can never find out what the powder is made from.

  Lem though was so pleased. He cleaned with her for spans, and when I walked in on them later, I even saw him h
olding out his sanitizing spray in offering.

  Something about that though had niggled at me then. I’m turning it over and over in my mind now. Maybe it was Lem’s slightly guilty expression. I just don’t underst—

  An entire fleet of freighters slams into my back. Or so it feels. It’s essentially the same impact: I’m laid out flat but before this happens, comprehension stuns me as we go down, because I smell him. Brax. The floor rushes up, and my chin bounces hard on the tile.

  Metark!

  I buck, thrash, and I fight my way to my back until I gain the room to stamp my feet between us and kick up—

  Hot drips land on my face when Brax displays fangs.

  He’s snarling like a maddened creature. I go motionless for the briefest of clicks. He IS a maddened creature.

  I decide to do the fair thing and warn him. “If your venom burns me, I will be forced to retaliate.”

  I can already see my skin turning colors. Instead of the adoring emerald, I’m transmuting to a more threatening shade of oxidized red with a pattern of large, jagged spots. I have less control over it than he probably realizes. My body perceives an attack: defense released, it’s this simple. Yes, it takes an extreme force or extreme negative emotions to set off the defensive reaction, but clearly, being attacked in our own galley for no reason is the sort of action my system takes issue with.

  “Whaat ees going on owwwt heeer? Boyyys! Stohp rohlling ahrowwnd ohn thuh flore!”

  A flood of anxiety strikes me severely, and I go light-headed. I didn’t take kindly to being brought down to the floor nor did I appreciate the manner or mode that I arrived here. But although I’d started to react to Brax’s uncharacteristically severe act of aggression, I’m wasn’t concerned. Not truly.

  I wasn’t. Now, Tara’s appearance changes everything.

  My spots steep to a blood wine, and fill my skin. I’ve never seen myself this color, nor have I ever been this saturated before. Alarm threatens to overwhelm me. She’s standing so close, and my skin has gone beyond spot-populated. I don’t know what this level of my toxin is firing up to be, but I don’t want her to have any part of it. She took my essence last night but I don’t want to test the rapidity of the immunity or risk that it hasn’t taken effect. “Brax,” I reach for calm, breathing in through my mouth. “You need to remove yourself from my person poste-haste.”

  I wonder how much he’s really tracking me in this moment. Because he’s not looking at me at all.

  No, his eyes are trained on Tara. He’s staring at her. He’s staring at her like he’s moonstruck.

  He tries to lunge up—but I don’t know his intentions and I can’t risk him hurting her. “BRAX!” I latch onto him, intentionally making contact skin to skin.

  Up until this point in my lifespan, I've never had control of my chemical reaction’s release before. I do now. For the first time, I’m able to consciously emit the substance that will render him immobile.

  Issue is, I hit him with a far bigger dose than I intend. I believe my fear for Tara’s safety explains the boost in my abilities.

  In any case, Brax is paralyzed.

  I hope it isn’t such a large dose that his internal organs cease function.

  I would deeply regret it if I killed him.

  But I would be beyond feeling complete, utter devastation if I let him hurt her.

  “Tara,” I pant. “If you would, please go stand over there,” I indicate the far side of the room. She should be fine; however, if she could just give us more time before we test it, I’d feel less apprehensive. Plus, I’ve no idea about a Gryfala’s tolerance and level of protection against my skin’s chemicals. What if it doesn’t work for her?

  I cluck my tongue when I see venom burns on all the places Brax callously let his fangs drip on me; my chest, my arms, and I can feel it on my throat.

  Tara starts to come forward to assess the damage done to me too.

  “Please, stay!” I try to say firmly, but the panic lends the word a harsher edge to my voice which both surprises her and makes her more anxious. Unfortunately, she has no idea why I’m driving her away.

  She doesn’t understand.

  Then again, her skin is constantly spotted, and she harms no one. No wonder she’s confused. She has no prior experiences in order to provide a frame of reference.

  Quickly I snatch up a spatula that must have fallen to the floor in my tussle with Brax and I wield it now—trying to catch her and press her back with it when she looks like she desires to hug me.

  I point to my skin.

  She follows my motion with her eyes, but besides mild curiosity at the threat color shrinking back into more respectable, manageable-looking spots, she still looks poised to grab for me.

  “Grake!” I apply a little more force, flipping the spatula sideways when she tries to step around it in order to get to me. Her eyes narrow. Then, they start to look hurt. “No,” I warn, pointing a finger at her. “Someday soon we’re going to fix this translator issue we’re having because you need to be aware of this.” I point to the unconscious Brax. “The toxin—”

  Arms come around Tara and drag her back. “What were you thinking?!?! With her in the kitchen—!”

