Page 68 of Border Control

I can. He needs what I’m going to give him.

“I volunteer,” Dom says, purple eyes sliding to me. They're bloodshot.

Seems like this playtime is desperately needed.

The Roadhouse squatsat the roadside like a forgotten relic, three joined stone sheds with slumped roofs, moss-streaked walls, and weather-warped doors that creak in the spring breeze. A rusted gate leans against one corner, half-swallowed by brambles. Ivy creeps along the mortar, daffodils poking defiantly through the gravel, hinting at the season’s quiet arrival. Behind it, across a muddy track, stand the skeletal remains of old farm buildings, which will be future holiday cottages, if dreams and demand hold. For now, the Roadhouse watches the narrow country lane with patience, waiting for purpose to find it again.

I pull into the yard and get out of the car, Dom following me from the other side. I open the rusty lock on the gate using the key Ellen gave me and he unwinds the chains around the metal post. Slowly. The clinks and clanks make a pleasing musical chime ring against the crumbling walls.

Just as he's about to drop the arm’s length of chain, I say, “Bring that with you.”

He nods, verbally silent but mentally thrumming with delicious tension. Wary. Watchful. Wondering. His thoughts buzz so fast I can't follow them, almost subconscious.

And entirely focused on me. Where I go he shadows, as if I'm moving him at the same time as I pace back to the car. I drive it through and he closes the gate, guessing what I want him to do.

My mouth dry, I nod toward the building with the best-looking roof. This one's structurally stable and will probably be the first to be renovated. I don't have to order him inside; he walks in straight backed.

The interior is cool and quiet, the floor brushed concrete and the walls mossy. Above us criss-cross beautiful hardwood beams, a testament to the strong foundations of the farm. They’re strong enough to dangle a tonne for years.

Definitely strong enough for an alien. One day.

Dom glances at the cold, unyielding metal chain in his hands, then looks at me. He always seems so on top of things; nothing ever shows on his face, despite the turmoil I catch glimpses of occasionally. I wish I had the same ability to look so cool and calm despite everything going on inside.

Although right now, his scales flush. Pinks edge along the purple-lilac swathes, his breathing stuttering. Maybe he’s not so calm after all.

Anticipation coils between us, teasing and tantalizing with potential. Which we have to set out and agree on. “Put those down for now. We have to talk.”

“Very well.” He lays the chains down, then comes to stand in front of me, hands bunched into fists.

Pulling out a lipstick, I slick a coat on, the fake blackberry taste different to my usual strawberry. I’m another person now, someone who uses darker lipstick than I’d ever try. Someone who can do things I’ve only read about.

I can do this. Fake it til you make it, and all that.

I begin: “During a scene, the rules of the real world fade away. We can be anything and anyone we want to be. The only constant I will insist on is respect. I respect you, and you respect me. Because of that, we need a language for when anything goes too far, if we realize this is something we don't want to do. We each have this ability. I can stop you, and you can stop me.”

Dom's nostrils flare. “Whatever you want to do with me, Law-rah, I will allow.”

“No. I'm going to help you find your peace, yes, but the only way I can do that is if I feel you're confident enough to call a stop to the scenario if you need to.”

“I know what I can take.” He touches his temple. “And if you really want to test I'm telling the truth, you can search me through the mind sync.”

That's definitely something that’s not in the Planet of the Pirate Prince books or forums online. I'd be able to feel—experience—what I'm doing to him. How it affects him.

I say, “I prefer verbal communication.”

“Then verbally, I confirm.” He holds his wrists out to me. “Do what you will with me.”

Hm. Folding my arms, I insist, “I want a safe word or phrase. Something that, if said, the other stops immediately.”

He cocks his head. “Very well. What do you suggest?”

“How about… lavender? It's a type of plant here. Long stems, purple flowers. Smells… divine.” And from what I know of lavender, the harder it's life, the stronger it blooms. Just like him.

“La-ven-der.” He nods, watching my every move. “What now?”

“Now, we decide what scene we want to create together. I can tell you need something. I want you to share with me what it is.”

“I…” His mind whirls, images almost too fast to see. Of himself, arms stretched wide, on his knees, jaw tight against thepain. Anyone else might see he needs pain to center himself and figure he's broken. How can anyone want that? But I see the truth, how he subsumes suffering deep into himself, using it to master himself. Finding release for all the pressure he's under, a break, the white-hot moment where nothing else exists, not even himself.