Page 50 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER NINE

Ellie

I know straight away that the newcomers are not members of Anghar’s tribe.

It’s not just that they have tattoos up their arms, dark swirling markings dancing over their bulging muscles.

Tattoos that Anghar doesn’t have, and neither did the other guy I saw.

It’s in their manner, in the way they watch Anghar, their hands wandering to the blades at their belts.

It’s also in the way Anghar’s shoulders go tense at the sound of their voices. The too casual way he climbs to his feet, his eyes darting to the curved piece of wood next to his pack. Not much of a weapon against two opponents with knives.

He says something, and I don’t understand it. Because of course he’s an alien and speaks an alien language. I can read his tone, though, the lightness of it that belies the way his fists clench at his side.

Whatever he says, the newcomers sneer at him, their eyes tracking past him to me.

I’m still curled up on the floor and at the look in their eyes, I want to curl in on myself even more.

They look at me the way a predator would.

It’s a look I know well from my days in the slaughterhouse, the look the more obvious supervisors used to give me and the girls.

The one that meant they were thinking about trapping us in some back office, whether we were willing or not.

Anghar speaks again, his voice lower, more urgent.

It rings with the same sincerity it did when he spoke to me before.

Whatever he says, the other two aliens just scoff then fire words back at him, harsh, barking noises.

I get to my feet, my muscles protesting as I straighten my legs beneath me.

My feet burn, the blisters popped and reformed and popped again during my desperate flight across the forest.

I need to be ready to run again. I try to prepare myself for it, to persuade my legs to move. But my limbs are sluggish and aching and I don’t think I can. I don’t think I can do anything to escape this time.

One of the newcomers steps towards me, but Anghar puts himself in-between us, holding his hands up in a gesture to stop.

The other guy doesn’t take this well, his face twisting into a scowl.

They all look almost but not quite human - their features familiar in shape and location - but there’s something about that scowl that renders the newcomer animalistic, and I’m reminded that these aren’t just guys looking to get what they can from a vulnerable woman.

They are aliens and I have no idea what will happen to me if they get hold of me.

Anghar draws a blade from his right boot, apparently determined not to let the newcomers get to me. And though my head protests that I don’t know him either, my heart remembers the feeling of his arms around me. Beats a single word over and over.

Safe.

Anghar will keep me safe.

One lunges for Anghar, the move so sudden, so violent, I flinch.

Anghar dances out of the way of him, swiping with his own knife, slicing deep into his assailant’s arm.

The other male cries out, a high cry of pain that twists quickly in to anger.

He stumbles a few steps away, blade falling from his limp hand as his other hand comes up to cup the wound, blood squeezing out from between his fingers.

Blood as red as my own.

A clash snaps my attention back to Anghar and the other newcomer. Their blades lock together, the newcomer bigger, stronger. He presses down on his blade, and I can see Anghar’s muscles twitching under the strain. He’s not going to win this fight, I realise, but he’s fighting it, anyway.

Fighting for me. Risking his life to protect me.

I think of the way he gave me water to drink - showing me it was safe by taking a mouthful himself, leaving it in arm’s reach so I could take it without having to get close to him.

Doing the same with the food. He didn’t try to touch me; he didn’t try to get too close.

It would have been so easy for him to close the gap between us, to put his hands on me.

But he didn’t. He was careful and gentle. Just as he has always been in my dreams.

And I think of the way he didn’t give me what I wanted in the last dream - the way he elected to hold me rather than have sex with me.

It made no sense to me when I thought of him as a construct of my imagination.

Why wouldn’t my imagination give me what I want?

But he’s not imaginary, he’s a person with his own thoughts and feelings and desires and he chose to just hold me.

He could have taken anything from me that night, and it wouldn’t have even been against my will, but he chose to show restraint.

Because I’d been upset? Because he wanted to take care of me more than he wanted anything else?

Because he realised it would have been taking advantage?

I don’t know, but they’re all plausible options.

The other two aliens - no space for doubt or questions there. Their intentions are clear.

