Page 18 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

“From exploring what our bond might offer?” I suggest gently. “The only thing stopping us is your choice. Your comfort level. Your consent.”

The word hangs between us, weighted with possibility. Through our connection, I feel her wrestling with desire and fear, curiosity and caution. She wants to touch me again—I can sense it like hunger in her thoughts—but she’s terrified of where that touch might lead.

“This is crazy,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move away. If anything, she shifts slightly closer. “You’re a unique alien. I’m human. We could be genetically incompatible.”

“I was designed for compatibility,” I remind her gently. “With multiple species. Extensive testing was... conducted.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Extensive testing?”

“ApexCorp was very thorough in their research.” I allow one tendril to extend again, stopping just short of touching her. “Would you like me to demonstrate compatibility?”

The question stops her breathing entirely. Through our bond, I feel her imagining what such a demonstration might entail, and the spike of arousal that accompanies those thoughts nearly overwhelms my own control.

Only then does Kaylee’s rigid posture collapse, her shoulders slumping as she leans forward, face buried in her hands.

Through our bond, I feel her pain like physical wounds—the cut on her arm throbbing despite my treatment, bruises from the bounty hunter’s rough handling, and beneath these surface hurts, a deeper wound: the knowledge that there is nowhere truly safe, no haven that ApexCorp cannot reach.

“I...” she starts, then stops. Starts again. “We shouldn’t.”

“No,” I agree readily. “We absolutely should not. You are exhausted, injured, and emotionally vulnerable. I am bound to you by forces neither of us fully understands. This is precisely the wrong time for intimate exploration.”

“Exactly,” she says, but her gaze is fixed on my extended tendril. “Terrible timing.”

“Catastrophically poor judgment,” I confirm, allowing the tendril to drift closer to her hand.

“Completely inappropriate,” she whispers, her fingers twitching toward mine.

“Utterly inadvisable,” I murmur, as her fingertip hovers just above my tendril.

The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility and terrible timing. Through our bond, I feel her wrestling with desire and duty, need and common sense.

“Kaylee,” I say softly. “You require rest. Medical attention.”

She doesn’t look up. “What I require is a miracle.” Her voice is muffled against her palms. “Or a drink. Preferably both. And maybe a new identity, a new ship, and a different universe where corporations don’t breed aliens for fun and profit.”

“I fear I can only assist with the medical attention,” I say, settling near her with careful deliberation. “My universe-altering capabilities are somewhat limited.”

“Shocking,” she mutters, but I catch the faint thread of amusement through our bond.

Without speaking, I extend several tendrils—not to touch her directly, but to create a gentle barrier around her.

They form a living cocoon of soft, pulsing light, emanating subtle warmth that pushes back the cold darkness of space.

The bioluminescent patterns shift through calming blues and gentle golds, responding to my desire to soothe rather than overwhelm or seduce.

I begin to hum, the same melody that drew her to release me from the medbay—a wordless song that speaks of protection, of safe harbors in violent storms, of light persisting in darkness.

But this time, I add new harmonies, notes that reflect what I’ve learned about her through our bond.

Her courage. Her loneliness. Her hidden softness beneath layers of defensive cynicism.

At first, Kaylee remains rigid, her back a tense line of resistance.

But as the melody continues, as the warmth of my tendrils creates a sanctuary around her without demanding touch, I feel her begin to yield.

Her breathing deepens. Her shoulders lower fractionally.

The sharp edges of her fear soften, not disappearing but becoming bearable.

“You’re doing it again,” she says quietly, though she doesn’t move away from the warmth.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you make everything feel... safer. Less hopeless.” She finally looks up, meeting my eyes. “How do you do that?”

“I exist for you,” I say simply. “Your wellbeing is my primary function. When you hurt, I feel it. When you heal, I am... content.”

She studies my face, searching for deception, for the artificial responses of sophisticated programming. Through our bond, I let her feel the truth of my words—not just the programmed devotion, but the choice behind it, the genuine care that has grown beyond my original design.

