Her Alien Protector: Voxeran Fated Mates #6

by Hall, Presley

  Still, I can’t help wishing I’d been able to end his miserable life. Of all the criminals and lowlives I’ve met on Nuthora, he was among the worst.

  And if Willow had seen me kill her captors, perhaps she would believe that I truly mean her no harm.

  Or maybe she would be even more terrified of you, you slanching idiot.

  I sigh in frustration and start moving again, walking quickly to catch up with my fellow warriors so that we can begin our morning hunt.

  There was no time to explain what I was doing or who I was when I shoved aside one of the pirates and hauled the bound Willow into my arms. There wasn’t even time to untie her. All I could do was throw her over my shoulder and run. But I know I frightened her, and I hate the way her eyes widen and her breath seems to catch in her throat every time she looks at me now. I hate the possibility that she might think I’m the same kind of man Gornok is—the kind who would steal what he wants with no hesitation, who would treat another being as an object to be owned.

  I was trying to free Willow, not steal her.

  But I’m not sure she will ever believe that.

  My grip on my spear tightens as an unpleasant ache spreads through my chest. Slanch, I need a good hunt. I feel unsettled and angry at myself, and I hope that some time in the woods tracking prey will give my mind a respite from these thoughts.

  As I expected, the other warriors are waiting for me near the village gates. Strome catches sight of me first and grins, lifting his chin.

  “Did you lose your way, Bohrir?” he jokes. “I can draw you a map of the village later if you like.”

  I shake my head at him, chuckling. His teasing doesn’t bother me. It takes a lot to unsettle me, which is why the feelings that have been crashing around in my chest for the past several days are so unusual.

  “Last to arrive, first to get a kill,” I predict, tapping my chest with two fingers.

  Strome’s smile widens. “I’ll take that bet, old man. I think I’ll get first kill.”

  Ryxx and Ochar both laugh, and the four of us head through the broad gate in the wall that surrounds the village. The air is humid and heavy this morning, and the forest spreads out in front of us, shades of green dotted by occasional splashes of bright color from flowering plants. I’m one of the oldest Voxerans in the village, but only by a year or two—far from old, as Strome likes to call me.

  Sometimes I do feel a difference between myself and younger Voxerans like Strome or Kaide, but that’s less about age and more about temperament. I don’t have the same love of battle that some of them have, the same itch for excitement. I’ve been a warrior for most of my life, trained for fighting ever since I was a youngblood. I’m big and strong, so it was a natural choice, something that was expected of me.

  But still, I dream of peace more than war.

  “Any news on the inter-planetary communicator you all brought back from Pascia?” Ryxx asks, glancing between me and Ochar as we pick our way through the underbrush, heading for an area a little way away where we often find herds of rakon.

  “Rhesk and Vael are working on it.” I run a hand through my shaggy hair as I think of the small black cube with the dent on one side. “They agree that the damage to the device isn’t too bad, but they haven’t yet agreed on the best way to fix it. They seem to think it will be possible though.”

  “That’s good.” Strome glances over at us, his eyes shining. “Once we get it working, we can reach out to our allies back on Vox and coordinate a rescue mission to get us off this slanching rock.”

  Ochar makes a noise of agreement in his throat, and I nod.

  Of course, even if the communication device is fixed and we manage to make contact with our friends back home, it won’t be as simple or easy as Strome makes it sound. Prince Droth’s usurping uncle Drokar banished us from Vox after we unsuccessfully tried to rebel against him. After Droth’s father died, the title of king should’ve passed to my prince, but Drokar stepped in and claimed the throne for himself, ruling by fear and intimidation.

  Perhaps our rebellion would’ve been successful, but Droth’s brother betrayed us, alerting Drokar to our plans.

  It’s been five years since we were banished, and in that time, we’ve had no contact with Vox. It’s possible that every remaining Voxeran who is sympathetic to our cause has been rooted out and killed or banished as well. Much could have changed on Vox, and we won’t know if we have any allies left until we get the communication device working and try to reach out to them.

