Alien, Mine (18 page)

He wanted to run. He wanted to stay.

He bent and gently pulled the blanket over her exposed feet, then turned to check the closed shutters.

They should be safe here tonight. He doubted the Bluthen would be able to break through the prison door. Doubted even more that any of them had the courage to follow in Sandrea’s footsteps, even if they could squeeze through the bars of the windows.

For sure, the soldiers who’d pursued them had radioed their position, but this place was far from anywhere. Searching this mountainous region without local knowledge would prove a deadly proposition.

If the sporadic flights of Bluthen fighters scanned for infrared signatures created by fire and body heat, what was one more heat source in an agricultural valley? It was unlikely their attention would turn this way again.

Vicious anger bladed through his gut.

Once was more than enough.

And Mhartak thought this was no longer his fight. How wrong he was. He sucked in a huge breath and pressed down rising bile. Tonight he’d keep watch and in the morning they’d move on.

He couldn’t wait.

“I’m sure Miss Sandrea is safe, Sir.” Sergeant Kulluk’s voice interrupted Mhartak’s sombre contemplation of his moon-speckled boots.

He shifted his back against the rock he leaned against and stretched his legs before him. Trying to get comfortable while wearing body armour was still an art he had yet to master, even after all these years. The subdued murmurs of Corporal Shrenkner and Privates Ragnon and Dovzshak drifted from the dark behind him. Their quiet discussion on the aptitude of the Magran villagers and their resolve to defend their settlement with the weapons reaped from the fallen Bluthen heartened him.

Pride in his team warmed him as no fire could. They’d routed the Bluthen despite being outnumbered five to one. Cold and weary, with nothing but combat rations to satisfy hunger, they nevertheless followed covert procedure without murmur. He hadn’t even had to issue an order to prohibit fires. They were no keener to advertise their position than he.

“Your brother is a good man,” Kulluk continued. “He’ll ensure nothing harmful befalls our little human.”

A bristling sense of possessive anger flared through Mhartak’s gut. The only ‘our’ Sandrea belonged to was
him
and
her
, even if he was yet to convince her of that.

“He’ll protect her,” Kulluk offered.

Yes, T’Hargen’s protective instincts ran deep—too deep for his own good.

“And she’ll feel safe. He always was a charming . . . person.”

That, Sergeant, is what concerns me.

Loneliness wailed through Sandrea’s mind. She wandered through misty darkness searching for the source of distress. A splash of copper flashed before her. A tiny heart beat with sorrow.

Sandrea bolted upright from sleep. A gasp hissed through her lips as her muscles vehemently protested movement. It would be a while before they forgave her the recent abuse. She speared her gaze around a dim, unfamiliar room.

Smoke rose from embers in a fireplace. Socks, she wriggled her toes,
her
socks hung over a beautiful, intricate wrought-iron hearth screen. Grey light peeped around the edges of closed shutters. Her vest lay over an arm of the couch on which she’d slept. She snatched it up and frisked the pockets. Anxiety fled as her fingers identified her comb. Ridiculous that that was the first thing she’d grabbed when Kendril told her they were evacuating from the
Vega
.

Dear Lord, please keep Eugen safe.

A shiver ran across her skin, and she cocked her head.

What
was
that?

A lonely, keening, barely heard cry feathered down her spine. She jumped to her feet, snatched her dry—
thank you, T’Hargen
—socks and yanked on her—
thank you again, T’Hargen
—dry boots.

Where the devil was he?

She listened again. No sound but the fluting wail pierced the quiet. The now-silent cry tugged on her heartstrings and drew her forward. She pulled on her vest and, alert for any sound, tread quietly across the stone floor to a door. After a moment of intent listening, and hearing nothing untoward, she wrapped her fingers around a cold, metallic doorknob and opened the wooden door.

Cool dawn air flowed across her face. She inhaled the crisp, morning-new freshness and gazed around an enclosed garden. Frost sparkled like scattered diamonds on leaf and fence. Her breath misted in pixie-like splendour.

The soft, wretched cry plucked her senses again and she followed a stone-paved path around the garden, then passed a hedge glittering with rime to a green lawn behind the house.

She faltered to a halt.

Butting up against a copse of young trees, three long, dark mounds of freshly turned soil blighted the lush grass. Grim sadness crushed her chest as her gaze locked on the smallest one.

Dear God, what had happened here? Were Bluthen responsible for this?

It seemed all too plausible.

Why? Sweet Jesus, why?

A flash of bright colour at the head of the child-sized grave snatched her gaze. Perched on strong back legs, nose lifted to the sky, a copper-scaled lizard keened a lament. His torment tore at her heart, and she stepped forward. The song quit to silence. The lizard’s head swung to her and a montage of gold, silver, and bronze skin fanned open to frame his triangular face.

He scampered down the length of the grave toward her, halted, then lifted a front paw. His head turned slowly as though scanning her with the expanded membrane of his exquisite frill. She crouched and stared into soulful emerald eyes that mourned a loss she could all too well comprehend.

“The bastards killed my special friend, too,” she murmured.

He burbled a soft, sympathetic bark and she extended a hand to him.

“Would you like to come with me?”

A wave rippled around his frill, the tips curved gently toward her. Hopeful joy, tinged with loss, washed in a profound swell through her mind. She knelt at the foot of the grave and placed her fingertips on the bare earth.

Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.

A sudden hollow, popping crack wrenched her nerves. She spun and stared aghast at a gaping, crumbling hole in the rock wall of the house. Blackened, jagged beams stabbed like broken fingers from the roof. It looked like a bomb had torn the room apart. A fragment of stone tumbled from the wall and dropped to the grass with a thud.

Desolate silence hung in the air. She turned her gaze to the graves.

Had they been in there?