“That’s terrifying,” she whispers.

“Yes,” I agree. “It is. For both of us.”

Almost imperceptibly, she leans back, allowing the barrier of my tendrils to support her weight. Not quite touch, but acceptance of my presence, my protection. Through our bond, I feel her exhaustion pulling her toward sleep, her mind too weary to maintain its defenses.

“You are safe here, with me, Kaylee,” I murmur, adjusting the light patterns to something even more soothing. “For this moment, at least.”

Her eyes flutter closed, her head tilting back to rest against the cushion of my tendrils. The sensation sends pleasant warmth through me—not the blazing heat of desire, but something gentler, more precious. Trust. Acceptance. The beginning of something that might, someday, become more.

“That’s the problem,” she whispers, her voice thick with approaching sleep. “Nowhere is safe. Not anymore. Not with what I am now.”

“What you are now,” I say softly, “is not alone.”

I feel her consciousness slipping, the bond between us softening as her mind surrenders to exhaustion.

Even in sleep, her fear remains, a low hum beneath the surface of her dreams. Fear of capture, of ApexCorp, of the future—and beneath it all, fear of the bond itself, of the unwanted intimacy it forces upon her.

But there’s something else now, something new threading through her subconscious: awareness of my presence not as invader but as protector. The memory of my fury when the bounty hunter threatened her. The way my tendrils had moved to shield rather than constrain.

As she sleeps, cradled in the protective circle of my tendrils, I study her face with something approaching reverence.

In repose, the hard edges of her wariness soften, revealing the woman beneath the survivor’s mask.

She is beautiful in ways I lack words to describe—not just her physical form, which my enhanced senses find aesthetically pleasing, but the fierce light within her.

Her determination. Her resilience. Her capacity for kindness even when it costs her.

Through our bond, I feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the gentle tide of her breathing, the warmth of her life force flowing through me like sunlight through crystal. She is magnificent, and she is mine—not as property, not as possession, but as something infinitely more precious.

The realization should frighten me. Instead, it brings a deep, bone-deep satisfaction that transcends my programming.

I was made to bond, to devote, to protect. These imperatives were written into my cellular structure by ApexCorp scientists who viewed me as property, as a tool to be used and discarded. They never intended for me to choose, to want, to care beyond my original parameters.

Yet here I am, watching over Kaylee’s sleep, feeling something that transcends my original design. The bond between us has evolved beyond its initial function, at least for me. It is no longer merely a psychic tether or a biological imperative.

It has become love.

The admission shocks me with its clarity.

Not the hollow devotion ApexCorp programmed into my cells, but something more complex, more painful, more real.

I love her—her strength, her fear, her stubborn resilience, the way she tries to hide her softness behind layers of practical cynicism.

I love her not because I was made to, but because I have come to know her through our bond and found her worthy of everything I am.

But for her, the bond remains a burden. An invasion. A complication she never asked to bear.

The realization cuts deeper than any physical wound. True devotion—not the simplistic version ApexCorp encoded into me, but the genuine article that has grown in the space between programming and choice—would prioritize her well-being above all else. Above my existence. Above the bond itself.

What if I could set her free?

The thought crystallizes, terrible and necessary. I trace the air above her face with a tendril, not touching, just following the contours of her features. If I could absorb her pain, her fear, her burden, I would do so without hesitation. If I could give her back the life she had before me...

The possibility haunts me as she sleeps.

ApexCorp created the bond, but they also created me.

Perhaps there is some flaw in their design, some weakness I could exploit.

The bond draws its strength from my life force—if I were to.

.. diminish... that force, perhaps the connection would weaken, break, free her from this unwanted tether.

It would likely destroy me in the process. But if it gave her peace, if it gave her freedom, would that not be the ultimate expression of the love I feel for her?

The question torments me through the long hours of her rest, even as my tendrils continue their gentle, protective vigil around her sleeping form.