Page 32

CHAPTER 32

T he alien held her until the shivering stopped completely.

Until her muscles, clenched for what felt like hours, finally relaxed. Until the cold stopped biting at her skin, until the chill left her fingers, her toes. Until she was warm again— toasty , even—from the top of her head right down to her bones.

He was hot .

Not just warm, but radiating heat like a furnace. Like something carved from flesh and fire. She could feel it through the fur coat, through the thin fabric of her dress. The heat pulsed off him in steady waves. He was a living heat source made of muscle and silence and unfathomable strength.

She dared a glance.

Just a peek.

His armor was still retracted, and in the soft orange cockpit light, she saw him— truly saw him—for the first time.

He was broad.

Impossibly broad.

His chest was massive, his pectorals sculpted and defined in a way that seemed almost unreal. His shoulders were wide, deltoids thick and powerful. His arms— god , his arms—were corded with muscle, biceps and forearms so large they looked like they’d been carved from solid stone. Smooth deep-blue skin, like dusk incarnate, shimmered faintly under the light. There was a sheen to it, like oil or silk.

Alien.

Perfect.

And his scent?—

She caught it when she inhaled, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Spicy. Warm. Earthy. Undeniably male .

It curled around her like a drug, subtle and strange and deeply, maddeningly comforting.

What the hell is happening to me?

She opened her eyes again and stared straight ahead, forcing herself not to look at him. Not again. Not now.

Because this was madness.

He bought you , she reminded herself, biting the inside of her cheek. He collared you. You’re only here because of him. He wants to own you, nothing more. Don’t you dare think otherwise. Don’t you succumb to this madness.

But her heart didn’t want to listen.

Not when he’d held her like that.

Not when he’d warmed her without a word, without force, without cruelty.

Not when she was now sitting— of all things —in his lap just moments ago, trembling in his arms and finding comfort there.

It made her feel insane.

But it was getting harder to cling to her fury when he touched her like she was fragile. When he carried her like she mattered.

And worst of all?—

She hated to admit it.

Being held like that, enveloped by his heat and strength, pressed against a wall of chest and muscle, and that smell ?—

It was… arousing.

Oh, God.

Even with the helmet still on—even when she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t guess at his expression—her body reacted to him. And that scared her more than anything else.

She wished they could speak.

Just talk . Ask him why. Ask what this was. What had changed.

But they had no language between them, only gestures and grunts. Silence and proximity.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than words ever could.

At least he wasn’t cruel. Not yet. Not like the others.

When he finally rose, still bare-chested and silent, he took her with him, carrying her like she weighed nothing, one arm steady at her back, the other beneath her knees. She didn’t protest. Couldn’t.

He brought her to the cockpit.

It was slightly warmer there. Lights buzzed quietly overhead. The forward panel glowed, showing warnings and readouts she couldn’t decipher.

He sat her down in the command chair, the one he’d occupied earlier. Then he made a simple motion with one hand.

Wait.

She nodded, blinking at him.

And there he stood, tall and still, armor peeled away to reveal a body designed for power and endurance.

She tried not to stare.

Failed miserably.

He wasn’t just muscular. He was colossal . His waist was lean, tapering into powerful legs encased in the remnants of his suit. His abs were impossibly chiseled. She counted— ten . He had a ten-pack , as if that was even a thing.

And his body was laced with scars.

Long, narrow slashes. Jagged edges. Circular burns. Old and silvery, pale against dark skin. They were everywhere—his chest, his abdomen, his arms. Signs of violence. Of survival.

He wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense.

But he was… formidable .

She didn’t know how much time had passed. Minutes, maybe. Or longer.

He’d disappeared into one of the rear compartments without a word, still shirtless, his massive form swallowed by the ship’s dim corridors. The fur coat remained wrapped around her shoulders, enveloping her in softness and lingering heat. It smelled faintly of him now.

She hated how comforting that was.

And then… he returned.

He carried something in one hand. A canister. Metal. Sleek. Alien.

Food?

He set it down on the console beside her and activated a small panel on the side. It hissed faintly. A lid slid open.

Heat curled into the air.

With it came a smell .

