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Laurel blinked. It took a second for the implication of the outburst to register. Then she leaped to her feet. “You speak English!”

“And many other Earth languages.”

“You…you…” she sputtered, apoplectic. He’d lied! He’d understood every word she’d said! What did I say? She had no idea what had come out of her mouth; she’d just been talking to herself the way she always did. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She snapped the first aid kit shut. The gunshot wound should be stitched or at least bandaged, but he wasn’t bleeding much, and right now, she didn’t care. Fuck him! She stomped out.

Inside the main chamber, she paced. Un-freaking-believable. He’d let her go on and on, never once indicating he could understand. But what did she expect from an invader? Eavesdropping on her private personal mutterings had to count as the least of his crimes. Why had she assumed he didn’t understand her just because she asked? Of course, the bastard would lie.

“I never should have—”

Dammit! Talking to herself would be a hard habit to break. I shouldn’t have brought him here.

But she couldn’t leave his body for his comrades to find.

Why couldn’t the fucker have died like he was supposed to?

Apparently, his injury hadn’t been as serious as she’d thought. Another assumption! But even if a bullet missed his heart and lungs, who the hell survived a gunshot wound to the chest without medical intervention?

An alien, that’s who.

The bullet had popped out on its own.

I really do have a tiger by the tail. She remembered saying that. She couldn’t let him go, but she couldn’t keep him zip-tied to the bed forever. How long would the plastic ties hold him? How strong was he? He looked quite muscular. What if when he recovered—which seemed to be happening fast—he broke the tie or pulled the post loose?

I could leave. She could grab her bag, clear out, and let him starve to death. But she couldn’t do that either. If she didn’t have the cajónes to shoot him dead in the woods, she couldn’t leave him to succumb to a slow, painful death, even though he deserved it.

Having a conscience sucks sometimes.

She’d wanted to end his miserable existence. He deserved to die. But she’d stared into his blue-blue eyes and couldn’t do it. She’d fired into the ground near his head. Then, in a super-idiot move, she’d run to the cave, grabbed the travois, and then dragged his body home.

What am I going to do?

Maybe I don’t need to decide today.

As long as he’s restrained, I have time to think about it.

However, time wouldn’t alter reality. Her options boiled down to two: leave or kill him, slow death or fast one. This wasn’t like trapping a skunk in a cage. She couldn’t just open the door and run like hell.

In bringing him here, she’d only postponed the inevitable.

Until she decided how he would die, maybe she could extract some info from him. She paced, twisting her hands. The alien gave her the creeps, and she didn’t feel up to this. I’m no interrogator. Brent would be much better at this than I am.

At the thought of her brother, the resolve to see this through to the end hardened. This isn’t about me; it’s about all the other potential survivors and all the people who have died . I have to do this for them.

First off, she should try to find out how many aliens were in the area or if he’d encountered people. She assumed he’d killed them. Except one, obviously, had gotten away and shot him.

Why had Earth been attacked in the first place? The answer wouldn’t change the devastation, but a desire to understand why burned hot inside. The senselessness gnawed at her. It was like when somebody shot up a school and killed innocent children. Why? Why?

She didn’t expect him to volunteer information, but maybe a hint would slip out. Stifling her revulsion and shoring up her courage, she marched into the chamber.

Blue eyes met hers with a flash of relief. Obviously, he’d feared she’d abandoned him.

I considered it, asshole. I still might.

There was something disturbingly gentle about his blue-blue eyes. Almost…innocent. They didn’t look like the eyes of a killer. His eyes should be red or yellow, filled with malice and hatred, not baby-blue and filled with relief.

I’m making assumptions again. Eye color indicated nothing. Infamous serial killer Ted Bundy had had blue eyes.

She tore her gaze away and did a quick visual inspection of the zip ties. Still secure.

Uncertain how to proceed, she sat in the chair.

The chest wound had nearly closed up. At this point, she was only a little bit surprised. “You heal fast.”

“Yes.”

“Pity.”

“You’d like to see me dead.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not the one who shot me. You had the chance to kill me, but you didn’t do it.”

