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He gives me the slightest nod, seems to try to stare a hole right through me, presses his lips more tightly together, and flares his little slit-like nostrils.

I haven’t been in the guest house in years. I used to play here all the time as a kid. It had old furniture and I used it as a playhouse. In addition to the renovations, the furniture is new.

The front door opens into the main room, which is a cozy den. It’s flanked by the kitchen on one side and the bedroom with an ensuite bathroom on the other.

The alien’s cage, maybe five by five, is near the half-wall that separates the kitchen from the den.

“I’m Annora,” I say as I look past him to the gardens outside the French doors. I’m still avoiding the accusation in his gaze.

“Zorn,” his voice has the slightest hiss. Not as bad as I would have expected.

Returning to the kitchen, I aimlessly open cabinets, not really looking for anything, just not knowing what to do with myself while a caged Draalian male watches my every move.

The reptile’s gaze is on me as I rummage.

It would be rude to go hide in the bedroom, although I’d really like to throw myself on the bed and have a good cry.

Mom stocked the kitchen with all my favorite comfort foods, so I pull out a box of brownie mix and start cooking. I know I could use the 3-D food printer, but every step of the baking process soothes me.

Once my fingers are busy, my jumbled thoughts begin to take shape.

At the top of my awareness is anger. It’s hot and spikes through me, then quickly morphs into sadness that pricks tears behind my eyes.

I have to swallow a few times, my back to my guest, to get that under control. I don’t do ‘powerless’ well.

I stop in the middle of brownie-making to check all the doors again, being careful to skirt Zorn’s cage—God, I’d hate me if I were him—then slide the brownies into the oven.

“I need to piss,” he says, his tone firm and direct.

He’s in a cage with nothing, not even a chair, and certainly no toilet.

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t understand this planet’s passage of time, but I slept here last night. On the floor. We entered your atmosphere yesterday. I was allowed to clean up, then not-so-gently forced into a cage a fourth this size and transported here in the back of a surface vehicle.”

Although his voice is matter-of-fact, it suddenly dawns on me that this is a sentient being, far from his home, and he’s just standing there. He needs to pee and is probably hungry.

“I’m afraid to open your cage,” I admit.

“Do you want me to piss on your floor?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. I don’t think this is sarcasm, just a sincere question.

“No! Um, wait.”

I grab a pot, bring it to him, then realize it won’t fit through the bars.

Scurrying back to the kitchen, I grab a tall glass and set it through the bars while safely remaining as far from him as I can.

Wanting to give him privacy, I head toward the bedroom, but before I get there, I hear his soft, “I’ll need another. ”

On my way to the kitchen to get him another glass, he says, “Do you have a facility for this? Wouldn’t that be more . . . hygienic?”

I’m no more than five feet from his cage when I look at him. His body’s stiff, his face is stoic, but his eyes spear me with this request. His tight jaw tells me how much this exchange is costing him. It’s almost as if I can feel the hot blaze of his humiliation.

Closing my eyes, I have a long debate with myself. I can’t keep this guy in a cage for thirty days. I’m going to have to let him out sometime.

“I’d like to let you out, but I’m afraid.”

He nods. “You probably should be. Most sentient beings don’t take kindly to being stolen from their planet, shipped across the galaxy, and imprisoned without a sleeping platform or even a pot to piss in.”

“Really? You don’t want to be on Earth? You were stolen from your home? I thought only volunteers were brought here.”

“Your mother used the phrases ‘black market’ and ‘cages’. What about that didn’t you understand?”

“Shit! I’m so sorry. Zorn, I’d like to let you out of your cage.

Promise you won’t kill me.” I need to get over my own feelings of shock, anger and betrayal and somehow try to make this right with this poor guy.

I thought I didn’t do powerless well? What about him?

He’s obviously military and doesn’t look used to asking for anything, much less having to beg for a glass to pee in.

“I will tolerate this situation without harming you for the thirty days your mother promised. My planet venerates women and aggressing upon one is prohibited. After thirty days, however, I will follow my military training and try to escape by any means necessary.”

“Okay. That’s more than I deserve.”

“Actually, it’s more than your mother deserves. I have no quarrel with you.”

There was a note on the kitchen counter saying the cage was locked to my biometrics, so I press my fingertip to the lock, and the door springs open.

