Page 9 of Survivor
“Are you the same as Seibring?” I asked, my voice tinged with curiosity. Seibring’s appearance had been stark and monochrome, his scales a deep black that absorbed the light rather than reflecting it.
“Yes, I am Zarpazian,” he replied, his voice a rich, resonant timbre.
“And can you shapeshift like he can?” I inquired further, intrigued by the possibilities.
“No.” A shadow of shame flickered across his expression. “Only Zarpazians who can shift their scales to all-black have the power to shapeshift.”
I couldn’t help but reach out, my fingers brushing gently along the seamless division of colors that adorned his skin. “Your scales are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “On my home world, multicolored scales like mine are considered shameful.”
“Well, that’s silly,” I retorted with a dismissive roll of my eyes. “Your scales are far more appealing than the other guy.” Seibring reminded me of the menacing cartoon character, Venom. But Vraxxan’s scales were a tapestry of colors, each hue blending into the next, creating a painting that was anything but frightening.
Vraxxan remained silent as I finished cleaning and bandaging his wound. I was secretly relieved by the lack of conversation, aware that any attempt at speech might betray how flustered he made me. Each touch of my fingers on his skin sent a shiver through me that I preferred not to think about at the moment. Vraxxan watched every touch of my hands against his chest, now and again raising his teal eyes to mine, curious and intent, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.
“All done,” I announced, packing away my leftover supplies.
“Thank you.” Vraxxan’s fingertips skimmed along the edge of the bandage, a faint smile playing on his features.
I stowed the medical supplies back in the cabinet marked with the red spider and turned back to my rescuer, suddenly feeling awkward. I’d read a book like this once, where a handsome alien rescued an abducted human. Of course, by this part in the story, they’d been fucking.
Thankfully, Vraxxan hadn’t read the same book. His mind ran along more mundane matters.
“Are you hungry?”
I was, actually. I hadn’t eaten since last night when I drank the ale merchant under the table, scoring a rather hefty discount for the restaurant. Humans had a natural tolerance for Verdesian ale.
“Sure.”
Vraxxan stood and I followed him down a short, dimly lit corridor that opened into a compact galley section. It reminded me of the cramped kitchen area in my grandpa's old RV—narrow cabinets lined the wall, their surfaces gleaming with an unfamiliar metallic sheen. A couple of odd-looking alien appliances hummed quietly, their purpose unclear but their sleek, curved designs distinctly non-human. A small oval table sat near the outer wall, flanked by a worn upholstered bench that looked surprisingly comfortable despite its alien origins.
“Let us see what they have on board,” he suggested, beginning to open the cabinets and drawers.
After a few minutes, it became apparent that, other than several cases of Verdesian ale, the cupboards were bare.
“They do have a food generator,” Vraxxan announced, pointing to a small machine in one of the cabinets that reminded me of an older model ATM.
Ugh.
The cat aliens who grabbed me fed me from a food generator. The fare was mostly a nasty porridge, as appetizing as packing peanuts floating in swamp water.
“Do you have a preference?” Vraxxan fiddled with the controls, completely unaware of my disdain.
“Yes. Can we find the closest Space Pearl’s location?”
He shot me an amused glance over his shoulder. “You dislike the fare from the food generator?”
“Very much,” I said, thinking my grimace and shudder explanation enough.
Vraxxan cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “Trust me?”
“I think I’d rather trust you with my life than my food,” I quipped. My heart felt funny. The beating was all erratic, and I felt flushed.
Vraxxan laughed, a deep, rich, rolling sound—probably the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.
He attacked the food generator like a man possessed, lights and beeps accompanying the fluid strokes of his fingers. The smell emanating from the small machine wasn’t too bad. Sort of like meatloaf day at the hospital. A few minutes later, he pulled out two steaming bowls, accompanied by a couple of bottles of Verdesian ale he found in the cooling unit.
The stew wasn’t completely without flavor. Not of Space Pearl’s caliber, but a hell of a lot better than packing peanuts and swamp water.