Her stomach turned instantly.

She knew that smell.

That was the slop they’d fed her while she’d been kept in that horrible facility. Bland and sour and gelatinous, like someone had boiled old socks and sadness together and then sealed it in a vacuum for freshness.

He must’ve brought some of it with him. Was that what he thought humans ate?

Her face twisted involuntarily. The memory hit too hard. Her body reacted before her brain could catch up.

She shook her head.

Hard.

“No,” she said firmly, pushing the container away with the back of her hand. “I’m not eating that.”

Her voice cracked. Her throat was dry.

But the words were crystal clear. Final.

The reaction was immediate.

He went still.

From one breath to the next, the air in the cockpit thickened. Tensed. His body didn’t move, but something in him did—some unseen current, some shift in energy. He loomed. The muscles across his bare chest flexed subtly, as if preparing for something.

She froze.

Her fingers curled tighter into the fur coat.

For a second, she thought: Shit. I pushed him too far.

He could force her. Grab her jaw. Shove the food into her mouth.

What if that’s how he solved problems?

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her breath caught.

But he didn’t move, didn’t strike, didn’t react.

Instead, he made a low sound. A rough, questioning grunt deep in his throat, followed by a few slow words in that strange, growling language of his.

He didn’t sound angry.

Just confused, curious…

Tentative, even.

Like he was trying to understand.

She stared at him, shocked.

He’d asked something. She could tell by the tone, the upward lilt at the end of his speech. It was a question.

But she didn’t have the answer. Not in a way he’d understand.

God, if she could just talk to him.

Explain.

It’s not that she didn’t appreciate the gesture. Not that she was being stubborn. But that food— that food—she couldn’t stomach it. It had become symbolic now. Of everything those horrible green aliens were. Of her captivity. Of the pain.

“I can’t,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I can’t eat that stuff.”

She looked up at him again.

His posture had eased.

He wasn’t tense anymore. He just… watched her. Intently. As if trying to read her face. Her body. Her breath.

As if he wanted to understand.

It threw her completely.

He didn’t turn away. Didn’t shove the canister back into her hands. Didn’t give up, either.

He just stood there, silent, thinking.

And the strangest thing of all was that… he wasn’t angry.

Not in the slightest.

He didn’t force her.

Didn’t bark, didn’t loom harder, didn’t even try to press the container closer.

He just stood there, still shirtless, broad and silent, as though he was waiting for her to decide.

And something about that cracked through her stubbornness.

Because he could have made her—so easily.

But he didn’t.

And then, for the first time, she saw it— really saw it. He wasn’t trying to dominate her in this moment. Not trying to make her submit or punish her or even win. He just… wanted her to eat.

That was it.

For sustenance.

Because they were trapped on a hostile, freezing world. Because her human body wouldn’t survive otherwise. And because, for all his terrifying size and the fact that he could probably tear apart an enemy with his bare hands, he was trying.

She sighed.

"Fine," she muttered to herself. “You’re trying. I’ll try too."

She pulled the coat tighter around herself and looked at the canister again, suppressing another grimace.

It still smelled like death and despair, but her stomach had started to gnaw at itself in protest.

She needed food.

She’d be an idiot not to take what she could get.

So she raised her hand.

Gestured.

Come on then.

He moved instantly: smooth, quiet, obedient to her signal. That surprised her, too.

She expected him to pass her the canister, or maybe just place it in her lap and step back. But instead, he did something she didn’t anticipate.

He knelt beside her.

Right there in front of her, massive and dark and strange, the golden cockpit light catching the faint shimmer of his blue skin and the glint of old scars across his chest, his wings looming like shadows made metal-and-flesh.

Then he reached into the container with a spoon-like utensil: three-pronged, long-handled, functional.

And lifted a portion of the slop toward her.

She blinked.

Stared.

“Are you—” her voice died in her throat.

He was going to feed her?

Like she was… helpless?

Or…

No.

Not helpless.

Not mocked.

It wasn’t derision she saw in his posture.

It was… something else.

Care.

It hit her square in the chest like a blow.

Not the kind of feeding you give to livestock. Or prisoners. Or playthings.

