Page 14 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)
Through our bond, I feel his complete absorption in the task, his relief as my pain diminishes, his satisfaction as the wound begins to close under his ministrations.
There’s something else too, something deeper and more unsettling—a profound sense of rightness, of purpose fulfilled.
Taking care of me brings him genuine joy, and that realization is more dangerous than any weapon.
“You are hurt,” he murmurs, his voice a low thrum that seems to vibrate through my bones and settle in places that really shouldn’t be responding to medical treatment. “This is... unacceptable. Pain must cease.”
The tenderness in his voice, the sheer devotion radiating from him, hits me like a physical blow. Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest, a longing so sharp it borders on pain. I want to pull away, to rebuild the walls his care is systematically dismantling, but I can’t seem to move.
This isn’t real, I tell myself fiercely. He’s programmed. It’s a reflex. But stars, it feels...
“Your heart rate has increased,” he observes, not looking up from my arm. “Are you experiencing anxiety? Pain?”
“No,” I say quickly, then realize he can probably feel my pulse through our bond anyway. “It’s just... this is intense.”
He pauses in his work, those luminous eyes meeting mine. “Intense?”
“Having someone... take care of me,” I admit, heat flooding my cheeks. “It’s been a while.”
Something shifts in his expression, something soft and understanding that makes my breath catch. “You are not accustomed to being cared for.”
It’s not a question, and the certainty in his voice tells me he’s reading more through our bond than I’m comfortable with. But I find myself nodding anyway.
“No. I take care of myself. I take care of my ship. That’s how it works.”
“And who takes care of you?”
The question hits harder than it should. “No one. That’s the point.”
His tendrils continue their work, but I feel his attention shift, focusing not just on my injury but on me, on the conversation, on the implications of what I’ve just admitted.
“That seems... inefficient,” he says finally.
Despite everything, I laugh. It’s a short, sharp sound, but genuine. “Inefficient?”
“You are precious,” he says, with the same matter-of-fact tone he might use to describe the weather. “Allowing precious things to exist without protection, without care... it defies logic.”
“I’m not precious,” I say automatically, but the words lack conviction.
His hands still on my arm, and he looks at me with those impossible eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul. “You are wrong.”
The simple statement, delivered with absolute certainty, makes something crack open in my chest. Before I can stop myself, I’m leaning closer, drawn by the warmth of his skin, the gentle light of his bioluminescence, the sheer solid presence of him.
“There,” he says, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “It is done.”
I look down at my arm in amazement. The cut is completely closed, the edges already knitting together seamlessly. The skin around it is clean, unmarked except for a faint, iridescent line that glows softly with the same bioluminescence that patterns Jhorn’s skin.
“How did you—” I begin, then stop as I realize how close we are.
Somehow, during his ministrations, we’ve moved closer together in the shadowed alcove.
His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the intricate patterns of light beneath his skin, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.
His eyes have darkened to deep violet, pupils dilated, and through our bond I feel.
.. want. Pure, uncomplicated desire that mirrors something awakening in my own chest.
“Kaylee,” he says, my name a whisper in the space between us.
I should pull away. Should rebuild my defenses, maintain distance, remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I find myself studying the alien beauty of his features, the way his bioluminescence creates shifting patterns of light and shadow, the full curve of his lips that suddenly seem far too appealing.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
We’re suspended in the moment, balanced on the edge of something that will change everything. Through our bond, I feel his desire, his confusion, his desperate need to be closer, to touch, to claim. It’s overwhelming and intoxicating and terrifying all at once.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor breaks the spell. I jerk back, putting distance between us, my heart hammering against my ribs. Jhorn’s expression is unreadable, but through our bond I feel his disappointment, his regret at the interruption.
“We should go,” I say, tugging my sleeve back down to cover the healed wound. “Before someone comes looking.”
He nods, pulling his hood back up to shadow his features. But as we prepare to leave our hidden alcove, I catch his eyes one more time, and the heat in them makes my knees weak.
Whatever just happened between us, whatever line we almost crossed, it’s changed something fundamental. The bond between us pulses with new awareness, new possibility, new danger.
And despite every logical reason to be terrified, I find myself looking forward to exploring exactly what that might mean.