Page 21 of Exiles on Earth
El-len steps forward with a bowl, her movements swift but unsteady as a little liquid sloshes over the rim. “No, her name is just Law-rah. Here you go.” She sets the bowl down on the table with a decisive thud.
I bow my head quickly, unwilling to let her catch me staring. My hands move to the wet cloths she’s brought, wringing them out despite the ache in my arms. The simple act of helping steadies me. Gara hisses softly as I press the cold cloth against his swollen left leg. I work with all the precision I can muster, aware of El-len watching me. I want her to see me as useful, as capable.
When Gara’s wound is bandaged with their coarse cloth instead of a proper med spray, I rise, intending to check on the Parthiastocks. But El-len is already there, her hands moving deftly as she sees to their injuries, speaking to them as if they are no different from anyone else. “I’ll get you some icefor that swelling,” she says to Arik, turning sharply and walking straight into my chest.
“Oh! Sorry.” Her voice is startled but not afraid.
I steady her instinctively, my hands wrapping around her upper arms. Beneath her strange coverings, I can feel the strength of her muscles—this is no idle female but one who moves and works, her body honed by effort and toil. Heat radiates from her, spreading through my palms and down my arms, a warmth I’ve never felt so acutely before. Tubers like me are never allowed contact with females, but when I won the chance to enter the Mating Games, I’d dreamed of what it might be like. It never occurred to me it would feel this right. My fingers curl around her arms, as if anchoring her, though she is no longer in danger of falling.
“I should have moved,” I say, my voice low. “I am slow at this moment.”
Her eyes search mine, her lips parting slightly to respond, but Gara’s voice cuts through the moment like a whip. “Ilia.”
The warning tone in his voice yanks me back, and I quickly step away from El-len, my hearts thundering in my chest. Gara’s expression is sharp, his gaze darting to my hands. I follow his line of sight and freeze.
The scales along my fingers have shifted, colors rippling to match El-len’s covering as though blending into her.
El-len’s eyes widen, but not in fear. “That’s… cool.”
Cool? My mind scrambles to process her meaning. Is she cold? My body reacts before I can think, heat pooling in my hands as I activate my temperature control. “Cool? I can warm them at will,” I explain, holding my hands out to her.
She touches them with a tantalizing light press of her fingertips, and lets out a soft laugh. “No, I meant that’s amazing. Do you change the color yourself, or does it just sort of happen?”
Her smile disarms me, and I force myself to meet her gaze. “It just… happens.” I hate admitting any lack of control, even over something as minor as this.
But it’s not minor. The color change is one of the first signs of early mate binding. My hearts pound, the implications settling heavy in my chest. Does she understand what this means?
Do I?
EIGHT
ELLEN
It has to be shock,but every time Ilia gets close, I feel a little dizzy. He’s huge, yes, but he doesn’t overshadow me, just a petrol-blue purple in the corner of my eyes wherever I turn. His scent fills the kitchen, reminding me of rain-soaked oak. Solid, enduring.
I haven’t had a guy in my kitchen since Terry Fassbender, bringing me flowers and an offer to escape life from the farm for one night.
But for one night only.
And after? Silence. A slow, creeping realization that I’d been fool enough to believe it meant more. That I’d handed over something fragile, something hopeful, only to have it discarded without a second thought.
I can’t do that again. Got to get my game face on and stay in charge, of my farm and of myself. “First, tea.”
I fill the kettle and set it to boil, then grab mugs from the cupboard. The chipped crockery harbors a lot of dust, as I don’t have guests often, so I have to swill them out and dry them before I can serve the crowd that literally crashed on me.
Ilia approaches my side, the hairs on my arms prickling pleasantly in response. Could be some kind of pheromone or something. “What are your orders?” he asks quietly, his deep voice reverberating in his chest.
“Um… Sit down somewhere, if you can.” To shake off the shock and these odd feelings toward him, I get moving, dumping teabags into each mug. Ilia doesn’t move, and I glance up to see he’s surveying where he’d fit. I usually only clear just enough space on the cluttered dining table for my breakfast if I remember to have it, the rest buried under piles of accounts, sheep dip supplies, dewormer, and the baler twine I keep meaning to return to the lean-to. Now, every chair is taken, my girlfriends and the aliens filling the kitchen to bursting.
Despite being cramped, the room’s oddly quiet. Nicole, Laura, and Arabella gape, and who could blame them? The aliens sit nearly naked, wearing only tight black cargo shorts with belts overflowing with devices and tubes. Their—had Ilia called them scales? Yes, scales—form seamless patterns to mimic clothing. Arture’s scales shift in shades of gray-blue like steel, the triplets are shades of lilac, amethyst and violet, and Gara’s green. Ilia gleams turquoise blue as a topaz, the warm glow of the old incandescent lightbulb dancing across his scales like living metal.
While the kettle boils, I shed my coat and hang it up in the mudroom. “Do you guys like sweet things? Savory? How about milk, are you lactose intolerant or anything?”
When I receive no answer, I look up. The aliens stare at me, eyes wide, but none more so than Ilia. His gaze burns; I always thought that was an expression, but my face heats as if he is somehow warming me up.
I break the spell by speaking. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Ilia doesn’t speak at first, eyes raking over me once more before he wrenches his gaze away.
