105. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
A nya
I’m not giving up, though a girl can cry, can’t she?
I came here every day with my mate and watched him spar. I never tired of watching him, his muscles sliding under his fur as he exerted himself, the grunts when he thrust with his three-foot gladius, and his tail flicking in excitement as he fought. He usually won every match, but just by an inch, so each opponent believed next time they’d have a chance.
Watching this… disaster was grueling. What about muscle memory? That old riding a bicycle adage that the body always remembers. Why doesn’t Rynn even know how to hold a fucking sword?
“We’re going to make ice cream,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice light even though I know he saw the tears streaming down my face.
“That’s not necessary. You can go to your cabin. Have a rest.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s playground,” I tell him. “The last thing I want is quiet time in my cabin. I imagine you could say the same. Am I right?”
“Yes,” he answers begrudgingly.
I don’t think he knows what to do with himself if he’s not cataloging and categorizing his information.
“Ice cream it is,” he announces.
After a quick trip to the bathroom—yikes, I look like shit—I meet him in the kitchen.
“Everything you need is right there,” our chef Maddie announces, pointing to the counter. “I’ll pick some berries from the hydroponics lab. If you want, you can add them in. Otherwise, I’ll make a syrup out of them to pour on top for dessert tonight.”
“How about vanilla today with the syrup?” I reply. Vanilla was Zar’s favorite.
Several months ago, Dax, our resident woodworker, and Savannah, our mech, created this old-fashioned ice cream churn. Almost every mated couple here has taken a turn making the frozen concoction. It’s fun and gives us something to do.
Because the guys on this ship eat like elephants, we have to make half a dozen batches, so by the time the project is over, it’s a good excuse to go to our cabin to recuperate.
My cheeks heat when I think of that. My little experiment with Zar-Rynn isn’t going to end in a bedroom make-out session today. That’s for sure.
Maddie loudly says, “I’m going to the hydroponics lab, then I’ll take a nap before I come back.” She does all but give me an exaggerated wink to ensure I know she’s leaving us alone for my nefarious purposes. No need to worry, though. Rynn is clueless.
I have him pour the already measured ingredients into the ice cream maker’s drum, then I hike my ass onto the industrial metal table that takes up much of the kitchen. Together, me sitting cross-legged and him standing, we pour layers of ice and rock salt around the exterior of the drum into the surrounding wooden tub.
“Okay, big guy. Crank until your arm can’t take it anymore.”
He lifts his eyebrow in a heartbreakingly Zar move, then shrugs and starts cranking. It’s not exactly rocket science, sitting here cranking, but he seems completely absorbed in his task. I figure it’s a great time to ask more questions.
He’s so busy multitasking he doesn’t protest or hesitate to answer my enquiries about why he was on Paragon. He warms to his task as he elaborates on the treasure trove of information he found in some ancient tome in the temple Zar and I never reached.
This morning, I decided I had a couple of missions. The first is to do everything within my power to get Rynn to link to Zar. Not just to connect with Zar’s memories, but Zar’s personality. The second, more difficult, task is to find things to like about him.
Not only is Rynn almost devoid of a personality, I don’t want to like him. It makes me feel like a traitor. But in order for this to work, I need him to open up. And in order for him to open up, he needs to feel I’m not hating or judging him. I’m working hard to make that happen.
Although he’s the king of lists, I’m developing my own: Things I Like About the Devil. No, strike that, that’s a surefire setup. How about: Things I Like About a 3,000 Year Old Guy Who Has Never Had a Life of His Own?
Number one on the list? He’s hella smart. I mean, the guy knows all the known information in the freaking galaxy. Number two? He’s a hard worker. By this time, Zar and I would have already traded places twice. Rynn just keeps winding the crank.
“My turn!” I announce. I laugh at his obvious relief.
“I told you to tap out when your arm couldn’t take it anymore. Why’d you keep going?”
“I thought you meant literally couldn’t take anymore, like I couldn’t lift my arm.”
Okay, number three. He’s trying. I’ve got to give the guy credit. He’s not much happier about this situation we’re stuck in than I am.
I grab the wooden handle, which is warm from Rynn’s hand.
“Am I going to hate this… ice cream?” he asks as he peers over the top of the bucket, although there’s nothing to see. The creamy confection is safely covered and separated from the awful rock salt/ice slurry.
“Why would we work so hard for something that tastes like ass?” I ask.
His gaze flies from mine. I mean, he literally turns his back to hide from me. Oh, this is going to be good.
“Now I’m dying to know what’s going on,” I demand.
He turns to me, still avoiding eye contact, and stammers.
Number four on the list? Despite reluctance, when I ask him to do something, he does it. I think Rynn is trying to be a good sport.
“Spill,” I command.
“We have different taste,” is all he’ll say.
“You liked the anwar sheshwah, right?”
