Page 9 of Captured By The Alien Barbarian
As he turns away from me, I can’t help but tug at the binds, trying to ease the pinch against my skin. With less wriggle room than before, my chances of breaking these bindings and escaping have dropped even further.
Eventually, I slump. There is no point in even trying to break the rope bindings now if my captor is so close by. Given how large and strong he is, I would have no hope of overpowering him. I’d just have to bide my time and hope nothing bad happens to me until then.
He busies himself with cleaning the cave. He works furiously, scrubbing at furniture and floors far more than I would have expected a man living in a cave to do. It is far more sophisticated than I had initially given him credit for. As time passes, my energy levels wane. I fight to stay awake, but my body has other ideas. My throat is parched, and if I don’t get liquid very soon, I could be in serious trouble.
He keeps glancing at me, but he never says anything to me. His scowl deepens each time he passes, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing to harass me. And I am grateful to be able to be somewhat ignored.
I sink further and further beneath the covers, pulling them around me for both the warmth and the hopefulness that out of sight means out of mind for him. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to close. I fall into a fitful slumber.
* * *
I awaken with a start,adrenaline making me feel like I’m running even before I’ve opened my eyes. Every limb, muscle, and joint aches, a chorus of agony that won’t let me forget how poorly I slept. My neck protests the most, having contorted itself into a position that would impress a circus contortionist. On top of all that, despite the furs draped over me, I feel cold.
The alien glides across the room, each step as silent as a whisper. It is unnerving—if I hadn’t seen him, I would never know he was there. He reminds me of a cheetah, lean muscles hiding fearsome grace and agility. I am all too wary of him now. He is deceptively fast with his movements. Combined with his natural stealth and the lean muscles gracing every inch of him, I know I don’t stand a chance against him.
But that won’t stop me from trying to escape. I refuse to be his prisoner. I simply must bide my time and wait for the perfect moment to escape.
The male starts piling up the wood fire, and soon he has a roaring blaze going inside the cave. The heat from the fire chases away the chill, and my shivers gradually subside. He then hoists a spit over the flames, and before long, the intoxicating scent of roasting meat tickles my nose. The fat glistens and drips into the fire, sizzling as it is engulfed by the flame’s flickering embrace.
My stomach roars like a ravenous beast, a traitor to my resolve.
His lips quirk in a small, knowing smirk.
“Hungry, Nika?” he asks.
It is then that I notice the assortment of loops and tools he wears around his waist, an alien utility belt filled with various tools and implements unknown. With a casual flick of his wrist, he uses one of his small blades to slice off a piece of the mouth-watering meat.
“Open your mouth,” he says, as he holds it out towards me, as though he expects me to obey without question.
I glare at him, my lips firmly pressed together. I am not a dog.
Instead, I glare, my lips pressed firmly together. Even though I am tied up, I will not lower myself to be fed by him, like some helpless toddler. My self-respect still smolders, refusing to be snuffed out. And does he really think I am stupid enough to eat food prepared by my captor? It could be poisoned or drugged. Or worse, kale.
Tutting disappointedly, he shakes his head at me, as though I have failed some test, like I have let him down by my refusal. Anger and hunger gnawing at me, I watch him devour the rest of the meal. He exaggerates each bite, locking eyes with me as he lifts each delectable morsel into his mouth. He is cruel, taunting me with the food I so desperately crave. I am more than annoyed. In retaliation, I hiss at him, baring my teeth like some feral beast. If he wants to play the savage animal, then that’s just how I will treat him. His eyes widen, the pupils dilating with surprise, and then he erupts into laughter. The sound is deep, resonating through him in a way that stirs up unwarranted, traitorous feelings in the pit of my stomach. Feelings that I refuse to acknowledge.
I won’t let my body and its completely irrational responses distract me from my goal of escaping this alien’s clutches.
He moves around the room, tidying up after himself. For someone so annoying, he is surprisingly neat and clean. It is bizarre, given his otherwise barbaric behavior. The cave floor looks like it has been scrubbed within an inch of its life, and now that I look, I can easily spot the stone tiles. The sparse wooden furniture is well maintained, and even storage is stowed out of sight on shelves filled with jars and containers in every shape and size.
He even has an animal hide, expertly trimmed into a rectangle, hung up like a piece of abstract art. I have to admit, he has good taste—the hide showcases a medley of lovely pastel blues and deep purples splattered across its surface. It is a testimony to his unexpectedly refined taste.
Who is this alien, capable of great strength, stealth, and cleanliness? What is his purpose with me? And, more importantly, when will dinner be ready? If it smells anywhere near as good as breakfast, I doubt I will turn him down again.
My gaze snags on the only indications of disarray in this otherwise clean home. Crumpled sheets and soiled bandages are piled near a slatted wooden door. I almost choke on my own breath when the absurd realization hits me—they must have been what he used to treat me. So, this alien has cared for me and cleaned me, all while I’ve been blissfully unconscious! Who would’ve thought? His hospitality is both surprising and ironic.
Perhaps he isn’t the epitome of evil that my mind first jumped to—even if he does call me his prisoner. Maybe he just is a terrible host, not knowing how to show even the tiniest amount of hospitality. I think back on what I’d do in case of a kidnapping. Don’t develop Stockholm syndrome, for a starter. Then the goal would be to humanize myself, to make the kidnapper see me as a person, someone they can connect with.
Armed with my brilliant idea, I decide to give the conversational reins a go. “My name is Ariana,” I say. I bravely lift my chin and offer him the most endearing smile I can muster, probably not much, given the anxiety-producing circumstances. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
He glances up at me from the other side of the room, his eyes wide. His expression gives a sense of being utterly taken aback, as if the idea of gratitude is a foreign concept. “You’re welcome,” he says. For a brief moment, his eyes soften in my direction.
“What is your name?” I ask, bonding moment in full throttle. Seizing the opportunity to shift to a seated position, I maintain my death grip on the blanket. I try to pretend that it’s a completely normal occurrence to wake up in a strange alien male’s bed, entirely naked. Cool, calm, and collected.
“Taccit,” he says at last. He turns his full attention toward me, tail swishing behind him animatedly. I have to resist asking if it ever stops moving. His expression is uncannily earnest, and I can’t help but wonder why he seems genuinely excited to tell me his name.
I respond with a beaming grin. Finally, we are getting somewhere.
Abruptly, his open expression slams shut, and the previously harmonious smile morphs into a scowl. The grin that adorns his sensual lips swings downward, and his ebony eyebrows lower into a menacing glare. Meanwhile, his tail whips into a frenzy behind him, stirring up a dust devil.