  Then there will be the matter of orchestrating a rescue from this closely watched planet, which may in itself prove impossible.

  But there’s no reason to dwell on all the ways our plan might not work. Even damaged as it is now, the communicator brings us one step closer to our goal of returning to Vox and finishing what we started, and that gives all of us hope.

  We talk easily as we head deeper into the forest, but after a while, our voices grow quiet and then go silent entirely. We’re nearing the area where we’ve encountered herds of rakon before, and although the creatures are nowhere near as dangerous as many that live on Nuthora, they startle easily. If we’re not careful, we’ll miss out on our chance to take one or two of the rakons down—or worse, get caught in a stampede and crushed to death beneath hundreds of hooves.

  I focus on the hunt, my gaze darting around as the trees begin to thin out a little around us. My ears are pricked for any sound in the distance, and I keep my footsteps light to avoid making any noise myself. The loincloths we wear don’t provide much in the way of protection from tusks or horns when we hunt, but we fight better unencumbered by bulky clothes or armor.

  Up ahead, Strome gives a soft whistle—a noise that could almost be mistaken for the call of a bird in the trees. But it’s a signal that he’s spotted our prey, and as soon as the rest of us hear it, we fall into our practiced positions, fanning out so that we can surround the herd of rakons. We’ll drive them in the direction we want them to go and pick off one or two stragglers.

  I slip quietly through the woods, emerging from the trees to see the rakons grazing on patches of thick grass that wave in the breeze. The color of the grass is a deep green that reminds me of Willow’s eyes, and a sudden vision of her delicate face pops into my mind.

  She went so still when I encountered her this morning, freezing like a rakon that senses danger. I don’t know what I planned to say to her when I opened my mouth. I only knew that I couldn’t bear the silence any longer, couldn’t stand her looking at me like I was a hunter about to attack.

  Focus, Bohrir, I remind myself, dragging my thoughts back to the present. The rakons are much less dangerous than other creatures we’ve had to fight, but distraction during any hunt can be a deadly mistake. I won’t let my fellow warriors down just because I can’t seem to stop thinking about the lovely, frightened Terran woman.

  I pick up my pace a little to make sure I’m in position, then whistle, adjusting my grip on my spear as I wait for the signals from my fellow warriors to let me know they’re ready as well. The rakons are grazing on the tall grass, their large eyes blinking languidly. Their striped fur glistens in the sunlight, and blunt dark horns protrude from their backs.

  Ochar is the last to signal, and the moment his whistle reaches my ears, I rush toward the rakons, letting out a feral roar. We could attack in silence, but for our strategy to work, we want the rakons spooked. We want them to run.

  And they do.

  The sight of four massive warriors racing toward them sparks their primal prey instincts, and the herd moves as one, turning and stampeding away from us. Our feet pound against the ground as we give chase. One of the animals falls back a little, a braying cry falling from its lips, and I don’t miss my chance.

  I hurl my spear, catching it through the neck. The rakon’s cry cuts off abruptly as it falls, and Strome lets out a whoop as he sprints faster beside me, aiming his own weapon.

  He catches one of the rakons in the leg, and it
stumbles and bellows, slowing down. Half a moment later, Ryxx’s spear ends the beast’s life.

  The rest of the herd is still fleeing, the force of their hooves making the ground shake a little as they get farther and farther away. It doesn’t take long before they’re out of distance for even our spears to reach, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve brought down two, and that’s plenty. The animals are gentle but large, so this will provide the village with a good amount of food.

  “Well done,” I tell Ryxx as we approach the two felled beasts. “It was a clean kill.”

  “Not as clean as yours,” he says, admiration in his voice as he glances over at the rakon I took down, which still has my spear lodged in its neck.

  I dip my head in acknowledgement of his words, but as I step forward to retrieve my spear, Willow’s face unaccountably flits into my head again.

  He’s right. It was a clean kill. Efficient and lethal.