He nods.
“The cake?”
He nods, although this time less wholeheartedly.
“Why do you think we’d be working so hard,” my gaze flicks to the crank, “if it didn’t taste good?”
He shakes his head. It starts as a shaggy refusal, then morphs into big, adamant swivels that go from one shoulder to the other. I am a dog with a bone. I’m going to be like the Terminator. I will not stop until I force an answer out of that beautiful mouth.
Finally, after minutes of relentless questioning, he caves.
“You won’t like what I have to say.”
There’s something about the deep timbre of his voice that breaks me. It’s Zar’s apology voice. I can refuse him nothing when he uses it. The poignancy of this moment brings hot tears to my eyes. Nothing, nothing , he can say could cut me deeper than the pain of missing my mate right now. I float away to another space for a moment, to get away from the immediacy of my grief.
He knew it. He knew I faded away, and he waited for his big reveal until I returned. Despite our shitty beginnings and horrendous situation, Rynn and I are developing a weird connection.
“Tell me,” I say, my voice hollow.
“You’ll hate me.” It’s his last-ditch protest.
“Out with it,” I say, but I’m not forceful. I don’t have a clue what he’s going to say, but I fully believe this might make me hate him more than I already do.
“I had no desire to trespass upon your privacy,” he says, his eyes focused on the shiny metal table. “What you shared with your mate should be inviolate, yet I wanted to know him, to honor his memories. I walked the razor’s edge to avoid intruding, yet by observing his memories, that is exactly what I did.”
He pauses for me to absorb his words. It takes a moment. I guess in the back of my mind I knew this. I knew he had access to Zar’s memory banks, but what he’s going to tell me has to do with me. That’s for certain.
“Go on,” I prod.
“I am so sorry.” He works up the courage to glance at me, then gazes away. “I saw some of your… intimate encounters with your mate.”
Embarrassed heat blasts through me. What a surreal experience to be talking to the body of the male I love that’s inhabited by a fucking stranger who, with scientific detachment, watched the beautiful intimacies I shared with the male he killed.
“I don’t know whether to admit,” he dips his head and pauses, “that it was beautiful to watch the tender expression of your love, but it was. As a celibate, I never could have imagined the act could be… transcendent. I’ll even admit to envy, Anya. I am so sorry for taking that from you.”
When I work up the nerve to look at him, his eyes are shining. There’s something human in there—well, Ton’arr—something emotional. He’s more than a repository for information.
Despite my efforts to the contrary, I feel a connection growing with this odd, foreign entity. Then I remember what brought this on and can’t imagine what this has to do with ice cream.
“I watched you use your mouth on him. You looked entranced by the act. Last night, I—” his teeth clack shut as he censors himself, his eyes wide with surprise at his own words.
“You can’t stop now,” I tell him.
“I had my first erection. I tasted myself. It was terrible. I assume our taste buds are different.” He rushed through that last revelation and ended it with a shrug.
The icing on the cake of this surreal experience is the look of horror on his face. Well, the look of horror and surprise and embarrassment all rolled up into one. This prissy prig of a male who acted so above it all, so above us , just admitted over a tub of churning ice cream that he tasted his own ejaculate.
I laugh. Until I cry. All the while, I hold his gaze.
Ever since I was stolen from my bed on Earth, nothing has been “normal,” but this, this conversation is the penultimate abnormal thing ever conceived in the mind of the maddest mad scientist. If God has a sense of humor, this is his crowning glory.
I reach across the tub, grab his shoulders, and pull him toward me. I strong-arm him closer, so our heads are tipped and our foreheads touch. Then I giggle at the absurdity of the moment, despite the fact my cheeks are slicked with tears.
This is number five. Mr. By-The-Book just told me about licking his own cum. Life is a rich tapestry, and man, this is the richest.
I pull back and am not surprised to see the look of panic on his face. He must be wondering if I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. If I’m going to race to the drawer with the butcher knives and cleave his head from his neck.
“Let’s finish the ice cream,” I say, tipping my head toward the crank. “If you stop for more than a moment, it gets messed up.”
Something changed between us, I notice as we finish batch after batch. He admitted to spying on me, which, really, I should have already guessed. But the poignant part was how genuinely remorseful he felt about it.
I think his admission that he licked his own ejaculate was his way of leveling the playing field. Giving me leverage over him, since he has so much of an advantage over me.
It still tickles me to picture him doing it. I can even imagine the look on his face as he did what I imagine every thirteen-year-old boy has done since the dawn of time.
I feel freer. It’s not like being with Zar. Not even close. But we’ve destroyed a barrier, and that is, after all, what I’d hoped for.
“Now?” he asks.
“Now what?”
“My arm might need amputation. Haven’t I earned a taste?”
Number six. I think Rynn might be developing a sense of humor. It’s in its infancy, but he’s making a nice start.
