Then, obediently, he removed it.
The instant the helm clicked free, he breathed in, and she saw his nostrils flare wide. His pupils dilated. A tremor rolled through him. His chest rose with a sharp inhale.
His lips curled into a grin. Knowing. Possessive. Delighted.
God help her.
Thatreaction.He was imbibing her andshowingher what her scent did to him.
He knew exactly what that little display did to her.
Then he fed her.
Bite by bite.
The stew was rich and savory, the starch velvety. Alien, yes, but nourishing, grounding. She let him control the pace—slow, deliberate—yet he waited for her cue to move on, never pushing.
So patient. So maddeningly gentle.
When she was finished, a soft chime rang through the room. She looked up.
One of the Rovok crew stood at the door, hunched and uneasy. He said nothing, only extended an object into Kyhin’s waiting hand.
Then he vanished.
The door slid shut.
Kyhin turned and approached, revealing what the crew had delivered.
A smooth silver object rested in his palm. Round, about the size of a large stone, polished to a mirrored sheen. It pulsed faintly, almost organically.
Sylvia stared at it, puzzled.
He held it out to her.
"What’s this?" she asked aloud, English curling softly off her tongue.
To her shock, the sphere pulsed and echoed her voice, only now it layered it with something else, another language, the sounds strange and sharp, projected toward Kyhin.
Translatingher words in real time.
Holy crap.
He grinned, eyes lighting with satisfaction.
Then he spoke. The translator shifted and replied in perfect English.
"I can understand you now," it said, in a tone eerily matched to his deep, commanding voice.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
"Not a god," he replied without irony. "But some fear me as such. And I will keep you safe. I swear."
Her heart stuttered.
"You’re called… Kyhin," she said reverently. "What are you, exactly?"
"I am a Hvrok. Probably the last of my kind. The rest of my people were wiped out—by their own doing."