Page 73 of Alien Wants A Wife

“So that certain people”—he nods toward the camera again—“do not overhear.”

“Because we have many commercial-in-confidence matters to speak of,” I mock, and I swear I hear Killan’s teeth grinding as he clenches his jaw closed on whatever insult he had inevitably been about to hurl at me.

“It’s fine,” Harlee whispers, lying back down and settling her cheek on the pillow she made for me, in place of where my shoulder had been. “You should go, if it’s that important to him.”

“Yes,” he snaps. “Speak sense into Roan.”

“I thought Mates always sided with each other,” I grumble, climbing out of bed. It is only when I am standing do I fully comprehend what I have said.

Mates.

Killan is silent, finally, glancing between Harlee and me.

Harlee is silent as well, mayhaps thinking of a kind way to remind me that she has not yet agreed to be my Mate. I wish the light was on so that I could see the details of her expression.

Unless… Unless, of course, she is staring at me with horror. Then I am glad it is dark.

“I did not mean—” I begin, my mouth suddenly uncomfortably dry. “That is, I know you have not chosen. I should not have said—” I stumble over my growing panic.

That had slipped out of my mouth without conscious thought. It came so easily and had felt so right that I had not immediately realized where I had gone wrong.

“I have contacted Sorin,” Killan says, filling the empty space after my half-spoken apology. “He will already be on his way.”

“Go,” Harlee says, voice soft. Gentle. “I’ll be here when you return.”

But you might not be here forever.The thought fills me with a feral need to throw myself back onto the bed and to wrap my four arms around her.

I want Harlee to choose me so much it is a physical pain. I crave a future spent with her so fiercely my head swims with the beginnings of a headache, and I have to clench my hands into fists to keep myself from reaching for her.

Tomorrow (or is tomorrow today already?) will be day fourteen of filming. The end is rushing toward us with startling speed. If Harlee decides to return to her birth planet, leaving me, I know with absolute certainty that my heart—and my soul—will shatter.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Harlee

Silence is the sound of loneliness. I search Roan’s kitchen for a TV or radio I can turn on to take away the bitter edge and find nothing, not even his datapad, which he must have taken with him to the meeting.

Instead of returning to his silent bedroom, I practically sprint down the passageway connecting the two houses, and when I burst into the kitchen, it’s to find Lydia sitting at the table with her hands wrapped around a cup of golden liquid. Killan’s hooch.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask, suddenly conscious that I didn’t wait long enough after Roan had left to put on socks and shoes. I am wearing my silk PJs, but without Roan beside me, they’re rather inadequate at keeping me warm.

“Nope,” Lydia says, taking a sip. She’s fully dressed; she mustn’t have made it to bed yet, leaving me wondering if she and Killan had another argument. Maybe that’s the real reason for him wanting to hold the meeting at midnight—an excuse to get out of the house and away from Lydia.

I can’t believe I ever thought Killan and Lydia might be a good match for each other. Maybe the old sayingopposites attractis true. Maybe Killan and Lydia are too similar.

There are dark semicircles under her eyes, and if I’m any judge, I’d guess she has lost weight since our first day of filming.

“Do you know why Killan and Roan were acting so weird?” she asks.

“’What’d you mean weird? They’re having some sort of meeting.” I lower my voice, thinking about how Killan didn’t want Mr. Smith knowing. It’s all an illusion, though; there aren’t any secrets he doesn’t already know about.

“Yeah, but when Killan came back to the house with Roan, he checked his datapad, and then they rushed up there.” She points to the staircase leading up to the ground floor. There’s not much up there, from what I can remember—the front and back doors and a small mudroom with storage for extra boots.

“They went outside?” With the constant windstorm, it’s impossible to hold any sort of conversation outside. The wind screams and snatches the words from your month before anyone can hear what you’ve said. Good for staying out of Mr. Smith’s earshot; bad for holding a meeting.

“No. About a minute later, they came rushing back into the kitchen and wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Then they went through that door.” She points to one of the few doors that I actually recognize. It leads to the tunnel connecting Killan’s house with Sorin’s. There’s an underground railway line along which single-person carts travel—a personalized high-speed train of sorts. Not that I’ve travelled in one of the carts; Mr. Smith made it clear he didn’t want any of us visiting Briar and Sorin in exile.

Curious, I open it. Sure enough, there’s the track, running down the center of a narrow tunnel. There’s only one light, and it’s at the end of the tunnel closest to the door where I’mstanding. The rest of the tunnel’s in darkness, and I can barely see more than a few meters ahead.

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