And so is what I have to do.

Heaving my exhausted limbs into action, I dart forward, reaching for the blade in Anghar’s other boot.

I pull it out, then slam it down into the attacker’s thigh.

The blade slides in so easily; it takes him a moment to register the pain.

I wrench the blade out and he staggers backwards, a guttural roar issuing from his mouth as his eyes fix on me, full of hatred.

Hatred is fine. I’m used to it. I lift my arm, pointing my blade out towards him, sticky with his blood. Blood is fine, too.

He launches forwards, and unlike the other guy, he’s kept hold of his blade.

Anghar ducks beneath it, swinging his knife upwards, driving it into the attacker’s stomach.

A deadly strike. The strength goes out of the other guy immediately, his knees sagging.

Anghar takes his weight, gentling him down to the floor.

Everything in his expression speaks of deep regret as he kneels beside his enemy, his hand pressed to the wound he’s just inflicted.

He says something, his voice soft, pained. Blood bubbles in the corner of the other guy’s lips as the light slowly goes out in his eyes. I know the moment he’s gone, recognise the transition between a living thing and a carcass.

A bellow blasts through the quiet of the moment.

The first attacker with his injured arm - forgotten for a careless moment.

He charges towards me, blade back in his hand.

Anghar is on his feet in a second, throwing himself at the first attacker with no regard for his own safety.

The two aliens crash to the floor, rolling one over the other as they fight for control.

They’re a blur of limbs and fists, their blades fallen to the floor in the initial crash.

I still have my knife in hand, but I can’t tell who’s who. The tattoos that mark the skin of the enemy alien are lost among the ever moving shadows of the forest. They’re both painted with them. I step forwards. Hesitate.

And in that moment, the enemy alien gets the upper hand, pinning Anghar beneath him with one hand, his other stretching upwards, deadly looking claws jutting from his fingertips.

His entire focus is on Anghar, a wicked grin revealing fangs.

He’s enjoying the moment. Relishing having Anghar at his mercy.

He’s so absorbed in it, he’s forgotten me.

Mistake.

I come up beside him, pressing Anghar’s knife to his throat and cut. He might be alien, but I can see the beat of his pulse in his neck. The carotid artery.

Blood sprays from the wound, the alien’s hands going to his throat as he gurgles, clutching at the injury, as if his meaty fingers can hold the rent flesh together.

It doesn’t take long for his body to go limp, sag sideways.

Anghar scrambles back, breathing hard as he watches the other alien collapse to the floor, the last of his lifeblood leaking out of him, soaking into the forest floor.

For a moment, I freeze in place, spatters of hot blood burning against my skin.

My eyes slide to the body of the alien, a tremble starting in my hands.

The horror of it strikes me, and it’s not just the horror of ending this alien’s life.

It’s the horror of all the times I finished a day’s work at the slaughterhouse, rinsing the blood from my hands like that was the worst of the filth on me.

Scrubbing at the skin of my hands because I couldn’t scrub away the phantom feel of an unwanted touch or the smell of someone else’s scent permeating my clothes, my skin.

The tremble escalates to a shake. Then Anghar is at my side, cupping my face in his bloody hands, his forehead pressing to mine as he murmurs words to me.

Incomprehensible words in his rumbling alien language.

He’s so big, so close, touching me, and I’m still wearing my jumpsuit tied around my waist, just my ugly bra on top.

I should feel scared, vulnerable. But somehow, even when he peels the knife out of my hand, I don’t.

I let him take my only weapon against him, let him scoop me into his arms and hold me until the shaking starts to subside.

When I feel able to stand up on my own, I put a hand to his chest, push him back a little.

He goes without resistance, stepping a full arm’s length from me, just one hand lingering on my shoulder.

I think he means to be reassuring, but then his hand tightens, bracing his weight against me as he staggers, his other hand going to his side.

When red starts to seep through his fingers, I realise that some of the blood coating him is his own.

I step closer to him, my fingers going to his top, peeling it upwards, revealing a long, deep slice into his side.