Page 12 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

Too Much Want (And Fear of It)

Kaylee

Obsidian Haven looms before us like a jagged wound in space—all sharp edges and flickering lights, half-hidden in the nebula’s purple haze.

The station was carved from an asteroid centuries ago, then abandoned, reclaimed, abandoned again.

Now it’s a haven only in the sense that cockroaches find haven in the walls.

Perfect for people like me, in other words.

“Docking protocols initiated,” Lila announces as I guide the Nomad toward the station’s gaping maw. “Warning: Obsidian Haven security protocols are minimal. Recommend caution.”

“No kidding,” I mutter, fingers dancing across the controls with practiced precision.

My ship responds sluggishly, the damage from our escape still evident in her handling.

“Tell me something I don’t know, Lila. Like how to explain to customs that my cargo has developed opinions and a tendency to brood attractively in corners. ”

Behind me, I hear what might be Jhorn’s version of a snort of amusement, though it could just be him breathing. The bond between us pulses with something that feels suspiciously like fondness, which is both annoying and oddly warming.

A lump forms in my throat as I guide the Nomad toward the jagged silhouette of Obsidian Haven.

This ship has been my only constant—my home, my freedom, my escape route—for three years.

She’s cantankerous, unreliable, and held together with spare parts and stubbornness, but she’s mine.

Now I’ll have to abandon her, leave her empty and cold while Jhorn and I run like hunted animals.

“I’ll come back for you,” I whisper, stroking the worn edge of the control panel. “When this is over. When we’re safe.”

“You speak to your ship as if it were alive,” Jhorn observes, his deep voice cutting through my melancholy.

“She,” I correct automatically. “Ships are female. And she is alive, in her way. She’s kept me breathing and moving for three years. That’s more than most relationships can claim.”

Through our bond, I feel his curiosity about that statement, along with something that might be jealousy directed at my ship. Which is ridiculous on multiple levels, but also kind of endearing in a deeply problematic way.

“We need a plan,” I say, not looking back at him as the docking clamps engage with a shuddering groan. “And you need a disguise.”

“A disguise,” he repeats, his voice thoughtful. “Yes. I am... distinctive.”

That’s the understatement of the century. Seven feet of indigo-skinned alien perfection with glowing tentacles isn’t exactly inconspicuous, especially with ApexCorp bounties likely plastered on every grimy terminal in the sector.

“There’s an emergency kit in the cargo hold,” I say, powering down the engines and trying not to think about how his presence fills the cockpit even when he’s being still.

“Should have a cloak or something. Keep your tentacles—” I stop myself, heat rising in my cheeks as I remember his earlier correction.

“Your tendrils hidden. And stay close to me.”

“Always,” he says, with such simple conviction that something flutters in my chest.

I busy myself with the shutdown sequence, trying to ignore the way his single word lodges beneath my ribs like a piece of shrapnel. Always. As if permanence is something that exists in my universe. As if anyone has ever stayed.

Twenty minutes later, we’re ready to disembark, and I’m trying very hard not to stare.

Jhorn looks marginally less like a walking alien fantasy in the voluminous black cloak I found in the emergency kit.

His tendrils are pulled tight against his body, invisible beneath the fabric, except for our bond-tendril, which extends from beneath the cloak’s edge to connect with my wrist. I’ve wrapped a bandage around my end of the connection, making it look like an injury rather than an alien appendage.

The problem is that the cloak does absolutely nothing to disguise his size, his predatory grace, or the way he moves like violence wrapped in silk.

If anything, the mysterious hooded figure thing just makes him more intriguing.

I’ve seen enough holovids to know that mysterious cloaked strangers are either heroes or villains, and both tend to be devastatingly attractive under the hood.

“Remember,” I say, checking my blaster one last time and trying to focus on practical matters instead of how good he looks in dramatic lighting, “let me do the talking. Don’t react to anything, no matter what.

Obsidian Haven is full of the worst scum in the sector, but they mind their own business as long as you don’t give them a reason not to. ”

“I understand,” Jhorn says, his voice low and slightly muffled by the hood. Through our bond, I feel his unease, his heightened awareness of potential threats. “I will be... inconspicuous.”

