Page 17 of Charmed by the Alien Warrior (Spirit Mates of the Laediriian Exiles #2)
Mara
A loud groan rips me from sleep. I blink blearily trying to remember why I’m curled up on a bench. The unfamiliar gray walls, the blinking lights and dark monitors. It all comes rushing back in a torrent of memories.
The Pugj. Sorrin. That kiss. His lips, his tongue, going down on… That’s when I hear it again.
The noise is low and strained, and it sounds alarmingly like the tortured groan of an animal in distress. I sit up quickly and glance around the shadowy control room, scanning for what is probably some weird creature intent on making a meal of me. Maybe the tiniio managed to get in here. Maybe it’s waiting, just out of sight, ready to pounce.
But except for Sorrin sprawled at the end of the bench, the room is empty.
His head is tipped back, his mouth slightly parted displaying his pointy fangs, and his eyes are clenched tightly closed. As I study him, I notice his heavy brow is furrowed in agitation, casting shadows over his angular face. His broad chest rises and falls in rapid, uneven breaths, and a soft whimper escapes his lips.
Ahh. Bad dream. That’s certainly something I’m all too familiar with. Far too well—the way sleep holds you captive in a place where all your worst fears are replayed over and over and the only escape from the torture is waking up.
I inch closer, shifting until I’m nearly touching him. “Sorrin,” I whisper, gently placing my hand on his bare, tense shoulder. “Wake up.”
But he doesn’t stir.
My hand trembles as I give him a small shake. “Sorrin,” I try again, louder this time.
But he’s locked inside whatever horror is playing out behind his closed eyelids.
I glance down at his fists as they clench tightly, so tightly his knuckles are pale, almost white, and the veins in his forearms bulge. His body is rigid, like it’s made of stone, as if he’s bracing himself against some unseen blow.
His coloring shifts as his skin flickers to a mottled mix of deep brown and black. I glance in confusion at the stark white bench we’re on and the various shades of gray that dominate the control room.
“Sorrin…” My voice cracks and my heart aches at the clear turmoil he’s enduring in his dreamworld.
Suddenly, his arm lashes out, nearly knocking me off the bench. I gasp and tumble backward, barely keeping my balance. His other hand claws at the air, fingers curling and flexing like he’s trying to fend off an invisible attacker.
I grab his large hand in mine, clutching it desperately and pulling it to my chest as his expression contorts into something unrecognizable. The happy-go-lucky Sorrin I know is nowhere to be found. Sheer terror is etched into every hard line and furrow of his face.
His chest heaves, rising and falling as if he’s been running for his life, each breath ragged and shallow. Another groan, deeper and more guttural, rumbles from his throat, and the sound makes my chest ache painfully. I can’t stand seeing him like this.
I need to wake him up. Now.
“Sorrin!” I shout, panic rising in my throat. My grip on his hand tightens as I lean closer and shake him harder. “Wake up! Please.”
The warm puff of his erratic breathing brushes against my skin, and something cold and primal grips me. A terrible thought claws at my mind—that if I don’t wake him now, I might lose him forever. And I can’t bear that.
Sorrin may be a cocky dufus who gets under my skin sometimes, but he’s my cocky dufus.
“Please.” My voice breaks. “Please wake up for me.”
His breath hitches, and for a moment, his muscles tense even harder. Then, as I grip his hand to my chest, something changes. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s searching for my voice, and his brow unfurrows.
“Sorrin?” I whisper, holding my breath.
His muscles shudder beneath my touch before his stone gray eyes snap open. His gaze is wild and disoriented as it darts around the room before landing on me. His pupils, wide and dark with fear, slowly lighten as recognition settles in.
Blinking, he asks, “Mara?” His voice is hoarse, like metal scraping over stone.
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding as relief floods through me.
“Yes, it’s me. You were having a nightmare.” My fingers are still trembling against his hand, and I realize just how tightly I’ve been gripping it. I loosen my hold, but don’t let go. I couldn’t let go now even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.
“I didn’t mean to...” His voice trails off as if he doesn’t know what to say, and his gaze drops to our entwined hands.