She wasn’t religious. Her belief in God was more hopeful than faithful, but some observances just seemed right. She ran a glance over the surrounding vegetation, then rose and snapped some beautiful purple and yellow flowers from a vine and laid them at the head of each grave.

She bowed her head, moisture swelling in her throat and her eyes.

“May the Universe keep and hold you safe,” she whispered.

She lifted her head, drew in a deep, melancholy breath and gazed at the lizard.

“I don’t suppose you know where T’Hargen is?” she asked.

He lowered glistening, sapphire lids over his teardrop eyes, then raised them and stared back at her. Then he leapt.

His small body plunged onto her stomach with surprising force. He scuttled up her torso and burrowed into the long sleeve of her shirt. Smooth, supple scales wound across the soft skin of her upper arm and his diminutive feet suctioned, anchoring him under the concealing cloth. His warm body trembled against her skin and a tiny heart pulsed in rapid exertion.

Branches rattled.

“What are you doing?” T’Hargen demanded.

Her heart jumped with the same ferocity as her body. She looked up at him as he emerged through the leafy branches of the trees.

“I’m-I’m, ah, laying wreaths. It’s-it’s a custom where I come from. These
are
graves?”

She swept a hand over the neat mounds of dirt between them. His gaze searched her face.

“Yes.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Airstrike.”

“Bluthen?”

He gave a slight shrug. “I’m unaware of any other possible cause.”

“Why? Why would they do this?”

“I assume the family was trying to use a long-range communication device—the remains of it are in that room—probably to warn the Alliance of the Bluthen presence.”

She turned and gazed at the destruction of the house. A horrified sense of guilt crept over her.

“Is this because of me?”

T’Hargen failed to answer.

Her chin sank to her chest and her eyes closed.
Fuck, it is, isn’t it?

“Sandrea, look at me.”

She stiffened her spine, Dexter—
I’ve named the lizard already?—
rubbed his head against the flesh of her inner arm. Compassion tripped through her. She turned and faced T’Hargen.

“Whatever events were set in motion here,” he said, “you are not to blame. The Bluthen could have blocked the communication, evacuated the family before destroying the equipment. They chose not to.”

A corner of her lips compressed. “In other words, it was easier to murder them.”

“Yes.”

T’Hargen’s cold, dispassionate voice could not disguise the deep loathing in his eyes.

“I see.”

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Oh, um, no.”

“Then we will partake of this family’s hospitality one last time, and move on.”

She followed his lead back into the dim interior of the house. Dexter seemed to cling with almost desperate strength to her arm, his tail wrapping a resolute hold around her bicep. She slipped a hand inside her shirt and stroked the soft, polished smoothness of his back.

“It’s alright.” She bent her head to her shoulder and murmured, “I won’t leave you.”

“Did you say something?”

“Did you know them?”

T’Hargen halted and peered back at her. “We were . . . acquaintances.”

The pain in his eyes moved her to offer comfort. They may have regarded him as an acquaintance, but his feelings for them ran deeper than that word implied. She took a step forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

His sea-green eyes gazed down into hers as though seeking hope. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, bring his head to her shoulder, and just hold him. Confusion skittered through her. T’Hargen’s edgy good looks, occasional charming manner, and the scars she suspected marred his soul made her want to . . . what? Nurture him?

She choked a snort. The man was six and a half feet tall and two pickaxe handles across the shoulders.
Nurture
probably didn’t even enter his vocabulary. Besides, being demonstrative wasn’t in her nature, unless it was with someone she loved. How could she even remotely think of touching a man? She loved Eugen.

Holy fuck!

She
loved
Eugen. Bright wonder coursed through her soul.

“Sandrea?”

She blinked. T’Hargen’s gaze drilled into her. The urge to hug him, to share her wondrous joy, bloomed through her.

“Yes?”

“You seemed preoccupied. I hope . . . you are not discomforted by memories from your time of capture?”

Her eyebrows rose.

“No.”
That happened at the detention centre. I’m just doin’ an internal Snoopy dance because I’ve just discovered I’M IN LOVE!

“Good. Our hosts can offer us smoked fish, dried beef, and a variety of vegetables.”

I’m in love! I mean
really
in love! Nothing has ever felt this . . . profound, this glorious.

She gathered her love-happy wits and tried to match T’Hargen’s composure.

“Sounds good.”

She followed him into a cosy kitchen where a murmured word from T’Hargen bathed the room in soft illumination. Wooden bench tops and cupboards gleamed with silver speckled, dark grey elegance.

“What, no food replicators?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

She flapped a hand at him. “Never mind. Long story.”

A quizzical frown crossed his brow. “This planet is recognized as an agricultural haven. People come here to pursue a simple life.”

“Is that what you did?”

He opened cupboards and drawers and pulled out plates and cutlery. Long strides took him to a refrigeration unit where he withdrew an assortment of food. A couple of minutes later, he placed a loaded plate on the table.

“Yes. Sit,” he ordered.

Okay, I won’t pry, not my business.

She stared down at the repast and an image of three fresh graves sucker-punched her vision. Her appetite fled.

“They would have been disappointed had we refused their hospitality,” T’Hargen murmured, “should they have been here to receive us.”

And that’s supposed to make it easier?

Oddly enough, it did. She would not disrespect this last generosity of the unknown family. She sat and speared a piece of fish with a two-pronged forked. A warm, strong, moist tongue flicked against the inner crook of her elbow.

Don’t get anxious, I’ll feed you.

T’Hargen seated himself across the table from her with his own plate.

“Do you know . . . Did they have any pets?” she asked.

T’Hargen stared at her as though she’d suggested the family indulged in the kind of activities that took place only when the planets aligned, under cover of darkness and involving naked skin, prosthetics, and oil. Possibly feathers.

Or goat leggings.

“Such as?” he asked.