  “The Rakhii attacked me.”

  “So you killed him?” he asks, wearing a look of horror.

  “He’s not dead,” I quickly point out, relieved to see his chest still rising and falling. “But it was more potent than I expected.” I can still feel the chemical release—an impressive amount.

  Tara isn’t fighting Grake’s hold. Instead, she is watching my spots fade as my base color clears with an extreme look of interest.

  She doesn’t know it, but behind her, arm wrapped tightly around her, Grake is losing a little of his control. He is trying to rub her back, but every time his hand rounds the curve of her shoulder his wings flare out a little and cup the air on either side of her.

  Then one brushes her shirt—and now he has her attention.

  She is beginning to look at him, noticing his wings with more disquietude than usual. Especially the closer they come to touching her. I’m struggling with an odd impulse to intervene—Grake would never hurt her. I know this.

  On a conscious level, I know that Grake is of her kind. That Grake would make a fine guard for a Gryfala. That Grake would do his level best to soothe the Gryfala that had violently lost her previous guards.

  On a conscious level: I accept this.

  On an instinctual level however… I am struggling not to leap between them and knock away his wings.

  Tara is an intelligent, self-aware, capable princess. She is the one that should—and ultimately will—make the decision of who to claim for her own.

  I need to control my impulse to intervene. No, this set up wouldn’t be natural for my people—but it is for hers. I will adjust. I will learn to make peace with her choices, and wrestle to control these newfound instincts.

  Violent retching interrupts Grake’s advance as Tara’s attention is stolen away. I meet Grake’s disbelieving gaze for a brief click, and send him a faint, incredulously commiseratory smile. This poor hob. He couldn’t catch luck unless it flowed from a tap and he stood in the rutting bucket.

  She winces for the laid-out Rakhii and makes a soft “awww” sound along with murmurs that, despite their foreignness, require no translation to grasp that they are made in empathy.

  “Tevek,” groans Brax, before he is working on the next round of stomach-emptying exercises. I’ve seen this before of course; this isn’t the first time someone has initiated my threat response.

  But this being the strongest dose I’ve ever hit anyone with—I’m both surprised and relieved his reaction isn’t more severe. While Brax is busy recovering, I move to where Grake is still holding Tara back, and I open my arms.

  Grake releases her with a pained expression and watches as she leaps up on me.

  “Hoorassa! That was impressive!” I tell her. “You make your Wanbaroo proud with a jump like th
at.” My smile is huge.

  Hers is shaky.

  I kiss the line on her forehead. “He’ll be alright,” I assure her.

  “No,” Brax shudders. “I won’t. Grake?”

  Proving he does know Grake’s name isn’t really ‘new hireling’ or simply ‘hob’.

  “Go grab the blanket off my bed.”

  Grake seems to be holding a bit of a grudge about the lack of name specificity. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Would it kill you to add a ‘please’ to that, Brax?”

  “Don’t know,” Brax’s biting tone loses a bit of its impact as he turns his head away to heave. “But it might kill you. Have you always harbored these aspirations of being reduced to charcoal?” Smoke pours from his mouth with the last word.

  Grake retrieves the blanket.

  He throws it on Brax. But instead of getting more cantankerous over the unceremonious way it came to him, Brax meticulously begins to scrub it along his temples in a thorough manner—being sure to buff it over the wide parts of his horns, the insides of his wrists—and then he starts to lick the saturated fabric.

  Tara’s nose wrinkles.

  So does mine.

  Then Brax tosses it to me. “Wrap her in that.”

  Tara clambers off me. Speechless, I look down at what is now in my hands. I meet Brax’s agitated, nearly out-of-control yet resigned gaze with a panicked one.

  I try not to inhale, but it’s pointless.

  Clarity hits me so hard I stumble.

  “Is this—” Involuntarily, I draw in the scent coming off it again, but already know. “Bonded Rakhii? Bonded? How—Grake?” I am staring at the blanket in my hands. “I’m ready to have that conversation now.”

  Grake doesn’t look surprised. Only like he’s accepted the unavoidable. Just as resigned as Brax is.

  Creator.

  With a worried warble, I do what the crazed Rakhii says.

  Tara looks less than impressed at first, but simply for the way he applied it, I think—because she loves the smell. I know that already and she proves it again when she can’t stop herself from bringing it to her nose and snuggling her face a little into the drenched, reek-doused fabric. I lean away from her, grimacing slightly. She saw him… and still she…?