Page 13 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

I follow his gaze to my right forearm and notice a dark stain spreading across my sleeve.

“Shit,” I mutter. Must have caught it on something sharp in the docking bay—probably the edge of a loading crate when I was checking our gear.

The wound isn’t serious, barely more than a scratch, but the sight of my blood sends a spike of alarm through Jhorn that nearly buckles my knees.

The reaction is immediate and overwhelming. Through our bond, I feel his focus narrow with laser intensity, his entire being suddenly oriented around this threat to my wellbeing. It’s like being caught in the gravitational pull of a planet—inescapable and slightly terrifying.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, pulling my sleeve down to cover the cut. “Just a scratch.”

His disbelief ripples through the bond, along with something darker, more possessive.

I feel his assessment: blood loss minimal but continuing, risk of infection in this environment high, pain levels exceeding my admission.

The clinical nature of his evaluation is at odds with the very non-clinical emotions flowing through our connection—worry, protectiveness, and something that feels suspiciously like barely restrained panic.

“It’s really not a big deal,” I insist, but even as I say it, I can feel the cut stinging more than it should. The station’s recycled air probably carries enough bacteria to fell a space whale.

“Let’s keep moving,” I say, scanning the market for any sign of an info-broker’s stall. “We need to—”

A burly Morcrestian shoves past me, his massive shoulder knocking me sideways with the casual indifference of someone who considers smaller beings obstacles rather than people. I stumble, catching myself against a nearby stall, and my injured arm scrapes against the rough metal edge.

Pain flares bright and immediate, and I hiss through my teeth. The vendor—a wiry human with more metal than flesh on his face—scowls at me like I’ve personally ruined his day.

“Watch it,” he snaps. “Break it, you bought it.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, straightening and trying to ignore the way my arm is now throbbing. “Just looking for—”

“Information,” the vendor says, his scowl transforming into a mercenary smile that reveals teeth made of various metals. “Everyone here is. What’s your poison, sweetheart? Shipping manifests? Security codes? Bounty listings?”

My pulse quickens at the last one, and I feel Jhorn’s immediate tension through our bond. “Bounty listings?”

The vendor’s augmented eyes whir as they focus on me more intently, mechanical pupils dilating as he scans my face. “Fresh ones just came in. ApexCorp’s paying top credit for a courier and some stolen biotech. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” His gaze flicks to Jhorn, then back to me.

Fear claws up my throat, but I keep my expression neutral. “Just curious what the going rate is these days.”

“Ten thousand for the courier. Fifty for the ‘asset,’” he says, watching my reaction with the intensity of a scavenger bird eyeing carrion. “Alive only, which is unusual. ApexCorp must really want their property back intact.”

Fifty thousand. The number makes my head spin. That’s enough to buy a new ship, a new identity, a new life. And they want Jhorn back badly enough to pay it. Through our bond, I feel his tension, his understanding of the implications.

“Interesting,” I say, forcing casualness into my voice while my mind races. “Any details on what this ‘asset’ looks like?”

The vendor leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Humanoid, but definitely not human. Blue skin, tentacles, some kind of glow. Sound familiar?”

Before I can respond, I feel Jhorn go utterly still behind me, a predator recognizing danger. The vendor must sense it too, because he straightens, his hand drifting toward something beneath his counter.

“Just asking,” I say quickly, backing away and reaching for Jhorn’s arm to pull him along. “Thanks for the info.”

The moment my fingers close around his forearm through the cloak, I immediately regret the sudden movement. My injured arm screams in protest, fresh blood seeping through my sleeve, and Jhorn’s reaction is immediate and visceral.

A surge of protective fury floods the bond, so intense it makes my vision blur for a moment.

Through our connection, I feel his assessment shift from general threat awareness to something far more focused and dangerous.

The scent of my blood in this place full of predators and scavengers triggers something primal in him.

