Page 45 of Charmed By the Alien Warrior

A loud groan rips me from sleep. I blink blearily trying to remember why I’m curled up on a bench. The unfamiliar gray walls, the blinking lights and dark monitors. It all comes rushing back in a torrent of memories.

The Pugj. Sorrin. That kiss. His lips, his tongue, going down on…That’s when I hear it again.

The noise is low and strained, and it sounds alarmingly like the tortured groan of an animal in distress. I sit up quickly and glance around the shadowy control room, scanning for what is probably some weird creature intent on making a meal of me. Maybe the tiniio managed to get in here. Maybe it’s waiting, just out of sight, ready to pounce.

But except for Sorrin sprawled at the end of the bench, the room is empty.

His head is tipped back, his mouth slightly parted displaying his pointy fangs, and his eyes are clenched tightlyclosed. As I study him, I notice his heavy brow is furrowed in agitation, casting shadows over his angular face. His broad chest rises and falls in rapid, uneven breaths, and a soft whimper escapes his lips.

Ahh. Bad dream.That’s certainly something I’m all too familiar with. Far too well—the way sleep holds you captive in a place where all your worst fears are replayed over and over and the only escape from the torture is waking up.

I inch closer, shifting until I’m nearly touching him. “Sorrin,” I whisper, gently placing my hand on his bare, tense shoulder. “Wake up.”

But he doesn’t stir.

My hand trembles as I give him a small shake. “Sorrin,” I try again, louder this time.

But he’s locked inside whatever horror is playing out behind his closed eyelids.

I glance down at his fists as they clench tightly, so tightly his knuckles are pale, almost white, and the veins in his forearms bulge. His body is rigid, like it’s made of stone, as if he’s bracing himself against some unseen blow.

His coloring shifts as his skin flickers to a mottled mix of deep brown and black. I glance in confusion at the stark white bench we’re on and the various shades of gray that dominate the control room.

“Sorrin…” My voice cracks and my heart aches at the clear turmoil he’s enduring in his dreamworld.

Suddenly, his arm lashes out, nearly knocking me off the bench. I gasp and tumble backward, barely keeping my balance. His other hand claws at the air, fingers curling and flexing like he’s trying to fend off an invisible attacker.

I grab his large hand in mine, clutching it desperately and pulling it to my chest as his expression contorts into something unrecognizable. The happy-go-lucky Sorrin I know is nowhere to be found. Sheer terror is etched into every hard line and furrow of his face.

His chest heaves, rising and falling as if he’s been running for his life, each breath ragged and shallow. Another groan, deeper and more guttural, rumbles from his throat, and the sound makes my chest ache painfully. I can’t stand seeing him like this.

I need to wake him up. Now.

“Sorrin!” I shout, panic rising in my throat. My grip on his hand tightens as I lean closer and shake him harder. “Wake up! Please.”

The warm puff of his erratic breathing brushes against my skin, and something cold and primal grips me. A terrible thought claws at my mind—that if I don’t wake him now, I might lose him forever. And I can’t bear that.

Sorrin may be a cocky dufus who gets under my skin sometimes, but he’smycocky dufus.

“Please.” My voice breaks. “Please wake up for me.”

His breath hitches, and for a moment, his muscles tense even harder. Then, as I grip his hand to my chest, something changes. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s searching for my voice, and his brow unfurrows.

“Sorrin?” I whisper, holding my breath.

His muscles shudder beneath my touch before his stone gray eyes snap open. His gaze is wild and disoriented as it darts around the room before landing on me. His pupils, wide and dark with fear, slowly lighten as recognition settles in.

Blinking, he asks, “Mara?” His voice is hoarse, like metal scraping over stone.

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding as relief floods through me.

“Yes, it’s me. You were having a nightmare.” My fingers are still trembling against his hand, and I realize just how tightly I’ve been gripping it. I loosen my hold, but don’t let go. I couldn’t let go now even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.

“I didn’t mean to...” His voice trails off as if he doesn’t know what to say, and his gaze drops to our entwined hands.

His hair is a tangled cascade around his shoulders and one stubborn lock slips into his face, hiding his gaze from me. His brow furrows as if he’s trying to push away the memories of the nightmare that’s still clinging to him like a shadow.

“I was worried about you,” I say softly. “That was some dream.”

---