WED TO THE ALIEN PRINCE
ACCIDENTAL ALIEN BRIDES
JANUARY BELL
Wed To The Alien Prince by January Bell
Published by January Bell
www.januarybellromance.com
Copyright © 2022 January Bell
Cover by Natasha Snow
Edited by Belle Manuel
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: admin@januarybellromance.com
Created with VellumCONTENTS
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Also by January Bell
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CONTENT WARNING:
Hi readers!
I do my best to write the most fluffy, escapist, fun and romantic science fiction romance possible. The last thing I want to do is ruin someone’s day by surprising them with a plot twist that will upset them, so I’ve included a list of potential triggers on this book.
Please feel free to skip this if you don’t want to be spoiled, or use them if you need to!
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**********SPOILERS AHEAD************
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This book contains references to:
-pregnancy and babies
-violence
-post traumatic stress disorder
-religion
-graphic sex
-emetophobia
-claustrophobia
CHAPTER ONE
GEN
I’m gonna fucking kill him.
The thought runs through my head like it has for the last week and a half on this soupy, swamp-ass planet from Hell. The alien—who’s somehow both currently number one on my hit list and the only reason I’m still alive—smirks at me, one fang showing in his stupid lopsided grin.
He jabbers something at me, pointing to the snare I’ve managed to set and spring all in one go, despite watching him carefully every time he’s set one without trapping himself.
I can’t understand a word he’s saying, but I’m pretty damn sure ‘I told you so’ is written all over his stupidly handsome alien face.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I tell him, crossing my arms. My blonde hair hangs around my face, and I blow at where it tickles my nostrils, trying not to sneeze. “Stop laughing.”
He’s doing that odd, barking sound, smiling hugely at me now, like this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
“I don’t see you trying to catch dinner, fuckface,” I tell him. It’s not true, not at all, seeing as how he’s made sure we’re both fed, but I’m tired of feeling helpless. I also called him limp dick a few days ago, but since that seems to likewise be wildly inaccurate, I had to stop.
I shouldn’t have even noticed anything about his dick, but here we are in alien jungle purgatory.
He prods the ground with a makeshift spear, using it to hold himself up as he laughs and responds, the argument and humor clear in his tone, though my translator completely fails to do its damn job.
“Can you cut me down?” I say, acid in my voice.
He says something else that the translator fails to provide any context for, instead spitting out gobbledygook like ‘cupcake head, pretty frosting, understand bacon.’
It gives me a headache. I swing upside down, dangling by one ankle, for a moment longer. I’m loath for him to ruin the vine-y rope we spent three days braiding together to make this snare from. Well, the would-be snare, anyway.
I mean, it worked…I just didn’t intend to be the thing it caught.
But this asshole doesn’t show any inclination to let me down, so I swing harder, before crunching up to untie the knot—
I give a yelp as the alien’s talon slices through the vine braid, the awful nightmare sensation of falling triggering near panic. I do not want to break a bone out here. With the high humidity and torrential rains, and god only knows what kind of alien bacteria, any kind of injury could turn deadly.
But strong arms catch me, and I suck in a breath as I look up into his green face.
“Thanks,” I say, relieved not to have met the ground head first.
I wriggle, trying to get free, but he holds me fast.
He points at the vine rope, then down at the ground, shaking his head.
“Yeah, no kidding,” I tell him. “I don’t want to fall, either.”
The alien nods his agreement, saying something else my translator tells me is ‘bride fly, not cupcake.’ I growl in frustration, and his arms tighten around me.
A primal roar sounds—closer than it has been the last few nights. My skin prickles, my entire body going into overdrive, screaming that something big and bad is headed our way. The alien crouches, and I try to get free of him, disliking how his over-the-top alien muscles bunch on top of me. They’re huge. It’s absurd. I feel tiny next to him, and fragile, and dainty, and I hate it.
I worked hard to be a badass, and he’s selfishly ruining my self-image.
He tells me something in a low tone, and I grunt in irritation.
“Bad chicken hungry,” the translator unhelpfully provides. “Eat cupcake.”
If I could stick my hand in my ear and dig the fucking thing out, I would.
Bad chicken hungry, indeed.
He motions to the direction the sound came in, muttering something, then points in an opposite direction. We’re in agreement about that, at least.