Page 54 of Alien Wants A Wife

Still, he senses something’s wrong, and when he asks if I’m well, I’m unable to force a fake smile.

“Fine,” I mumble, instead. “I’m fine.”

Hurrying back to his house, a sense of relief and… home-ness washes over me. It’s not enough to make me feel better, though, especially not when I see a camera still clipped to a cupboard and to the overhead lintel of the front door.

“Going to the bathroom,” I say, ducking my head and pretending to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear to block my face from being filmed.

Alien bathrooms are strange.

Firstly, there’s no mirror. While I usually enjoy checking my reflection, maybe today it’s a good thing I can’t see myself. I don’t think I could bear seeing how pale my cheeks must or how hollow my eyes must look.

I certainly feel hollow, akin to the tree Roan and I hid in.

I’ve been such an idiot! I always knew Chloe was working for Mr. Smith, but I’d somehow still convinced myself that she was on our side. I’d thought she was my ally, and that if I did what she asked of me, she’d make sure Mr. Smith followed through on his commitment to taking Lydia, Briar and me back home.

How wrong I’d been.

Chloe doesn’t care about any of us.

She’s as bad as Mr. Smith.

Worse even, because she’s Human and a woman, yet she still helped abduct us, knowing exactly what torture she was going to be putting us through.

Fuck! Why are all my options terrible?

I could break Roan’s heart as I’ve been told to, then demand Mr. Smith take me, Lydia and Briar home, as he promised. That’s terrible option number one.

Alternatively, I could immediately stop getting to know Roan and spending time alone with him. I could make it super-duper clear that I’ve no intention of staying and that he shouldn’t get feelings for me. Then, I could spend the rest of our twenty days on Ril II hoping and praying that Mr. Smith will still take us Humans home despite the fact I’ve potentially botched one of the major storylines of his TV show. That’s terrible option two.

And it’s terrible for two reasons. First, I don’t want to stop spending time with Roan. He’s amazing and incredible, and I’m selfish enough that I want to spend every last minute on this planet in his company. Second, I’m pretty sure Roan fancies me enough that when I leave he’s going to feel crap regardless of how clear I am about not staying.

I’m the first girl he’s ever kissed.

I’m the first he’s ever spilt spunk on.

I’m the first chance he’s gotten to experience intimacy and romance and love.

We’re both frogs sitting in a pot of water. While Mr. Smith and Chloe are slowly turning up the heat so they can enjoy watching us cook.

I storm around the bathroom, gritting my teeth. The entire room is a shower, with a drain in the floor and a showerhead in the ceiling. The walls, floor and ceiling are all made of a waterproof material that reminds me of plastic but, when I thump it with a fist, sounds like glass.

To access the toilet, you’ve got to press a button, and it spits out a bowl from a hatch in the wall. The bowl’s got a rim that kinda looks like a seat, but it’s super uncomfortable, clearly having been designed for someone taller and larger than me. I get the crazy idea that if I put too much of my weight on it, I’ll slip right in and be flushed down the pipes, so instead I do this awkward hover-squat thing, sticking my bum out behind me with my hands braced against the side wall for balance.

I’m giving myself a worrier’s headache. I can hardly believe how wonderful I felt only a few minutes ago, when it had been just me and Roan. Back when I’d been ignoring our million and one problems. Now, my guilt is back, and it’s a like knife that’s been stabbed between my ribs. I’m almost surprised when there’s no blood.

I search the bathroom twice over but don’t find a second hatch. Even after a night and most of a day living in Roan’s house, I still don’t know how a girl’s supposed to clean her hands, other than in the kitchen sink. If there’s another hatch in the bathroom from which a basin pops out then I’ve clearly missed it. In the end, I give up and turn on the shower instead. I need a proper wash, anyway.

My stomach’s sticky with drying cum.

Using what I hope is soap, I scrub my tank top and undies clean—partly because I’m fairly certain Roan doesn’t own a washing machine (why would he when he doesn’t own any clothes or blankets?) and partly because I want to eliminate all evidence of what Roan and I got up to hiding in the hollow tree.

In the heat of the moment, it had been so incredibly easy to push thoughts of LOVE GALAXY out of my mind. Presently, I’m thinking about how upset Lydia’s going to be with me if I’ve fucked up.

Scrubbed clean, I search the bathroom for the towel I didn’t bring in with me, and then do this ridiculous hoppingdance, trying to dislodge as many waterdrops as possible. Thank goodness there isn’t a camera in the bathroom, or else I’d be making an even bigger fool of myself than I already have.

Still dripping, I’ve got no choice but to use my jumper (the cleanest of my dirty clothes) as a shield, pressed against my chest, in an attempt to preserve at least a little of my dignity and privacy, and then I scramble out of the bathroom, into Roan’s bedroom. He’s not here, but judging by the soft sounds coming from the kitchen, he isn’t far away. Of course, it’s not him I’m worried about seeing me like this. It’s the three stinking cameras.

It's impossible to keep from flashing them my butt, so I don’t bother trying as I sort through my duffle bag, hunting for clean clothes.

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