Page 25 of Sawoots Story

I rest my head against his chest. I thought I’d cry, but no tears come out, and my resolve hardens. I pull myself away.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He doesn’t answer me for a second, and I wonder if he’s spaced out and didn’t hear me. I stare up at his broad jaw and clear, intense eyes, wondering what he’s thinking in that alien brain of his. I walk away, going to the bathroom to wash the tears from my eyes and freshen up. I feel dirty after having Kit’s hands on me.

“It’s my duty to keep you safe. You’re a prisoner on this ship. I can’t allow anything to happen to you.” His voice booms out from the other room.

I look at myself in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess, and my body is sore from trying to rip myself out of their hands. I shudder as I remember how turned on Kit was. He was like a wolf.

Do I believe Garrick?

Is this a matter of duty, or something else?

I’ve seen the raw lust in his eyes. He barely holds it back—but he does. He fights against his nature, no matter how hard it is for an Aurelian to hold back the Mating Rage that rules the species.

Fuck. My wrist is killing me.

It’s swelling up. I try to form a fist, and scrunch up my eyes in pain at the surge of agony. That’s bad news. Pain, I can take.

Without functioning fingers? Escape is less and less likely. I run some cold water over it, a poor version of an ice-pack, and the pain dulls somewhat.

I step out of the bathroom and into the stall. Markrin is back, holding a black kit. He puts it on the top bunk, towering over it, and opens it up. Inside is a bottle that he twists the cap off, palms a few pills, and tosses me a couple that I catch in my off-hand.

“What’s this?”

“Pain medication. Couple hundred years old, but this stuff doesn’t expire. Officially I have to go to the med-bay to okay anything for prisoners…” He shrugs. “Unofficially, it’ll help. Let it dissolve under your tongue.” He scrutinizes me, and I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Captivity is not a good look on me.

Gods. Up close, the three are even more handsome than I remembered.

Or maybe it’s just an attraction growing from how they saved me—twice. Markrin’s eyes are focused and intelligent, unclouded by the Mating Rage that I associate the species with.

I look down at the two pills in my hand. They’re dusty. I grit my teeth as another wave of pain crashes over me. I need to be sharp if I want to manage an escape, but I also need to be free from pain long enough to put my thoughts together.

I put the first pill under my tongue. They barely fit, made for the big Aurelian species. Everything about them is bigger. As the pill dissolve, I get instant relief, but my thoughts don’t seem to slow, so I pop the second one in. You don’t realize how good feeling normal is until you’ve had a broken wrist.

“Give me your hand,” says Markrin, his voice gravelly. I look up at the alien warrior, trying to get a read on him. He’s so fucking calm after fighting against three warriors, like life-or-death battles are routine for him. He’s a stark contrast to Tar’ank, whose arms are flexed and ready for another fight, his lips drawn back to show his teeth. Markrin’s features are serious. I wonder if he ever laughs.

I extend my hand forward, and he takes a small black gun from the kit with his left hand while grabbing my wrist tenderly with his right. I can’t help but laugh.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just…you’re so big, I wasn’t expecting you to be gentle.”

“You’re like a little wounded bird,” he says, then blinks, confused, like he isn’t sure where those words came from. It’s so hard to read emotion in the Aurelian species. Their eyes are so intense, slate grey and alien. My skin contrasts against his paleness, and I shudder as I imagine howrightit would look for us to be together.

I look away as he presses the trigger of the gun, and a black beam arcs out. There’s no pain from it. My wrist feels a little numb, if anything. Markrin clears his throat. “This will speed the healing process, but be careful not to strain if further. You have micro-fractures in your wrist.”

“Gotcha. I’ll try not to punch any more rapists,” I quip, and instantly regret the sarcasm. These three men saved my life—for the second time—and I owe them.

No. Don’t get Stockholm syndrome. You don’t owe them anything. If they’re the only three honorable Aurelians on this ship? You owe it to Tasha to use that to your advantage. Don’t feel anything for them. They’re tools, and nothing more.

“The next who touches you loses his hand,” snarls Tar’ank. The broad-shouldered Aurelian is panting from the battle, his blood up. A little tremor runs up my spine. He’s so powerful, he intimidates me. He looks ready to rip more than just a hand from somehow.

“What’s going to happen to Kit?” I turn to Garrick, thinking that if anyone has the answers, it’ll be him.

“He will get swift justice.” Garrick takes no pleasure in the words, his face neutral.

Kit’s eyes haunt me. The way drool dripped down his face. The stink that came from his body. “I want to see it. I need to see it.”

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