I almost laugh at the idea of him being inconspicuous. He could be wearing full armor and carrying a sign that says “Definitely Not An Alien,” and he’d still draw attention just by existing. Some beings are just too much—too tall, too graceful, too intensely present—to blend into a crowd.

The airlock cycles open, revealing the chaotic tableau of Obsidian Haven’s main docking bay, and I’m immediately grateful for the distraction.

The smell hits me first—recycled air tinged with engine grease, alien spices, and the unmistakable reek of too many species living in too close quarters.

It’s like someone took every spaceport in the galaxy, concentrated their essence, and then added a liberal dose of criminal desperation for flavor.

“Charming,” I mutter, stepping onto the deck plating. “Really captures that ‘lawless frontier’ aesthetic.”

The noise follows: the constant mechanical drone of life support systems, the cacophony of a dozen different languages being shouted across the bay, the clanging of tools against hull plating.

It’s chaos given form and sound, and I love it.

This is the kind of place where you can disappear, where credits matter more than questions, where everyone has something to hide.

Through our bond, I feel Jhorn’s senses reel from the assault.

His perception is different from mine—sharper, more intense.

The smells are overwhelming, the sounds discordant and threatening.

Every stimulus seems to hit him like a blow to the head, and his tendrils tighten beneath his cloak in response.

“Easy,” I murmur, stepping closer to him than strictly necessary. “Focus on me. On my voice.”

I feel his attention shift, centering on me like a targeting array locking onto a beacon. The sensation is unnerving but oddly comforting. At least one of us knows exactly what they’re doing, even if it’s the alien bred for devotion rather than the supposedly competent pilot.

“Better?” I ask, and feel his nod through our connection.

We make our way through the docking bay, past ships of all sizes and states of repair.

Most are like the Nomad—battered, patched, and heavily modified.

A few sleeker vessels hint at more lucrative, probably illegal operations.

I keep my head down, moving with purpose.

In places like this, hesitation is blood in the water.

Jhorn follows silently, a looming shadow at my back.

Despite his obvious discomfort with the environment, he moves with that predatory grace that makes every step look deliberate, controlled.

I try not to notice how the cloak emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, or how other beings in the bay give him a wide berth without quite understanding why.

“You’re attracting attention,” I murmur as we pass a group of Barovian traders who stop their conversation to stare.

“I am attempting to be inconspicuous,” he replies, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“Try harder. Maybe slouch a little. Look less like you could kill everyone in this bay with your bare hands.”

“But I could,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I know. That’s the problem.”

Through our bond, I feel his confusion at the concept of hiding one’s capabilities.

Everything about his body language screams predator, from the way he holds his head to the fluid economy of his movements.

It’s like asking a star to dim its light—possible, maybe, but fundamentally against its nature.

The plan forming in my mind is desperate but simple.

I need credits—untraceable ones. I need information about ApexCorp’s bounty on us and, most importantly, I need to find out if there’s any way to sever this bond.

The thought sends a strange pang through me, half longing, half dread.

I push it away. Focus on survival first. Existential crises later.

We enter the main concourse, where the crowd thickens and the sensory overload intensifies.

The station’s central hub is a chaotic marketplace, three stories high, with shops and stalls crammed into every available space.

Flickering holosigns advertise everything from weapon mods to pleasure dens in a dozen languages.

“Cozy,” I observe, scanning the chaos for likely information brokers. “Like a flea market designed by someone with severe spatial issues and a hoarding problem.”

Jhorn’s hood turns slightly toward me, and I feel his amusement through our bond. “Your descriptions are... colorful.”

“Three years of courier runs to places that make this look upscale. You develop a certain way with words.”

“We need to find an info-broker,” I continue, keeping my voice low as we navigate the crowd. “Someone discreet who deals in corporate intel. I’ve heard rumors about someone called Silas, but I don’t know if—”

“Your arm,” Jhorn interrupts, his voice tight with sudden alarm.

I glance down at my bandaged wrist where his tendril connects. “What about it?”

“No. Your other arm. It is... leaking.”