Page 42 of Alien Attachment
Love. Real, chosen, mutual love.
That’s when we hear the ships landing outside.
Jhorn tenses immediately, his tendrils moving to shield me as lights begin moving beyond the dome’s walls. Through our bond, I feel his fierce protectiveness surge—they will not take me, will not harm me, will not separate us.
“ApexCorp,” I breathe, recognizing the cold efficiency of their movements even through the crystalline walls.
“Stay behind me,” he whispers, his bioluminescence dimming to almost nothing. “Whatever happens, stay close.”
But even as fear floods through me, I’m not the same woman who accidentally opened that crate days ago. I’m not running anymore. I’m not alone.
And I’m definitely not giving up what we’ve found together without a fight.
Outside the dome, footsteps echo on stone, and voices carry through the walls—cold, clinical voices discussing recovery protocols and asset retrieval.
The hunters have found their prey. But they’re about to discover that their prey has learned to fight back.
12
Exit Strategy
Jhorn
Thefirstindicationofdanger is not the sound of approaching footsteps—my enhanced hearing detected those 4.7 minutes ago—but the way Kaylee’s breathing changes in her sleep. Even unconscious, her pilot’s instincts process threat indicators, her subconscious mind reading subtle atmospheric shifts and electromagnetic fluctuations that would escape normal human awareness. Her hand tightens against my chest, fingers curling into my bond-lines as if seeking reassurance, the touch sending warm pulses through my nervous system despite the approaching danger.
I have been motionless for the past 127 minutes, memorizing every detail of her peaceful expression while monitoring our perimeter. The way her dark lashes fan against her cheeks. The slight parting of her lips that reveals the glimpse of tongue that has explored my own with such devastating effect. The morning light filtering through the crystalline dome catches the auburn highlights in her hair, creating a nimbus that makes her appear almost ethereal against the alien bed’s luminescent surface.
My tendrils, apparently possessed of their own appreciation for beauty, have arranged themselves around her sleeping form in a protective cocoon—one curled loosely around her ankle, another resting along the curve of her hip, a third tracing the elegant line of her collarbone so lightly she remains undisturbed. The sight of her surrounded by my appendages, claimed and protected, sends proprietary satisfaction through circuits that were never designed for such feelings.
The crystal dome’s natural defenses have been masking our presence, its ancient technology resonating with mine in harmonious patterns that feel almost like music. But ApexCorp technology is... persistent. And getting closer.
“Six humans, two cybernetically enhanced scouts,” I whisper as Kaylee’s eyes snap open with admirable alertness, immediately locking onto mine with the sharp focus thatnever fails to impress me. No confusion, no disorientation—just instant tactical awareness. “Establishing containment perimeter. Heavy weapons detected.”
Her response is immediate and colorful. The profanity she employs is both anatomically improbable and creatively structured, combining biological impossibilities with mechanical failures in ways that demonstrate remarkable linguistic flexibility. I find myself appreciating the artistry even as tactical assessments flood my consciousness—threat vectors, weapon signatures, optimal escape routes scrolling through my enhanced perception.
“How long?” she asks, rolling from the bed with fluidity that sends an entirely inappropriate spike of desire through our bond. The way she moves—economical yet graceful, every motion purposeful—never fails to fascinate me. Even facing imminent capture, I am distracted by the elegant curve of her spine as she stretches, the determined set of her shoulders as she assesses our situation, the flex of lean muscle beneath skin that still bears faint traces of my bioluminescent touch from our earlier intimacy.
My bond-lines pulse betrayingly, and she catches the soft glow from the corner of her eye.
“Really?” she asks with raised eyebrows, though I feel her amusement rather than irritation through our connection. “We’re about to be captured by homicidal corporate goons and you’re checking out my ass?”
“I am conducting comprehensive threat assessment,” I reply with as much dignity as I can manage while one tendril unconsciously curves toward the anatomical region in question. “Your physical wellbeing is paramount to mission success.”
“Uh-huh.” Her grin is wicked as she deliberately bends to retrieve her discarded clothing, presenting me with an evenmore distracting view. “How’s that threat assessment going now?”
“Eleven minutes, thirty-seven seconds until breach,” I report, forcing myself to focus on perimeter scans rather than the fascinating way her muscles shift beneath her skin as she dresses. “Possibly less if I become further... compromised.”
“Cutting it close,” she mutters, pulling on her jacket with sharp, efficient movements that somehow manage to be both practical and alluring. Her fingers work the seals with ease, and I find myself remembering how those same fingers felt tracing my bond-lines, mapping the sensitive patterns across my skin with curious determination. “Options?”
I interface briefly with the dome’s ancient systems, downloading schematics that feel familiar yet foreign—like accessing memories from a dream. The architecture responds to my touch with something approaching enthusiasm, sharing knowledge of hidden passages, defensive capabilities, escape routes carved by beings who understood the need for sanctuary.
“Thermal vent network extends 2.3 kilometers northeast,” I report, simultaneously tracking our hunters’ positions through electromagnetic signatures. “Multiple exit points. However, the crashed vessel’s escape pod represents our most viable transportation option.”
“That’s a lot of open ground with people shooting at us,” Kaylee observes with what I am learning to recognize as her tactical voice—dry, practical, tinged with dark humor that somehow makes dangerous situations sound like minor inconveniences.
Through our bond, I feel her calculating odds, assessing risks, planning contingencies with the same methodical precision I’ve observed in her piloting. Her mind works like a well-tuned navigation computer, processing variables and extrapolating outcomes with remarkable speed. Watching hershift into combat mode is... stimulating in ways that are highly inappropriate given our circumstances.
“They intend to terminate you,” I state, analyzing the weapons signatures and personnel deployment patterns. The cold certainty of it triggers protective protocols that run deeper than programming—ancient, primal urges that demand I shield my mate from all threats. “Their formation suggests no intention of preserving civilian assets.”