  That’s what I do. I’m a warrior. A hunter. A killer.

  I’m good at those things. I don’t mind that these animals fear me, and I’m glad that my enemies do. Still, there’s one creature I wish didn’t fear me.

  But I have no idea how to make her see me as anything but a beast.

  3

  Willow

  I jerk awake, nearly tumbling off my small cot as I scramble to anchor myself back in the real world.

  The little bed shifts beneath me, and I roll to my other side to keep it from tipping over. My heart is beating frantically, my mind still fuzzy from the dream. I gaze around the dimly lit interior of the women’s barracks as I put the heel of my hand to my sternum, pressing as hard as I can.

  I’m afraid I must’ve woken someone up with my sudden movements, but all of the other women still seem to be asleep. Letting out a relieved, shaky breath, I sit up and then stand on wobbly legs, heading for the barracks door. I slip out into the pre-dawn light, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the chill in the air.

  This is even earlier than I usually wake up, but I don’t care. I need to walk, need to move. I can’t just lie there in bed trying to pick through pieces of a dream I no longer even remember.

  This has happened before. I’ve woken from a deep sleep with an almost wrenching feeling, as if I’m being dragged up from the depths of a bottomless ocean at warp speed, so fast it hurts. I sometimes think I must be dreaming of my past, and I wonder if the sharp and unpleasant awakening is some part of my mind trying to force my subconscious and consciousness to connect—trying to bridge the gap between what I can recall in my dreams and what becomes a blank slate when I’m awake.

  But the dreams always slip away too quickly. Once or twice, I’ve been able to remember a vague flash of something. A noise or a color or a particular smell. But none of those things are ever clear, and I can never be sure if they mean anything or not.

  I blow out a breath, letting my cheeks puff out as I empty all the air from my lungs. Without realizing it, I’ve let my feet carry me to the edge of the village again, and I stand near the gate in the wall as I watch the sky begin to lighten in the distance.

  Despite the coming sunrise, the horizon seems darker than usual, and I realize after a moment that it’s because storm clouds are gathering there. Nuthora can get some wicked storms, with torrential rain that lashes almost sideways because of driving winds. I remember huddling in the back of Gornok’s lair once, listening to the booms of thunder outside as rainwater dripped in through the many cracks in the building’s structure.

  My skin prickles at the memory. The storm went on for hours, and I was trapped inside with Gornok and his men the entire time.

  I shove his face out of my mind, wishing I had more recollections to draw on to drown out the images of his blunt features and cruel smile. But there aren’t many. He exists in almost every memory I have, a constant presence in the only part of my life that I can remember.

  “Fuck him.”

  I mutter the words under my breath, and even though they’re quiet, they’re tinged with bitterness. I don’t swear all that often, but if there’s one man in all the universe who’s worth every curse word I know, it’s Gornok.

  The words don’t change anything, but they make me feel a little better.

  I stand at the village gate, looking out into the forest for a little while longer, lost in my thoughts. Noises begin to rise up in the settlement behind me, the sound of Voxeran men calling to each other and women laughing as they emerge from the barracks and begin to go about their day. It all sounds so… normal, which somehow makes it feel foreign to me.

  When a hunting party strides by on their way out of the village, I quickly step to one side to let them pass, glancing up at them surreptitiously through my eyelashes.

  Although I hate to admit that I’m looking for Bohrir among them, I must be, because I can feel my shoulders relax as it quickly becomes apparent that the massive Voxeran isn’t among the warriors heading out to hunt this morning. I can’t quite tell if the emotion I’m feeling is relief or something else, but when one of the hunters glances my way, my breath doesn’t stop the way it does when Bohrir looks at me.

  As the small group of Voxeran men disappears into the distance, I turn around and head back into the village.

  The gray pall of the oncoming storm hangs over everything for most of the day, filling me with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. The air seems charged, making the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but none of the other residents of the village seem bothered by it, so I try to pretend I’m not either.

