Page 24 of My Wild Pet

I’m also given little pink booties that are little more than textured socks. Clearly, I’m an indoor pet. I guess that’s a silver lining.

The attendants step back when they’re done, giving me one last inspection.

I glance at my reflection in a mirror-like surface along one wall. The person staring back at me is now a polished, pink, human pet. And the only reason this isn’t my worst nightmare is only because I never thought of it before.

Once groomed, I’m put in a cage with a little blanket. I watch from between the bars wondering what’s going to happen next.

But nothing happens. The attendants talk to each other in their strange alien language and I’m completely forgotten.

However, it’s not long before the melodic sound of the alien language puts me to sleep and I curl up with the little blanket in my cage.

I’m woken up by the door to the shower room opening with a hiss followed by someone yelling, shattering the sterile silence. Two young male attendants wrestle a human man inside—a near-giant of toned muscle, clad only in metallic briefs that leave little to the imagination. He’s soaked in sweat, fighting like a cornered beast, and all I can do is stare in disbelief.Who ishe?

They try to force him under the shower, but he’s too strong, thrashing and twisting with raw power. Then his eyes, a stunning molten amber, lock onto mine. The look in them goes beyond fury—there’s pain there, maybe grief. Whatever it is, it gives me goosebumps.

He shouts something in rapid-fire French. Unfortunately, my French ends at ‘bonjour’ and ‘oui,’ neither of which he seems to be saying. Sensing my chance to finally speak—my muzzle’s off—I call out, “Bonjour, Frenchman! I have no idea what you’re saying!”

He freezes for a heartbeat. His jaw tightens, and I half-expect some powerful declaration. Instead, he just spits, “American,” in a thick French accent before hurling himself back into the struggle with the attendants. He almost overpowers them, but one whips out a taser-like device and jams it into his side. His whole body seizes, all resistance draining away in an instant. Those intense eyes lower, and he’s dragged under the water. They strip away what little he’s wearing as they start to bathe him.

I want to look away, but I can’t. Soap bubbles spread over his golden skin, flowing down a body that looks like it was sculpted from living marble. He’s breathtaking—like some ancient statue of a European barbarian brought to life—his wavy hair dripping water down broad shoulders, a full, rich brown beard and chest hair as if an artist had painted the perfect man. Yet all that beauty is caged by total humiliation.

The attendants work with cool detachment, scrubbing him as though he’s just another chore. It makes me wonder at the variety of humans kept here: the older woman I saw earlier, and now this gorgeous, wild-eyed man. He’s nothing like the beaten-down souls I was once caged with—he’s pure rebellion, refusing to yield.

I’m torn between fear and a strange rush of hope.

CHAPTER 10

Gabriel

I’m thrashing, throwing kicks and punches, desperate to feel something other than helplessness and grief as les garçons try to wrestle me into the shower.

I’m caught off guard by the sight of a new female pet. She’s breathtaking—blonde hair tipped with violet ends. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I forget the pain, forget this damn place. Then another blow sinks into my gut, driving the air from my lungs. She calls out something in an American accent, and reality rushes back.

I lurch forward, fighting les garçons with everything I have left, until one jabs me with a needle of calming fluid, the other with a taser. Merde. My body grows heavy, the drug washing over me in waves. I struggle to keep my eyes open—half to keep sight of her, half out of sheer defiance—but the darkness creeps in anyway.

I know the drill. I’ll wake up scrubbed clean, locked in a cage, ready to play the part of the perfect human pet again. Only this time, there’s a new face in the menagerie—and maybe, just maybe, one that changes everything.

“Hey!” I hear as my mind slowly begins to come out of my drug induced stupor. “Hey you.”

I know I’m still in the cleansing room by the sickly sweet smell of lavender soap before I even open my eyes. But I don’t recognize the voice that’s woken me up. It’s not Mags. She’s been in captivity so long that she refuses to use any human languages. She probably can’t even remember them.

I remember now. The American—the English speaker—she must be in the cage next to mine. I glance around quickly to ensure les garçons are nowhere in sight. The room is dead quiet. They’re likely eating their evening meal, or perhaps it’s late enough that they’ve gone to bed and we’ve been accidently left here.

Satisfied that the coast is clear, I take a deep breath and, for the first time since Fifi died, I risk speaking in my native tongue. I keep my voice low. “Parles-tu français?”

A pause. Then her response comes cautiously, “Sorry, I don’t speak French. Only English.”

I switch to English, clumsy from years of disuse. “Okay,” I say. Using the reflection in my water jug, I catch a glimpse of her—blonde hair streaked with purple and pink. So I wasn’t imagining that. “Are you sick?” I ask.

“No. Why?”

“The ends of your hair... they’re purple,” I explain, unsure if it’s a mutation or some alien interference.

“How can you see me?” she asks, and I hear the rattle of her cage as she shifts.

“Barely. Through the water jug. I see your colors.” I pause, struggling to find the words in English. “Where are you from? Another Imperial ship or have you just arrived from Earth?”

“Of course, I’ve just arrived from Earth, minus a few weeks with some octopus-looking aliens.” Frustration tinges her words. “Where am I now?”

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