Page 14 of Bred By Sor'en

But I did share it.

I begged them, told them everything while her body cooled in the corner.

I betrayed her, perhaps in the only way that really mattered to a dying female with nothing else left. It would’ve been a more forgivable crime to the Nysharil if I had stolen her last credit and gutted her on the way out.

It was a mere moment after I was shoved out into the hall that I barreled through the inner-workings of the ship. I’d beat them to the hull. They just stared as I attempted to drag her back to apologize to a corpse that no longer cared. I offered them everything… my life, credits I didn’t have, servitude. I even offered to let Ualate eat me, which she took great offense to.

The only friend I ever had was about to be lost.

She’d trusted me, a stupid child.

A stupid human.

She trusted me.

But I was powerless, even more so than her. I hadn’t known it at the time, but Sofaxi was working off a debt, sure, but alifedebt. She’d stolen from the pod years and years ago.

She was going to die there and she knew it.

It was an impossible task.

So I sat there sobbing on the hull as Glamorith now an odd mix of deep blue and orange, reached down and plucked the fang from her mouth. It wasn’t the same.

We both know it wasn’t the same.

But it was hope.

And I was fresh out.

That’s the thing about hope; without it, it never occurs to you to be afraid to lose.

It takes mere ontics for my pity party to subside, and as I emerge on unsteady legs from the bedroom, it’s to the smell of something utterly divine. My head snaps up to the strong toned back of my so-called kidnappingmate. The bundle of sheets and pillows nearly dropping from my arms as I strain to get a look at what he’s started cooking. Hunger is nothing new to me, but the smell of whatever alien food he’s preparing makes my gut let out an unhappy little spasm. Between that and the thirst I just haphazardly took care of in the wasting room, it only deepens my scowl.

Sor’en turns, the tops of his ink-colored forearms smeared with something white and powdery. In fact, he’s almost entirely smeared in the stuff. Something dangerously close toamusement bubbles in my stomach. Not thehahathat was the funniest thing I ever heard funny, but more like it's entirely absurd that a huge, deadly, regal as all hell death-touch alien that could wipe out a spaceport in a few onitics flat is also a messy cook. I shift on my feet as his milky white eyes track the exposed state of my breasts down the toned plane of my stomach until they stop rightthere.

A glob of white stuff falls off the spoon he’s using, splattering onto the floor, making him mutter something in his language before he turns. His spine a little straighter than it was before. Despite my bravado and lack of shyness around my physical body, my cheeks heat a bit, the warm slick of the jerk's oil bursting to the forefront of my mind. I don’t snap out of it until a soft buzzing fills the room, probably a cooking tool he’s using.

Whatever.

He doesn’t ask why I’ve stolen all his bedding, and that works for me. The white, sterile, wide-open caverns of his evil lair make my skin itchy. Like I’m standing in a blank room with nothing but my own thoughts bouncing back at me at light-speed.

Fuck that, my thoughts are awful.

So I get to work building my space. I’ll be dammed if I go to sleep consensually or by force and wake up in the forever long bed again. If I’m stuck here, at least for the time being, I need somewhere that feels, I don’t know, less exposed. So, I claim my territory in the sunken living area. It's been a long time since I built a proper hideout. It’s almost exciting to have one in this soft, clean space and not the dirty walls of a port.

seven

Sor’en

Humans are strange. I watch from the corner of my eye as my mate builds a…nestin the middle of the dwelling. Her oddly short and stubby nude frame heaves and grunts as she slowly gathers up the stools from the dining area. Although during my research, while she slept, I gathered nothing about humans requiring nests. I had thought their shelter requirements were quite companionable to ours. My fist tightens on the spoon as I stir my mate’s first meal of the solar, humans requiring three meals and frequent snacks to maintain a happy and healthy lifestyle.

I’ve already let her starve and failed to provide her an adequate shelter. I could’ve done far better at her nest than she is. It will be a tight fit for me, but if it is what she needs, I will adjust. My aging back lets out a spasm of soreness at the thought. It is nothing. My spines have ached since I was veryyoung. A botanist spends many zentics on his knees, couched over and tending his fields. Making a mental note to do further research into her shelter requirements, I stir theflametin the large cooking pot.It is a simple meal often fed to younglings, but the health scan I performed when we arrived, and my mate was soft and quiet, indicated this would be a good meal to introduce her to our food.

A loud crashing sound fills the space, making my heart jolt in my chest as I whirl, slinging more flamet around the cooking space. A deep breath of relief leaves my lungs as my mate stands unharmed with her hands on her hips, glaring down at the collapsed formation of stools. Everything in me is screaming go to her, bond her, take her, perform the vigil I’ve waited my entire life to share with my Draya’la. My soulveil. The very being on earth created to balance and calm me. I cannot think of a less calm-inspiring being. Reluctantly, and mostly only because of the death stare she casts over her shoulder, I turn my attention back to preparing her food.

Our Balla’mar, the leader of our people, bought my story about her crash landing outside our dome. That I had been gathering soil samples when I found her, injured and helpless, and that she had no veil. Already, he could see the evidence of my newly mated aura. The space above my head would no longer be visible to him. It would denote silence, the absence of light or darkness. If my mate had been a Xyrelith, it would only be seen by her eyes alone until we are passed to the dirt.

There is something shamefully pleasant in knowing she will not see it. That nobody can judge my worth again by merely glimpsing my veil. That there will be no whispers about the darkness that swirls there where there should be light. He bought my story, but only because they do not venture outside the dome. His veil swam with an instant of darkness that clenched my gut before it filtered out.