No. This was gentle . Intentional.

He was nurturing her.

The shock of it rooted her to the seat, mouth dry.

She glanced up at his helmet, at the faceless mask that still kept him hidden from her, even now. But his body—the warmth, the steadiness, the absolute stillness as he held that strange alien spoon out to her—spoke louder than words ever could.

He’s feeding me.

She should’ve refused.

Should’ve pulled away. Shaken her head. Asserted herself somehow.

But she didn’t.

She opened her mouth.

And let him feed her.

As if in a daze, she leaned forward and took the first bite.

The taste hit her instantly—faintly metallic, gluey, the barest hint of something vegetable, but mostly, it was sludge. It wasn’t revolting so much as empty . Like eating memory. Like swallowing ghosts.

But there was something else happening. Something she didn’t understand.

Because he was kneeling.

Kneeling .

Beside her. Towering, dangerous, otherworldly—and he’d lowered himself.

She hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected him to descend from that impossible height, to reduce the power imbalance by choice. She’d thought he would always loom, always command, always remind her that she was below him. A possession. A pet.

But this?

This was something else.

And it should have felt humiliating.

It didn’t.

It felt… mesmerising. Forbidden .

She took another bite.

And another.

There was insistence in his feeding—something almost forceful in the way he brought the utensil to her lips, not rushed, not aggressive, but steady. Like he’d decided she was going to eat, and this was how.

There was no option but yes .

But even that—his determination—didn’t feel cruel.

It felt protective. Intentional.

And damn it all, she let him continue.

Bit by bit, the food became less offensive. The taste dulled. The texture stopped bothering her. Maybe it was the heat in her belly, the slow easing of hunger, or maybe it was the way he never once made her feel small, even as he fed her, spoon by spoon, like she mattered.

Bit by bit, those awful, green-skinned, slave-trading aliens began to fade from her memory.

Bit by bit, she reclaimed the act of eating .

By the time the container was empty, she felt… full.

Full. Not just of food, but of something she hadn’t had in days.

Strength.

Warmth.

Hope.

She exhaled slowly, not realizing until that moment that she’d been holding tension in every part of her body. Her shoulders slumped. Her head dipped slightly, heavy with fatigue.

Outside the window, nothing but black. The sun—what passed for one on this strange planet—was long gone. The world had slipped into deep, all-consuming night. She couldn’t see the mountains anymore, only the faint reflection of herself in the glass and the occasional shimmer of snow catching the wind.

And the wind ?—

It was howling now.

A low, rising keen that made her skin crawl.

Without him here, she would’ve been terrified.

But he was here.

And he didn’t look worried at all.

He stood, collected the canister, and moved with that eerie, fluid grace toward the console. He disposed of it soundlessly, no clatter, no wasted motion. Every movement was precise.

Then he turned.

Motioned to her.

Up.

She rose slowly, muscles still stiff beneath the coat, unsure what he was asking, until he sat.

In the command chair.

And then, reached for her.

She didn’t resist as he pulled her into his lap. This strange, ritual dance between them… of gentleness, restraint, and power forgone—it had completely melted her resistance in a way she’d never expected.

Again, she thought she must be going insane.

But what did it matter now?

Her life as she’d known it was over, anyway.

Her heart thudded once, loudly, but her limbs moved without protest, and she curled herself into his lap. He settled her there, his chest a wall of heat at her back, his arms coming around her without hesitation. She felt small against him, swallowed whole by strength and silence and something she couldn’t name.

God, he’s so warm.

She felt like a cat. Like he wanted her close . Curled.

A cat in a villain’s lap. Ha.

She should’ve resisted, should’ve reasserted herself.

But she didn’t.

Because there was something deeply tempting in this. Something subversive and strange. Something Earth-dweller Sylvia would have rejected instantly, derisively.

No human would have drawn this kind of reaction out of her.

But she wasn’t on Earth anymore.

And here, in this cold, death-still night, in the arms of a faceless monster who had just fed her, clothed her, warmed her…

She let it happen.

And thought: Maybe… maybe this is easier than fighting.

Maybe getting him to be gentle —to be this —was a kind of power all its own.