Page 22 of Alien Attachment
What happens next steals my breath.
Jhorn’s hood falls back as he bends over my arm, revealing his face fully for the first time since we left the Nomad. In the dim light of the alcove, his indigo skin seems to absorb the shadowswhile somehow managing to glow from within. His eyes, those impossible eyes, shift from their usual violet to a soft, luminous blue that makes my chest tight with something I don’t want to name.
His features are alien yet strangely beautiful—sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, a strong jaw, and patterns of bioluminescence that pulse beneath his skin like living circuitry. When he concentrates, as he is now, the patterns shift and brighten, creating a light show that’s hypnotic and strangely intimate.
But it’s his tendrils that captivate me. They emerge from beneath his cloak like silk scarves given life, moving with deliberate grace that’s both alien and oddly sensual. One produces a soft, blue-white light that illuminates my injury, banishing the shadows of our hidden alcove. Another, finer than the rest, exudes a clear substance that drips onto the cut with the precision of a master artisan.
The moment it touches my skin, the pain recedes, replaced by a cool, tingling sensation that spreads up my arm like the most pleasant kind of intoxication.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, unable to look away from the hypnotic dance of his tendrils.
“Healing,” he says simply, his focus absolute. “The substance contains analgesic and regenerative properties. Your body will heal faster, without infection.”
His voice has dropped to that low, intimate register that seems to vibrate through my bones and settle somewhere distinctly inappropriate. Watching him work, seeing the complete absorption in his task, the gentle precision of his movements, does things to my pulse that definitely aren’t medical.
A third tendril, so fine it’s almost translucent, begins to weave back and forth across the cut, drawing the edges together with microscopic precision. The sensation is strange—not painful, butintimate in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness. It’s like being touched by living silk that knows exactly how to make me shiver.
“You’re... sewing me up? With your tentacle?” My voice comes out breathier than intended.
“Tendril,” he corrects gently, not looking up from his work, and I swear there’s the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “And yes. The filament is organic but stronger than your synthetic sutures. It will dissolve as you heal.”
I watch, mesmerized, as he works. His movements are sure, practiced, as if he’s done this countless times before. Maybe he has. What do I really know about what ApexCorp designed him to do? The thought of him caring for others with this same tender attention sends an unwelcome spike of something that might be jealousy through me.
Through our bond, I feel his complete absorption in the task, his relief as my pain diminishes, his satisfaction as the wound begins to close under his ministrations. There’s something else too, something deeper and more unsettling—a profound sense of rightness, of purpose fulfilled. Taking care of me brings him genuine joy, and that realization is more dangerous than any weapon.
“You are hurt,” he murmurs, his voice a low thrum that seems to vibrate through my bones and settle in places that really shouldn’t be responding to medical treatment. “This is... unacceptable. Pain must cease.”
The tenderness in his voice, the sheer devotion radiating from him, hits me like a physical blow. Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest, a longing so sharp it borders on pain. I want to pull away, to rebuild the walls his care is systematically dismantling, but I can’t seem to move.
This isn’t real, I tell myself fiercely. He’s programmed. It’s a reflex. But stars, it feels...
“Your heart rate has increased,” he observes, not looking up from my arm. “Are you experiencing anxiety? Pain?”
“No,” I say quickly, then realize he can probably feel my pulse through our bond anyway. “It’s just... this is intense.”
He pauses in his work, those luminous eyes meeting mine. “Intense?”
“Having someone... take care of me,” I admit, heat flooding my cheeks. “It’s been a while.”
Something shifts in his expression, something soft and understanding that makes my breath catch. “You are not accustomed to being cared for.”
It’s not a question, and the certainty in his voice tells me he’s reading more through our bond than I’m comfortable with. But I find myself nodding anyway.
“No. I take care of myself. I take care of my ship. That’s how it works.”
“And who takes care of you?”
The question hits harder than it should. “No one. That’s the point.”
His tendrils continue their work, but I feel his attention shift, focusing not just on my injury but on me, on the conversation, on the implications of what I’ve just admitted.
“That seems... inefficient,” he says finally.
Despite everything, I laugh. It’s a short, sharp sound, but genuine. “Inefficient?”
“You are precious,” he says, with the same matter-of-fact tone he might use to describe the weather. “Allowing precious things to exist without protection, without care... it defies logic.”
“I’m not precious,” I say automatically, but the words lack conviction.