His hair is a tangled cascade around his shoulders and one stubborn lock slips into his face, hiding his gaze from me. His brow furrows as if he’s trying to push away the memories of the nightmare that’s still clinging to him like a shadow.
“I was worried about you,” I say softly. “That was some dream.”
The urge to brush his hair away is overwhelming, and before I can second-guess myself, I do. My fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary, caught by the surprising softness of his hair. It’s silkier than I imagined with shining aqua highlights that could only be achieved in a salon back on Earth.
Sorrin clears his throat, the sound thick and raw. “It wasn’t just a dream.” His voice isn’t much louder than a whisper, as if he can’t bear to say the words aloud. “It was a memory.”
The confession settles between us like a heavy weight. Shit. Those are the worst kinds of nightmares . The nightmares you can’t leave behind when you wake up. The ones you lived.
“Do you want to talk about it?” My gaze drops to his clenched jaw. The tension there is almost painful to witness, like he’s fighting some internal battle.
His mouth opens as if he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. The silence stretches between us until it feels as if the tension is as taut as a rubber band.
I try again, my voice soft but insistent, “I’ll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours.”
That coaxes a small, fleeting grin from him—one that’s a shadow of his usual playful smile—but it vanishes as quickly as it appears. Sorrin releases a heavy sigh before he begins to speak, his voice thick with emotion.
“When I was a young hunter, I was out in the jungle searching for dicros,” he begins, his gaze unfocused as if he’s watching the memory play out in front of him.
“I was eager, too eager, to prove myself and that made me careless. That’s when two males from the Xeniiv tribe ambushed me. Sevvern was always jealous and fiendish, even as a kitling, but as he grew, so did his bad behavior. And Terrik was always beside him.”
I shift slightly, leaning in closer, my heart tightening at the pain in his voice.
“They lured me to a cave by imitating the call of a zaak.” At my confused look, he explains, “They’re solitary creatures on Laedirissae and rarely seen on our territory, but they’re prized for their tender meat. I thought if I brought one down, I could impress the elders and my friends with my hunting skills. I wanted to be the best hunter.” He chuckles, but the sound is bitter. “Of course, that didn’t happen.”
Sorrin pauses, his gaze dropping again to where my hand still rests in his. He gives mine a little squeeze.
“The male shoved me into a deep pit in the cave. I couldn’t get out.” His voice grows hoarser, and I swear I can almost feel the helplessness and fear he must have felt burning in my chest. “I was stuck down there. Alone. No light, no sound except my own breathing and the echo of Sevvern’s laughter as he took the dicro I’d killed for the tribe.”
A shiver crawls up my spine at the thought of being trapped like that, alone in the dark. “What happened?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I spent a whole day in that pit until Draggar found me. He pulled me out.” Sorrin glances around the small, enclosed control room, and a shadow crosses his face. “But ever since that day, enclosed spaces…” He trails off, swallowing hard as he looks up at me.
His expression is vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen from him before. “I don’t handle them well. Sometimes, the walls feel like they’re closing in.”
I understand more than I’d like to admit. The kind of fear that makes your chest tighten, that keeps you up at night, that follows you into your dreams. The kind that never quite leaves you.
Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. “You said their names were Sevvern and Terrik, right?” He nods his head at my question. “They were with the chief in the Tussoll village when I was taken there.”
Sorrin looks off into the distance. “Sevvern was recently made the leader of his tribe, and Draggar warned that he may have allied himself with the Tussoll and the Pugj. It would make sense. He was cruel even as a youngling, and Terrik blindly followed his lead.”
“I can’t imagine how terrifying that must’ve been,” I say softly, my heart aching for the young, terrified boy he was and the man in front of me, still dealing with the awful memories of that experience. My hand tightens around his, offering whatever comfort I can.
He meets my gaze, his stone-gray eyes softening. “I don’t talk about it. Ever. Not even with Draggar. But you… Mara.” His voice falters, and he shifts closer, our knees touching. “I wanted to tell you.”
I blink, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his voice. Sorrin—this goofy, playful warrior—carrying so much pain beneath the surface. And yet, he’s willing to open up to me. To trust me.
The warmth of his hand is steady against mine, and for once, I don’t want to push someone away. I don’t want to hide behind my walls.
Instead, I want to pull him closer.