28. Kira

28

Kira

The cool water seeps into my skin, washing away the grime and sweat of the fight. It feels heavenly, a contrast to the searing pain in my side. Wincing, I turn to inspect the damage.

The creature's spiked hair embedded itself deeply into my flesh, leaving behind angry red welts and a trail of drying blood.

Awesome.

I need to clean it better than that field rinse.

The sleek black suit that clings to my body like a second skin offers some protection but hinders access to the wound. I close my eyes, picturing the suit peeling back just over the affected area.

I assume it's made of nanites, since Drasuk says I have a bunch of the little robots.

Maybe they'll respond to a direct command.

"Open," I murmur, focusing on the area around the embedded hair spikes.

Nothing.

Frustration bubbles up. Maybe it only responds to spoken commands in English, or genali, the language it was programmed in.

I think back to the pod I woke up in and remember I didn't use my voice.

Fuck. How could that possibly have been only yesterday?

I sigh, picturing myself reaching up and pulling my shirt over my head. This triggers a response. The familiar buzzing sensation fills my ears as the top half of the suit dissolves into its nanite form.

I wonder if it retreats into my skin or simply compacts. I shudder when I imagine the former.

I don't want to know.

Either way, here I stand, suddenly naked from the waist up, the cool air sending shivers down my spine.

This is ridiculous.

I can't just stand here exposed. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Drasuk watching me, his amber eyes gleaming with something I haven't seen in them before.

My cheeks flush.

"Are you even less protected than I thought?" he rumbles, his voice a deeper rumbling of rocks than usual. "I thought the black hide was your natural skin protection."

"Stop looking, hand fornicator," I snap back, immediately regretting the childish insult.

It didn't translate properly, and judging by his expression it's another amusing moment for him.

"Hand fornicator?" he echoes, the spines along the top of his head betraying his confusion.

Or at least I'm beginning to make that association.

"Ugh," I groan, burying my face in my hands. "Never mind. Just... don't stare."

"Your hands or mine?"

"I'm not answering that, Drasuk."

"Definitely yours, then. They are small, but I'm sure you would make up for it with enthusiasm," he quips back, a sly tone in his rumbling voice.

My jaw clenches. As always, he is infuriating and enjoying any sign of discomfort.

When will I learn not to show it?

I ignore the part of my mind telling me I like it and try a different approach. "Hand fornicate off. Stop fornicating with me."

The words come out harsher than intended, but to my surprise, the nanites must have picked up on the context. The phrase translated partially, at least.

"You have that out of order," he booms. "We need to start having sex—which I have decided is a great idea—in order to stop. But how about we skip the stopping part?"

My eyes widen.

This conversation is spiraling out of control. I'm not sure if it's residual adrenaline from the fight, the cool water, or the sheer absurdity of the situation, but there's a newfound energy coursing through me.

No need to let him know I like it.

"We are not having sex," I shoot back.

My voice is surprisingly steady when I go on. "And even if we were, which we're not, there's no way it would involve whatever you're implying."

"Why not?" he challenges, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Seems like a perfectly logical solution to our predicament."

"What predicament? But to answer your question, because," I mutter, searching for the right words. "Because sex is for... for..." I trail off, unable to think of a single reason why two mismatched species from different planets would have sex in the middle of a jungle.

"For pleasure?" he supplies helpfully, a suggestive glint in his eyes. "Isn't that what you said before?"

"Well, sure, of course sex is for that. I just didn't agree to doing anything with you."

"Are you sure? You seem to suggest it every few minutes."

I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Look, Drasuk," I begin, forcing myself to take a deep breath. "We don't even know if we're compatible. And besides, there are more important things right now, like cleaning this wound and figuring out how to get back on track with the mission. Save the women. Save the world."

I snicker at the pop culture reference, fully aware he won't understand it.

"True," he concedes. "But procreation is a fundamental instinct for most life forms. How can you resist the natural urge to continue your bloodline?"

"Ugh," I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "This conversation is officially over."

Knowing I won't win in a war of words, I move on to my original task.

Focusing on my body, I picture the nanite suit reforming around my torso, leaving just a small opening around the wound on my side. To my relief, the suit responds immediately, closing back up and encasing my arms and chest once more.

A flicker of disappointment crosses Drasuk's face, but I ignore it. Dunking myself back under the water, I scrub at the wound as best I can, wincing with each touch. The embedded spikes are stubborn, refusing to budge.

When I resurface, I move to a large rock at the water's edge and start picking at the spikes, hissing when they cut my fingers.

"You're going to hurt yourself more if you keep doing that," Drasuk says, pushing his way in and taking over bossily.

"Hey, I can handle it," I protest, but he ignores me, his large, oddly shaped hands surprisingly agile as he begins to remove them.

His touch is gentle, and despite myself, I relax a little, though I'm not done protesting.

All I needed were some decent gloves. I would have figured it out.

I try to push him off, but there's no real heat in my effort, and he refuses to budge. Eventually, I give in and let him help.

We fall into a tense silence as he works. The rushing water is a soothing counterpoint to the pain he is inflicting with each tug. His hands move with dexterity, each spike coming out with a precision that belies his size.

I watch him, fascinated despite myself.

"You're good at this," I admit grudgingly.

He glances up, his spines shifting to show his approval.

"I've had practice," he says simply.

I don't ask what kind of practice; I don't need to. The scars on his body tell their own story. Instead, I let the silence stretch, the tension between us shifting into something more complicated.

As he works, I find myself studying him, his features sharp and alien, yet somehow familiar. There's a strength in him that I can't deny, a resilience that mirrors my own. And beneath the teasing and the banter, there's a connection that's hard to ignore.

I'm not sure when his overbite of fangs stopped looking weird. Now they just look attractively deadly.

There's an answering throb between my legs as I soak in the sight of him. And a warmth in my chest when I see how focused he is on his task. He's annoying as hell, but pretty useful.

That doesn't mean I want to be horny right now.

Man, fuck those slimes , I groan internally.