“I still might.”

“If you don’t kill me, what do you intend to do with me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” She still faced the same conundrum. Kill him now or leave him to die a slow death. She shouldn’t have an issue with either option, but she couldn’t get past her personal moral roadblock.

She’d become a nurse to help people in a meaningful, personal way. She’d never envisioned a patient like him.

She had no problem with the government executing sociopathic serial killers or other irredeemable murderers, but she wouldn’t be able to administer the lethal injection or flip the switch on the electric chair. Maybe that made her hypocritical rather than moral.

“While you decide, could I have a drink of water?”

He had the nerve to ask for something? “Why should I give you anything?”

“It’s up to you.”

Dehydration would kill him faster than hunger. A human could go only three days without water. I could dehydrate him to death. Just her luck, the bastard would linger. As much as she wished him dead and wanted him to suffer, she couldn’t stomach watching him die.

She shifted her gaze to the water jug on the table. “There’s water right there.”

He lifted his gaze to his restrained wrists.

Shit. “I’m not letting you up.” The very notion propelled her out of the chair as if he would lunge for her. He probably was thirsty, but if she untied him, he would kill her. Asking for water might be a ruse. She couldn’t trust him.

She stomped out, angry at herself. Dammit. I didn’t think this through. How am I going to give him food and water? What about when he needs to use the bathroom? All creatures—Earthlings anyway—have to excrete waste in some way. She had no idea what kind of plumbing he had under his gray-green clothing, and damn sure didn’t want to find out. Alien junk. Ugh.

She rubbed her face in frustration. Could I have made the situation worse for myself? She hadn’t factored in the complications. Hadn’t realized by dragging him home she’d been acquiring a prisoner. He was supposed to die!

What am I going to do? She couldn’t risk untying even one hand. He could grab her.

I can bring an alien to water, but I can’t let him drink.

But I can’t keep him NPO. NPO or nil per os was a Latin medical term that meant “nothing by mouth.”

“Wait…wait…maybe…maybe it’s still here!” She sprinted into the storage room. Rooting around on the shelves, she found the travel mug with a straw she’d used as a teenager to bring drinks into the cave. “This will work.”

Returning to the alien, she filled the mug with water from the jug. “Here.” She held the mug close to his mouth.

He stared at it blankly. “How am I supposed to drink?”

“You suck on the straw! The tube sticking out?”

“Oh.” He lifted his head and closed his lips around the straw. Blue eyes widened slightly, and his throat moved as he swallowed. He drank for a long time. He really was thirsty. She noticed his chest wound looked a little pink but otherwise had healed up. Damn, he heals fast. Something to keep in mind.

He drank half a mugful before he pulled away. “Thank you.”

She blinked in surprise. So, the Progg practiced social courtesies.

Or maybe he thanked her because he knew she would expect it, in which case his faux gratitude amounted to manipulation. Why else would he concern himself with social conventions? The aliens hadn’t bothered to introduce themselves before attacking. There’d been no attempt at diplomacy, no formal declaration of war.

If not for the cryptic message, PROGG COMING, received from the Federation of Alien Beings weeks before the invasion, Earth wouldn’t even have known what the invaders were called.

Of course, social etiquette would be antithetical to the goal, wouldn’t it? You might develop empathy and not victimize people at all.

She did not respond with the perfunctory “you’re welcome” to his faux thanks. She wouldn’t lie. He was not welcome. Nor could she say, “No worries,” or “No problem.” He’d become a very big, worrisome problem.

Tomorrow, she’d figure out how to let him eat. She didn’t dare release his wrists, and she damn sure wasn’t going to play nursemaid and spoon-feed him. For now, she’d get herself something to eat. Maybe a solution would come to her.

She plunked the half-empty travel mug onto the little table. Maybe she’d give him another drink later. The more he drank, the more he’d need to urinate—if, in fact, he urinated. Maybe he secreted waste through his skin. Ugh. Another reason not to touch him.

“My name is Grav,” he said as she reached the passage.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t desire to know his name. It was bad enough she’d begun thinking of him as “he,” rather than “it.”