  Then, just as everyone is beginning to gather for dinner, the skies open up.

  It’s as if someone flipped a switch. A single fat droplet of rain hits my forehead, and between one heartbeat and the next, it’s joined by hundreds more. Rain begins to fall in sheets, soaking me instantly. The Terrans and Voxerans around me all react at the same time, letting out startled curses and shouts as everyone runs for cover.

  The dirt pathways that crisscross the village are already becoming wet and muddy, and I almost slip and fall as I try to sprint for cover.

  “Watch out.”

  The gruff voice behind me is barely audible over the rain, and strong hands catch my arms. I jerk with surprise, craning my neck to look over my shoulder at the man who caught me. It’s one of the Voxeran warriors whose name I can’t quite remember. Rhesk, maybe? Rain has slicked his dark hair to his head, and he blinks water out of his eyes as he tugs on my arm.

  “This way.”

  A crack of thunder punctuates his words as lightning brightens the sky nearby, and I jump again. As thunder booms once more, the Voxeran pulls me toward a small building on one side of the path, holding up one arm to block the rain a little. He calls out to two other men, raising his voice to be heard over the storm, and they run to meet us. One of them yanks the door of the building open, and Rhesk hustles me inside, following close on my heels. The other men rush in after us, closing the door with a thud.

  I glance around, catching sight of a few other Voxerans who’ve taken shelter here. It takes me a second to realize that we’re in the makeshift medical facility. Elizabeth brought me here not long after our arrival in the village, using the limited equipment available to run some tests on me and make sure I was okay physically. She gave me a clean bill of health, although the look of sympathy in her eyes as she examined me made it clear she was able to guess at least a little of what I’d been through.

  The leather wraps I’m wearing are wet, and my skin and hair are soaked. Goosebumps cover my skin as I wrap my arms around myself, shivering.

  Another boom seems to shake the entire building, and lightning flashes brightly.

  “Akhi.” The man I’m pretty sure is called Rhesk curses, peering out the small window. “If one of those bolts hits a hut, we’ll have a problem.”

  “Are they that close?” one of the other Voxerans asks.

  “Looks like that last strike was just outside the village walls,” Rhesk reports. “We’ll have
to hope the gods favor us.”

  Several of the men mutter something that might be the words of some Voxeran prayer, although I can’t hear them well enough to tell quite what it is. They begin to settle in around the small space, and I shrink back toward the wall a little as I realize there are no other humans in here—just me and a bunch of Voxeran men.

  Unbidden, memories of being trapped with Gornok and his men during the storm that hit Pascia flash through my mind.

  This isn’t the same, I tell myself, repeating the words over and over. It’s not the same. You’re no longer Gornok’s captive.

  But that rational thought has a hard time penetrating the morass of memories in my mind. As the men talk amongst themselves, complaining about missing dinner and wondering aloud whether the storm will cause any flooding of the nearby streams, I keep myself tucked against the wall. One or two of them glance my way curiously, and I avoid meeting their gazes as my skin prickles uncomfortably.

  I can’t stay here.

  The realization bubbles up inside me, joining my panicked thoughts and memories of being held captive by the band of ruthless pirates.

  I don’t belong here, and I can’t stay.

  No one has tried to harm me yet, but every day, I feel like I’m balancing on a tightrope, just waiting for the moment when I fall off. I’m taking a risk every day, putting my safety and freedom in the hands of these people I hardly even know.

  Gornok didn’t keep me tied up at first—he only started doing that after I tried to escape. So even though I’m allowed to wander the village freely now, there’s no guarantee that it will stay that way. Maybe the Voxerans will change their minds just like Gornok did, and I will have missed my only chance to get away.

  I can’t let that happen. I can’t go through that again.

  The sound of the men laughing and talking boisterously around me is like an assault on my senses, too loud for me to handle in this small space. The crashes of the thunder have faded a bit, although the torrential rain doesn’t seem to have abated at all. Still, this may be my best chance.