Page 9 of Love Galaxy

Unless… wasn’t the medical advice of every hospital drama I’ve ever watched to not sleep when concussed? But the more I try to force myself to open my eyes the more I seem to sink intothe warmth of his hold, until I’m using one insanely defined pec as a pillow.

Honestly, it's been an embarrassingly long time since someone hugged me. I haven’t seen my friends in months. And it’s not like real estate agents, landlords or bank managers offer hugs to clients they’re preparing to evict.

Probably that’s why Mr. Smith wanted me on his show. He could see how much of a desperate fucking loser I am—jobless, soon-to-be homeless, touch starved. I bet filming losers makes for some hilariously humiliating reality TV.

With four arms, this guy gives one hell of a good hug, and I find myself hoping there aren’t any hidden cameras in the kitchen because I don’t want to risk anyone seeing me like this—cradled against his chest and not even putting up a symbolic fight.

Presumably, he’s one of the male contestants, but what makes him such a deadbeat that he qualified? Other than he agreed to dress in a skin-tight jumpsuit and pretend he’s covered in scales.

“Hey, come on. I asked you to put me down.” I grab hold of his shoulders to keep from falling and finally try wriggling free. Of course, that’s when he steps through a door leading out of the kitchen and into?—

What the actual fuck?!

In this room there’s a single alcove set into one wall, and in that alcove is another of those upright pallet things, like what I woke up in. This one doesn’t have a machine attached to the side, and I can’t see any tubes or needles, but there’s still no way I’m getting into it. Not in a million years.

Abandoning the idea of being set down, I wrap my arms and legs around his neck and waist, clinging to him like a monkey. Even using all four of his arms, he can’t detach me, fear giving me strength as my head swims and bile rises up my throat.

Muttering under his breath, he backs out of the torture room, but it’s not until he has closed and locked the door and set me on the kitchen table that I release my hold. My whole body’s shaking with sudden cold.

“Va shedd enhen lomatt?” he says, pointing toward… My face? Something behind me?

“I don’t understand.” I glance over my shoulder, but it’s a blank wall, not even decorated with a band poster or a family photo.

This time, he touches a hand to my chin, gently tipping my head to one side, indicating he’s seen the dried blood in my hair.

“Oh, yeah. That secretary hits like a boss.” I wrap my arms around my stomach, trying to keep from shivering. In comparison, his hand is warm, and it takes everything in me not to rest the full weight of my head in his fingers. “Don’t get on her bad side.” I avert my unsteady gaze, but almost immediately I’m back to looking at him.

He’s got rows and rows of sharp teeth, almost like a shark—or else my vision is deceiving me. And then there are decorative markings across his lips. White scales I think, probably designed to look like even more teeth.

The most striking thing about him, though, are his horns. He has six, varying in size, and the way they curve back over his head and frame his face reminds me of a crown. His brow has ridges that taper down to the bridge of his nose. His eyes are insanely green, with slit pupils. He’s got to be wearing contact lenses.

There’s something about the intense way he’s inspecting me that gives the impression he’s angry. Really pissed. Because I’ve been hurt? The air catches in my throat, and I swear I miss a breath.

“Head wounds tend to bleed a lot,” I hear myself saying, like I’m trying to reassure him. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”Although the pounding headache that’s determined to take up as much space inside my skull as it possibly can begs to differ.

He doesn’t reply. Rather, he releases my chin, moves to the kitchen counter and presses a couple of buttons on a touch screen mounted onto the backsplash.

I need to persuade him that what’s happening here is fucked up and that we need to find professional help. Police. Ambulance. Maybe even the fire brigade. And then years of therapy (which I absolutely won’t be able to afford, not even with a government rebate).

“My name’s Briar,” I say, thinking introductions are as good a place as any to begin getting him on side.

He glances at me over his shoulder, and I point to my chest. “Briar.”

“Br-eye— Br-eye-yar.” My name sounds almost like it’s uncomfortable on his tongue, like he really isn’t used to speaking English and not like he’s just pretending. Then he indicates himself. “Sorin.”

“Sor-in,” I attempt. “Nice to meet you, Sorin.” I keep my voice friendly. If he really can’t understand what I’m saying, maybe he can at least understand that he can trust me. And that he should continue helping me. “Are you sure you don’t have a cellphone I could borrow? I need to make one call. Real quick.” I try climbing down from the table, but my knees don’t cooperate, leaving me clinging to the table’s edge, trying not to fall.

With two arms, he easily picks me back up and deposits me gently on the table again, holding me in place. With another hand, he passes me a cup of water.

I’m suddenly gasping for a drink, and I swallow large mouthfuls.

After wiping my mouth clean on the back of one shaking hand, I force myself to smile. “Cell? Phone? Mobile? Landline?” Putting the cup down, I mime making a phone call.

He stares at me blankly.

“Laptop?” I mime typing.

“Briar.” He gently tips my head to one side again and starts dabbing at the dry blood with a damp cloth. It smells strongly of disinfectant, and pain prickles my skin as he slowly detangles my hair, separating the individual strands from the mat of clotted blood.

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