Page 18 of Cursed Alien

As they walked, she found herself stealing glances at her bestial guide. Despite his fearsome appearance, there was something oddly compelling about him. The way he moved with such controlled power, the intelligence that shone in those glowing eyes, the glimpses of the person trapped inside the beast.

What had happened to him? And why was he alone in this crumbling monument to past glory?

She wasn’t sure why she cared. She should be focusing on fixing the tech and getting back to her father. But something about Malrik’s solitude called to her. She knew what it was like to be different, to be judged and found wanting by those around you.

Maybe that’s why she’d agreed to stay. Not just for the chance to work with advanced tech, but because for the first time in her life, she’d met someone who might understand what it felt like to be an outsider.

As they continued their exploration of the vast, decaying keep, she found herself less afraid of the beast at her side and more curious about the male he might once have been—and might still be, somewhere beneath the fur and fangs.

CHAPTER9

As they continued their tour of the keep, Malrik kept thinking about having Bella in his nest. His beast purred with satisfaction at the idea. The thought of her scent mingling with his, of having her curled against him in sleep, sent a wave of possessive pleasure through him. His rational side recognized this feeling as dangerous, but the beast didn’t care.

After they had explored most of the main rooms, he led her down a long corridor that opened into a different wing of the keep. This area felt unfamiliar to his beast, yet memory tugged at him—servants hurrying through these halls, the clatter of dishes, voices calling orders.

The kitchens were vast, designed to feed hundreds. Multiple hearths lined one wall, massive tables filled the center space, and rows of cabinets and storage areas stretched into shadowed corners. Everything lay under a thick blanket of dust.

She paused in the center of the main kitchen, running her finger through the dust that coated a large preparation table. She frowned, looking around at the abandoned space.

“What do you eat?” she asked, turning to face him.

The beast’s mind flashed immediately to the hunt—the thrill of the chase, the hot satisfaction of tearing into fresh prey, the copper taste of blood. His mouth watered at the thought.

But then another image surfaced, unbidden. A grand hall filled with light. Himself, seated at the head of a long table, dressed in formal Vultor attire. Servants parading before him with elaborate dishes, each more extravagant than the last. His own hand, waving them away with disdain.

“Not enough spice,”he heard himself say.“Take it away. All of it.”

The memory was so vivid, so unexpected, that he shook his head violently, trying to dislodge it. His beast snarled in confusion and distress. These periods of rational thought were becoming more frequent since the female had arrived, but they brought discomfort with them—as though his mind was being stretched in two directions at once.

He looked at her—small, fragile by Vultor standards, yet fearless as she explored his territory. The thought of her going hungry disturbed both sides of him. His beast wanted to hunt for her, to provide, to prove his worth as a mate. The rational part that was surfacing wanted… something else. Something more.

With a grunt, he moved to one wall where a row of machines was built in. He tapped one with a claw, then gestured for her to look.

Her eyes widened with excitement. “Is this what I think it is?” She stepped closer, running her hands over the sleek panel on the front. “A replicator! I haven’t seen one of these since I was a little girl in Port Cantor.”

The word struck a chord of recognition. Replicator. Yes.

“POTTS,” he managed to growl, the word feeling strange in his mouth.

“Personal Organic Taste and Texture Synthesizer,” she agreed, looking at him with surprise. “You remember what it’s called?”

He nodded once, pleased at her reaction.

She pressed a button, but nothing happened. “No power,” she murmured, then looked at him expectantly. “Is there a control room?”

He turned and led her through a small door at the back of the kitchen into a narrow service corridor. At the end was a room filled with control panels, screens, and monitoring equipment. Unlike the other rooms, this room showed no signs of destruction—only the inevitable dust of neglect.

She moved immediately to the main console, her fingers hovering over the controls. Every label, every readout was in the Vultor language.

“This might take me a while,” she muttered, already examining connections and tracing power lines with her eyes. “I can figure out the basic systems, but the language barrier will slow things down.”

He watched her, his beast growing impatient. She needed to eat. He needed to provide. The thought of her working for hours without food bothered him deeply.

“Hunt,” he growled abruptly, the word tearing from his throat.

Before she could respond, he turned and loped away, moving swiftly through the keep and out into the forest beyond. The beast took over completely as he ran, instinct guiding him through familiar hunting grounds.

The forest welcomed him with its symphony of scents and sounds. He moved silently despite his size, tracking the movements of small game. Within minutes, he had located a warren of cottmas.

---