Page 31 of Cursed Alien

The rational part of his mind—growing stronger each day—flashed a warning. Too much. Too fast. She’s human. She’s afraid.

But her body told a different story. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fur that was rapidly receding as his Vultor form emerged. She wasn’t pulling away. She was pulling him closer.

The warning voice in his head grew fainter with each passing second. Why should he stop? The female in his arms was soft and sweet and willing.

Willing.

That thought penetrated the haze of desire. How could she be willing? How could someone like her want someone—something—like him?

He wrenched himself back, chest heaving. His beast howled in protest, but he held firm, searching her face for signs of fear or revulsion.

Instead, she smiled up at him with kiss-swollen lips, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“We should celebrate,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. “The garden, the cleaning robot, the POTTS… we’ve accomplished so much.”

She traced a finger along his jaw, her touch feather-light against his skin—not fur, he realized with a jolt. More of his Vultor form had emerged during their kiss.

“I’ll program the POTTS for a special dinner,” she continued. “Something better than the basic meals we’ve been having.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious, but he couldn’t form the words to respond. He nodded instead, and she rose on her tiptoes to press another quick kiss to his lips, then slipped from his grasp and headed back towards the keep.

He watched her go, fighting the urge to follow. His beast whined in protest at the increasing distance between them, but he forced himself to remain in the garden. He’d spent days shadowing her, never letting her stray far. But this time, he forced himself to let her go. She wasn’t running. She’d be there when he returned.

In the meantime, there was more work to be done here, and he needed the physical exertion to clear his head. He attacked a particularly stubborn section of overgrowth, tearing out dead vines and clearing space for new growth. The physical exertion helped calm his racing thoughts, though her taste lingered on his lips.

As the afternoon wore on, he found himself thinking of her with increasing frequency. The way her eyes lit up when she solved a problem. The musical sound of her laughter. The feel of her body pressed against his.

When the sun began to set, he returned to the keep, his thoughts still consumed by her. He made his way back to his chambers, shedding dirt and sweat under the same hot spring water that fed his bathing pool. As he scrubbed his skin—more skin than fur today, he noted with surprise—his thoughts turned to her again.

The way she looked at him had changed. At first, there had been fear, then curiosity. Now there was something else—something that made his chest tighten and his pulse quicken. His shaft began to stiffen, as it did so often these days when he thought of her.

He wrapped a hand around it, stroking slowly. It had been so long since he’d felt this, he’d thought the urge was lost forever. But now…

He imagined how her fingers would feel on his heated skin, how her lips would part as she took him into her mouth. He imagined her on her knees in front of him, her pretty little ass in the air as he drove into her from behind, her soft cries of pleasure filling the chamber.

His strokes quickened, his grip tightening as the fantasy took hold. He could almost hear her voice calling his name, begging for more, for everything he could give her. The pressure built inside him, coiling tighter and tighter until, with a guttural groan, he found his release.

He stood under the cascading water, panting as his seed swirling down the drain. His knees felt weak, so he braced one hand against the wall until his heart slowed and his breathing returned to normal. In spite of the intensity of his release, it wasn’t enough. He didn’t want his hand or his imagination. He craved the real Bella, the one whose scent haunted him and whose voice sent shivers down his spine.

He dried off, then, struck by a sudden impulse, he went to his wardrobe and searched through the contents. Most of the clothing had been shredded in his early rages, but he found a pair of pants that were still intact, if somewhat dusty. They were too tight, straining against his thighs, but he managed to fasten them.

He also found a vest made of some dark, supple material that he could just manage to stretch over his shoulders, though he couldn’t close it over his chest. It would have to do.

He approached the mirror—another item he’d avoided for years—and studied his reflection. His face was more Vultor than beast now, though his eyes still glowed with primal intensity. His hair, once neatly groomed, hung in wild tangles down his back, streaked with silver.

He looked nothing like the polished noble he’d once been, but neither was he the mindless beast that had roamed these halls for so long. He was… something in between. Someone new.

When he entered the dining room, she was already there, and the sight of her stole his breath. She’d repurposed one of his old tunics, belting it at the waist to create a makeshift dress. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, gleaming like liquid gold in the light from the lanterns she’d placed around the room.

She turned at his approach, and her eyes widened as she took him in.

“You look very dashing,” she said with a smile.

The compliment stirred something in him—a memory of a time when such praise had been commonplace, expected even. He’d once spent hours on his appearance, reveling in the admiration of others.

Now, he simply inclined his head in acknowledgment, uncomfortable with the praise but warmed by it nonetheless.

The meal she’d programmed was far more elaborate than their usual fare. Dishes appeared one after another from the POTTS, each more flavorful than the last. She’d even managed to program a bottle of wine, which they shared as they ate.

---