“You are injured,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous register that makes the vendor take an involuntary step back. “Worse than you claimed.”

“It’s nothing,” I insist, pulling him away from the vendor’s suddenly too-interested gaze. “We need to keep moving.”

But Jhorn isn’t listening. His focus has narrowed to my injury with the single-minded intensity of a targeting computer locking onto a threat. Through the bond, I feel his determination crystallizing into action.

“This way,” he says, suddenly taking the lead.

His grip on my uninjured arm is gentle but irresistible as he guides me through the crowd, which parts instinctively before his imposing figure.

Even hooded and cloaked, there’s something about his presence that screams danger to anyone with functioning survival instincts.

“Jhorn, wait—” I start, but he’s already pulling me into a narrow side corridor, away from the market’s chaos.

The passageway is dimly lit and deserted, lined with storage units and maintenance access panels.

The perfect place for an ambush, my paranoid mind supplies, but the bond tells me Jhorn’s only concern is my injury.

“Here,” he says, stopping in a small alcove between two sealed blast doors. The space is private, shadowed, intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with injury or fear.

“It’s just a cut,” I protest, but he’s already reaching for my arm with a care that belies his size and the barely restrained power I can feel thrumming through him.

“Please,” he says, and the simple word undoes me.

There’s so much contained in that single syllable—concern, determination, a need to care for me that transcends programming or instinct. It’s purely, genuinely him, and it hits me like a thermal charge to the chest.

I extend my injured arm, wincing as he gently pushes back the sleeve. The cut is longer than I thought, running from my wrist halfway to my elbow. It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding steadily, the edges already showing signs of inflammation from the station’s less-than-sterile environment.

What happens next steals my breath.

Jhorn’s hood falls back as he bends over my arm, revealing his face fully for the first time since we left the Nomad.

In the dim light of the alcove, his indigo skin seems to absorb the shadows while somehow managing to glow from within.

His eyes, those impossible eyes, shift from their usual violet to a soft, luminous blue that makes my chest tight with something I don’t want to name.

His features are alien yet strangely beautiful—sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, a strong jaw, and patterns of bioluminescence that pulse beneath his skin like living circuitry.

When he concentrates, as he is now, the patterns shift and brighten, creating a light show that’s hypnotic and strangely intimate.

But it’s his tendrils that captivate me.

They emerge from beneath his cloak like silk scarves given life, moving with deliberate grace that’s both alien and oddly sensual.

One produces a soft, blue-white light that illuminates my injury, banishing the shadows of our hidden alcove.

Another, finer than the rest, exudes a clear substance that drips onto the cut with the precision of a master artisan.

The moment it touches my skin, the pain recedes, replaced by a cool, tingling sensation that spreads up my arm like the most pleasant kind of intoxication.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, unable to look away from the hypnotic dance of his tendrils.

“Healing,” he says simply, his focus absolute. “The substance contains analgesic and regenerative properties. Your body will heal faster, without infection.”

His voice has dropped to that low, intimate register that seems to vibrate through my bones and settle somewhere distinctly inappropriate. Watching him work, seeing the complete absorption in his task, the gentle precision of his movements, does things to my pulse that definitely aren’t medical.

A third tendril, so fine it’s almost translucent, begins to weave back and forth across the cut, drawing the edges together with microscopic precision.

The sensation is strange—not painful, but intimate in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

It’s like being touched by living silk that knows exactly how to make me shiver.

“You’re... sewing me up? With your tentacle?” My voice comes out breathier than intended.

“Tendril,” he corrects gently, not looking up from his work, and I swear there’s the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “And yes. The filament is organic but stronger than your synthetic sutures. It will dissolve as you heal.”

I watch, mesmerized, as he works. His movements are sure, practiced, as if he’s done this countless times before.

Maybe he has. What do I really know about what ApexCorp designed him to do?

The thought of him caring for others with this same tender attention sends an unwelcome spike of something that might be jealousy through me.