For a swift moment I consider running and hiding behind the half-wall to the kitchen, but decide I have to trust him or I’ll have to keep him locked up for the entire month.

After I point to the bathroom which is through the bedroom door, he picks up the glass full of his urine and goes to do his business.

I hadn’t realized I was crying until a tear slides near the corner of my mouth. This is the worst situation I’ve ever been in. Worse than when I was little and got picked last for every sport, or got made fun of because of my weight.

“Your eyes are leaking,” he says as he stands in the bedroom doorway, his broad shoulder leaning against the frame, empty glass in hand.

Dashing my tears with my knuckle, I admit, “I’m crying.”

“They taught me about that while in stasis on the trip here. It’s a human expression of sadness.”

“Yes.”

“What are you sad about?”

Incredulous, my eyes widen as both hands raise to indicate everything around me. “This.”

“The situation? I don’t find it sad. My feeling is closer to rage.”

I step back, several paces. “Are you threatening me?”

“Unless you’re a good actress, I think you’re a victim here, too. I already said I won’t harm you in any way. I’m a male of my word.”

Nodding, I say, “So you’re willing to make the best of this situation for the next thirty days?”

“Yes.”

Look at him, he’s practically vibrating with anger, but he’s keeping a tight lid on it and promises he won’t harm me. If he can handle this situation with aplomb, so can I.

“Hungry?” I ask.

Zorn

Right before my abduction, I saw advertisements on my planet inviting us to come to Earth. I considered it for a moment, then my duty to my planet overrode my desire for a mate. That and the fact I found Earth females unappealing.

I assess my ‘host’. To me, hair seems like an evolutionary throwback, kind of primitive.

Her skin is . . . bland. And what are the ears for?

They seem superfluous, although I learned about sunglasses and I guess they have to rest somewhere to stay on the face.

Draalians have nictitating eyelids, a filmy membrane that sweeps from side to side in addition to the eyelid.

I’m certain they work better than something you have to carry with you.

I’ll keep my promise not to hurt her. Staying thirty days? That won’t happen. As soon as I feel my clutchmate Zoriss through my psychic connection, I’ll break out of here and find him. I worry he might be in trouble—I haven’t felt him since the moment after he escaped.

“Want a brownie?” she asks.

Is that what I smell? It’s sickening, like overripe fruit.

I’m hungry. I’ve been out of stasis over a day and haven’t been fed.

I could normally go longer, but all I’ve had during the three prior months on the vessel was chemical nutrition.

I don’t know what type of animals they eat on Earth, but it doesn’t smell promising.

I open my mouth for my forked tongue to scent the air, but the better I smell it, the less appetizing it seems.

“Brownie? Is this a . . . pet?”

So many things about this planet are shocking.

The fact they abduct males for their cocks and sperm as we were informed on the space vessel.

The fact they expect me to befriend and want to mate the person who kept me in a cell.

And now, eating a family pet? Even the most primitive societies don’t eat the animals they give names to.

“Pet? No. This is a dessert. Normally we eat it after a meal, but I . . .” She shakes her head, then looks up at me, cheeks pinkening. “I stress-eat.”

I don’t understand stress-eating, but I do understand shame, which she seems to be experiencing.

After I take one bite of brownie, I put my utensil down and wonder what’s the proper thing to do with food you have to spit out of your mouth.

I stalk to the sink and spit, then put my mouth under the nozzle and rinse for a long time.

“You consider that food?” I ask when I return to the table, noting Annora has finished her brownie and is scraping her plate with the tines of her utensil.

“Yes. You don’t eat sweets?”

“No.” Could that possibly provide nutrients? “Do you have protein in this dwelling? Preferably live although I’ll eat it cooked. No household pets, though.” That’s a line I cannot cross.

She cocks her head and I watch as many emotions sail across her face.

The blandness of her features allows me to read her more easily than those of my species.

She looks surprised, then offended, then, after a moment of thought, she’s amused.

Her gaze touches mine for the swiftest moment as she laughs.

She jumps up and programs the food synthesizer. A minute later she pulls out a large plate with what looks like a cooked piece of animal muscle. She sets it in front of me with a dull, round-ended knife. I guess her mother didn’t want anything sharp in the house.