The wounded alien reappears, and glee winds through me when I notice he’s limping. Ha. That’ll teach him. Nothing like a little bone to the ballsack.
“Here,” he says, tossing three big packs on the ground. “Take it. There’s dreza salve in there, too. For her wounds.”
I don’t know what dreza salve is, but if it’s going to help, I want it. Immediately.
“Go,” Draz says, pushing his Suevan hostage to the ground.
Immediately, his arm goes around me, holding him behind him. The two Suevan separatists stare at me for a moment, and I lift my chin, baring my teeth at them.
“Fierce,” one says in approval.
With one last long look, they disappear into the jungle, and I sag against Draz, exhausted and in pain.
Stupid fucking blue ball snails.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NIKI
The packs are full of good stuff, and I am beyond thrilled. I shoulder one. My skin burns where it pulls from the weight of it, but whatever. My wet clothes hang off the back. Will they dry in the steamy jungle?
Doubtful, but maybe I can dry them out tonight.
If it doesn’t rain again. I want to scream or binge a shit ton of sour patch kids, or, even better, do both.
Draz cuts his way through the underbrush, the long energy knife slashing before him. Two packs hang from his back, and he moves with an easy grace, his back and arms rippling as he swings. He would have taken the third pack, too, but I insisted.
I bite my lip, following in his very capable wake.
And enjoying the view.
Not just of the jungle, but of all that hard, delicious muscle bunching in front of me. Seeing him all possessive in front of the separatist aliens did it for me. It should be a turn-off, the reminder that the alien in front of me is a dangerous species, and that he in particular is completely lethal, but it isn’t.
I like it.
Something is wrong with me. Maybe it’s all the time I spent in space, with Bex’s monster romance novels for company. Maybe it’s the after effect of the fucking snails, though I’m not currently in the seventh circle of lust hell. I mentally scratch that off the list. Not the snails.
Could be the fact that he treats me like I’m a warrior princess, his desire for me clear, his intentions just as clear. Could be the fact that he combed out my hair and made an attempt to bring me his world’s version of candy.
Could be the undeniable truth that I’m starting to find the big, scaled alien incredibly sexy.
Maybe it’s that I’m curious about what sex with him would feel like; if there’s any truth to his claims about how good he’ll make me feel.
Based on the way he moves through the jungle, the way he effectively took down the threat against us, I’m pretty damn sure that he’s good with his body.
I swipe my hand against my forehead, and the zoleh chitters at me from my shoulder, its forked tongue darting out against my temple. Sweat drips from every pore, stinging into the oozing wounds from the alien sex demon snails. The jungle steams—literally steams—the heat from the sun causing all of last night’s rain to curl through the air.
It doesn’t bother Draz, though. My boots chafe against my feet, and I’m grateful that at least my socks are dry. A month of training in Earth jungles taught me just how important dry socks are.
Draz pauses, looking back at me from over his shoulder. “Are you all right, sweet mate?”
He’s not even winded. I shouldn’t be either. I’m in great shape, thanks to my ship’s training room and that I made good use of it at least twice a day.
But my breath comes in short huffs, my lungs and skin burning.
“I’ll survive.”
The zoleh barks at Draz, and I narrow my eyes at it. “Traitor.”
“Give me your pack.” He stretches out a taloned hand, and I sigh, frustrated. When I slide it off my shoulder, the zoleh winding its weird paws through my hair for stability, I cringe at the movement.
“You are hurting,” Draz says, his voice full of reproach.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You should have told me,” Draz says.
“And what would you do?” I ask. “You’ve already slathered that paste all over them.” It helped at first, and I nearly went limp with the overwhelming relief of it. But now, with the sweat dripping relentlessly from me, all the paste seems to have melted off, too.
“I would carry them, you stubborn human female,” Draz growls.
“You’re already carrying two packs,” I argue, putting my hands on my hips. “I need you to be able to fight stuff off, too. I’m not too stubborn to admit that I’m not built for this planet, and that I need you to take point. Your species is nearly impossible to hurt, and you know where we’re going.”
A flicker of guilt crosses his face. My second in command, Gen, gets that exact same look when she’s doing something she knows I won’t approve of.
“What is it?” My voice snaps out like a whip.
“It is my fault you are injured,” he says softly, the look of guilt disappearing, replaced by tenderness. He shoulders the pack. “Allow me to carry you.”
“No,” I say, a hair’s breadth from stomping my feet. “I can walk on my own.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
He turns back to the jungle, slashing away at the ridiculously thick branches and brambles. “I will simply pick you up and carry you once your wounds have made it so you can no longer walk.”
“I’m not going to faint.” I snort, even though a tiny part of my worries that he’s right. I don’t feel… great. “I’ve been injured much worse than this and managed to make it back to base.”
He stops completely, swinging back to me so quickly that I flinch. “When? Who hurt you?”
I go still at his tone. Gone is the gentle tone, the tender look. In its place is raw fury, the Suevan’s diamond pupils enlarging until his eyes are nearly swallowed by black.
It’s magnetic, his rage, a palpable thing, and it makes me slightly dizzy. Or maybe that’s the sex demon snail slime.
He slams a hand against a tree trunk, and leaves flutter down. I blink.
“Tell me.”
“It was an attack by the Roth aliens on Earth,” I say, my eyebrows raised. “They took out huge portions of our most highly populated cities. Thousands and thousands of people died. My parents, too. My team pushed them back.” I pull down the high waist of my underwear. The star shaped scar gleams white against my already pale flesh. “I took a plas pulse to the hip. I half-limped, half-dragged myself to safety.”
He blinks, eyes fixed on that scar. I let the band of my underwear snap back up, right below my belly button.
“What happened to the Roth who shot you?” he growls.
A slow smile spreads across my lips. “I gutted him. Their skin isn’t scaled like yours.”
A rush of dizziness holds me, the memory of his body on top of mine, the pain of the plas pulse tearing through my hip, his wet blood drenching me as I yanked my knife through his stomach and laughed—laughed—as he died in my arms.
“Good,” Draz tells me, and he dips his chin. A gesture of respect, I realize.
As silly as it is, pride blooms in me.
“Now, let me carry you, stubborn female.”
The pride dies, replaced by annoyance. “I will walk.”
He grunts, clearly annoyed, but doesn’t press the issue.