Page 19 of Alien Attachment
“I will.”
She retreats to her small quarters, the bond-tentacle stretching between us. I feel her collapse onto her bunk, not even bothering to remove her boots. Exhaustion pulls her quickly toward sleep, her consciousness dimming like a star at dawn.
I settle into the pilot’s seat, extending my tendrils to interface lightly with the ship’s sensors. The nebula cradles us in its swirling embrace, hiding us from immediate pursuit. For now, we are safe.
As Kaylee slips deeper into sleep, I reflect on the day’s revelations. ApexCorp created me to be a tool, a perfectly obedient asset that would enhance their technology and serve without question. They designed me for devotion, for bonding,for connection—but they did not anticipate that these qualities would lead me to choose my own path.
Or that I would choose her.
I am no longer Asset J-7, the failed experiment. I am Jhorn, bonded to Kaylee, protector of my light.
And as I watch over her sleeping form, feeling her dreams flicker at the edge of our connection, I find myself grateful for every moment of defiance that led me here. ApexCorp created a being for devotion.
They did not anticipate that devotion could choose its own anchor, its own light.
And I have chosen.
6
Too Much Want (And Fear of It)
Kaylee
ObsidianHavenloomsbeforeus like a jagged wound in space—all sharp edges and flickering lights, half-hidden in the nebula’s purple haze. The station was carved from an asteroid centuries ago, then abandoned, reclaimed, abandoned again. Now it’s a haven only in the sense that cockroaches find haven in the walls.
Perfect for people like me, in other words.
“Docking protocols initiated,” Lila announces as I guide the Nomad toward the station’s gaping maw. “Warning: Obsidian Haven security protocols are minimal. Recommend caution.”
“No kidding,” I mutter, fingers dancing across the controls with practiced precision. My ship responds sluggishly, the damage from our escape still evident in her handling. “Tell me something I don’t know, Lila. Like how to explain to customs that my cargo has developed opinions and a tendency to brood attractively in corners.”
Behind me, I hear what might be Jhorn’s version of a snort of amusement, though it could just be him breathing. The bond between us pulses with something that feels suspiciously like fondness, which is both annoying and oddly warming.
A lump forms in my throat as I guide the Nomad toward the jagged silhouette of Obsidian Haven. This ship has been my only constant—my home, my freedom, my escape route—for three years. She’s cantankerous, unreliable, and held together with spare parts and stubbornness, but she’s mine. Now I’ll have to abandon her, leave her empty and cold while Jhorn and I run like hunted animals.
“I’ll come back for you,” I whisper, stroking the worn edge of the control panel. “When this is over. When we’re safe.”
“You speak to your ship as if it were alive,” Jhorn observes, his deep voice cutting through my melancholy.
“She,” I correct automatically. “Ships are female. And she is alive, in her way. She’s kept me breathing and moving for three years. That’s more than most relationships can claim.”
Through our bond, I feel his curiosity about that statement, along with something that might be jealousy directed at my ship. Which is ridiculous on multiple levels, but also kind of endearing in a deeply problematic way.
“We need a plan,” I say, not looking back at him as the docking clamps engage with a shuddering groan. “And you need a disguise.”
“A disguise,” he repeats, his voice thoughtful. “Yes. I am... distinctive.”
That’s the understatement of the century. Seven feet of indigo-skinned alien perfection with glowing tentacles isn’t exactly inconspicuous, especially with ApexCorp bounties likely plastered on every grimy terminal in the sector.
“There’s an emergency kit in the cargo hold,” I say, powering down the engines and trying not to think about how his presence fills the cockpit even when he’s being still. “Should have a cloak or something. Keep your tentacles—” I stop myself, heat rising in my cheeks as I remember his earlier correction. “Your tendrils hidden. And stay close to me.”
“Always,” he says, with such simple conviction that something flutters in my chest.
I busy myself with the shutdown sequence, trying to ignore the way his single word lodges beneath my ribs like a piece of shrapnel. Always. As if permanence is something that exists in my universe. As if anyone has ever stayed.
Twenty minutes later, we’re ready to disembark, and I’m trying very hard not to stare. Jhorn looks marginally less like a walking alien fantasy in the voluminous black cloak I found in the emergency kit. His tendrils are pulled tight against his body, invisible beneath the fabric, except for our bond-tendril,which extends from beneath the cloak’s edge to connect with my wrist. I’ve wrapped a bandage around my end of the connection, making it look like an injury rather than an alien appendage.
The problem is that the cloak does absolutely nothing to disguise his size, his predatory grace, or the way he moves like violence wrapped in silk. If anything, the mysterious hooded figure thing just makes him more intriguing. I’ve seen enough holovids to know that mysterious cloaked strangers are either heroes or villains, and both tend to be devastatingly attractive under the hood.
