Page 37 of Alien Wants A Wife

Lydia shoots him a glare, clearly thinking Roan is taking Killan’s side against her. “What would be the fucking point?—”

“I need to powder my nose,” I say, grabbing her arm and pulling her up. “Come on. Back to the ship.”

“Powder your nose?” she grumbles. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” I drag her out of the house, all the while she’s muttering about how men are stupid regardless of whether they’re Human or Ril’os—or whatever the fuck Mr. Smith is. Only when we’re bombarded by the wind outside do I release her so we can pull the hems of our sundresses up to cover our nosesand mouths. I don’t care that I’m flashing my panties; I want to breathe without dust getting into my lungs.

Lydia and I hide in the makeup room for the rest of the day. When nobody comes searching for us, I suspect it’s because Mr. Smith is satisfied with the burning dumpster fire of footage Lydia, Killan, Roan and I have already provided him for episode two.

That, or Briar and Sorin are keeping him occupied with their shenanigans.

Isn’t that why he sent Briar away? Because she was too much of a handful, and he didn’t want her encouraging Lydia and me into trouble.

Well, sucks to be him. Lydia and I are determined to make trouble of our own.

My tummy’s rumbling by dinnertime, but when there’s still no sign of Mr. Smith (or food) we decide to make good on our promise to Briar to continue exploring the ship, searching for a way home that doesn’t leave us relying purely on our captor.

I hate this spaceship with a burning passion. It’s sterile and bland. The only colors are items that have been brought onboard for Lydia, Briar and me—our clothes and the decorations in the interview room. All the rest of the walls are painted in what I’d describe as ‘military gray’, with matching floors and ceilings.

Our bedroom is also bland—two hammocks, a toilet that pops out of a hatch in the wall when you press a button and a shower that’s set into the ceiling and that doesn’t have proper privacy screens.

“Oh fuck. Look at this,” Lydia whispers.

I step around her, and my mouth drops open. The room she’s indicating has three Human-sized crates set upright into three of its four walls. Each crate has been molded to fit around a specific person, with one being taller than the other two. They’re attached to their own machine, from which hangs pipes andwires, controlled by a touchscreen tablet. Right now the tablets are flashing words in a language I can’t read.

It’s the strangest thing—I’ve got blurry memories of being in this room before, except that the memories are more like vibes left over from an unpleasant dream than anything substantial.

Lydia is hovering in the open doorway, her shoulders bowed, and she shakes her head when I glance her way.No,she’s not stepping inside the abduction room.

I want to refuse, too, but I also want to know if there’s some way we can access information through the tablets. I poke at one with a finger. Immediately, the flashing stops, and the screen changes to display four quadrants, each marked with more words I can’t read. Evidently my translator doesn’t work on written language, just spoken.

A missed opportunity, if you ask me.

Then again, Mr. Smith probably made that choice on purpose so we can’t do exactly what we’re trying to do now.

I hover my finger over each option. Is it too much to hope that one will show us a blueprint of the ship, telling us behind which locked door the control room lies. Or maybe the key codes to the doors. Or, better yet, Earth’s coordinates.

“Pick one,” Lydia hisses at me from her place in the doorway, which is kind of rude, considering I’m the one doing all the hard work, but she does jolt me into action, and I press a random quadrant.

The screen changes, again. This time lots of writing appears, and it’s rapidly scrolling through paragraphs and paragraphs—too quickly for me to have read, if I knew how. Then the Human-shaped crate flashes blue, as if the mold has LEDs set into the plastic.

I back up a step, right as the blue light switches to orange. The tablet is also flashing orange, and I bump into Lydia behind me right as a warning siren echoes along the corridor.

“Frickin’ hell.”

Lydia and I duck back into the makeup room, and the door automatically closes behind us. But not before I see Mr. Smith hurrying out of another room, a little further along the corridor. He’s heading toward the creepy crates, and a second later, the siren stops.

I move to press my ear to our door, hoping I can hear Mr. Smith moving about, but of course the door opens again, sensing me leaning closer.

Mr. Smith must hear, because he glances up, and we accidentally make eye contact—me in the makeup room; him in the creepy crate room, both doors open. His tail is thrashing like it’s the epicenter of his emotions. His face is a sickly puce, and he’s buried his chin deep into the thick folds of skin around his neck.

“You okay?” I strive for an air of innocent curiosity and silently curse myself when I hear fear in my voice.

The bastard doesn’t answer—just glares, before selecting an option on the tablet I’d been messing around with. The door to the creepy crate room closes, with him on the inside. Hopefully there isn’t a camera in there that recorded me, or else I’m going to be in a lot of trouble for setting off that siren.

“Did you see what I saw?” I ask Lydia in a whisper, taking half a step out of the makeup room in the direction Mr. Smith had originally come from.

“The cockpit,” Lydia agrees, and we rush to the closed door.

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