“I’m sorry. I’ve taken a dozen samples. You haven’t helped yourself to a taste?”
“I was waiting for… permission.”
Number seven. He’s so earnest. It’s not a trait I’ve ever admired before. Maybe because it’s so much like me. I’m attracted to a certain level of impulsivity. But on Rynn? It’s sweet.
“I’m glad you waited,” I say. “Because I’m going to feed it to you.”
His eyes pop wider in surprise. No. Not surprise. Fear.
As I hop off the table to grab a spoon, my mind sorts through every interaction since I’ve known him. Fear of what? Ahh. Fear of feeling good. Fear of attraction. Fear of another boner.
I hate to tell ya, Zar-Rynn, I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure you get another one of those.
Rynn
“Hop up,” she says as she pats the table.
When I don’t immediately do her bidding, she pats it again. Then she shakes her head with all the vehemence I used recently when I refused her request to tell her my shameful secret. She’s a powerful force. I find it difficult to refuse her.
When I’m sitting, I see her head tilt as she assesses the predicament she’s placed herself in. She won’t be able to feed me because of our height imbalance.
“I’ll just feed myself,” I offer, relieved.
“Not on your life, bro,” she says as she hops up next to me. Just like last night, our hips and thighs touch. And, just like last night, I feel extra blood flowing to my member.
“Anya,” I say, wanting to protest that I’m going to lose control of this new body I’m wearing. I’m caught, though, with the awareness that this is the first time I’ve said her name. It feels delicious, intimate, on my tongue.
This isn’t good. For a male who was devoid of feelings for millennia, it is dangerous to acquire so many all at once. That, combined with these physical aberrations, is not something that should be inflicted on me and certainly shouldn’t be imposed upon anyone else.
“Close your eyes,” she instructs with a smile.
It’s all I need to hear. Just like that, I comply, opening my mouth and waiting for the spoonful of cold, white ice cream.
She deposits the taste on my tongue, and I pay attention to many things at once. The first is the burst of cold that startles me. Then the taste, with its layers of deceptive complexity, then the creamy texture that coats the tongue and begs for, “More.”
Spoonful after spoonful gently land on my tongue. As soon as I swallow, I open my mouth and Anya dutifully loads my mouth with another taste without my needing to ask.
It’s delightful. Not just the taste, but the company. Knowing that the only thing Anya is paying attention to is me. That she’s attending to my every desire—which is very narrow. It’s singularly focused on obtaining another bite.
“Delicious,” I pronounce in a deep bass voice I’m still getting used to.
When my eyes pop open, my first awareness is her proximity, but immediately after that, I see her tears.
Her face is wet. While I’ve been swimming in bliss, the female less than a handspan from me has been drowning in sorrow.
I slip to the floor, step in front of her, and fold her into my embrace. It’s what people do for each other, right? People who have relationships with each other? People who… care?
Pulling her to me, I press her head to my shoulder. Instead of providing comfort, this sets her off. Her silent tears transform into loud, heaving sobs.
I’m lost. Should I step away? Leave the room? Apologize again for ruining her life? I flash through pictures of vids I’ve watched that were recorded after natural disasters. People hug their friends tighter. They pat their backs. They offer words of encouragement even at times when life looks hopeless.
I do this. I step even closer and run my palm up and down her spine. I’m no longer a Recepticon. I’m not duty-bound to keep emotions at bay. I allow myself to slip into my feelings and wonder what I would like to hear if I were in her place.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” I say as my mind casts about for a way to finish the sentence. “I just want you to remember you have friends. I’ve watched the people on this ship. They all love you. I’ve only just met you, and I’ve wronged you so deeply. But, Anya, if there’s something I can do to help you through this, I will.”
My claws descend without my bidding, and I draw them through her hair like a comb. I’m not sure how I knew to do it, but this soothes her. I do it some more, combing, then stroking, then combing, in what I hope is a soothing rhythm.
Her tears are running in rivulets through the fur on my chest. This sweet female is in agony. I’m terrible at this. I wish I could help, but all the information I’ve accumulated can’t make this better.
She lifts her head from me, her gaze seeking mine.
“Kiss me,” she says, her voice a whisper.
I rear my head back. I don’t know much about emotions. I’m a babe at this, but I know with every fiber of my being this is a bad idea. Terrible.
“I’m not Zar,” I remind her, my heart hammering in my chest. It’s equal parts fear and desire. It doesn’t matter, though. She’s in emotional distress. Now is not the time for her to ask for this. She’s in no shape to make such a decision.
She blinks slowly, then shakes her head and leans back. Good.
“I… you’re right. Bad idea.”
Anya
I know I woke up wanting to call Zar to the front, to lower Rynn’s defenses so I could find my mate, but this is wrong.
Rynn keeps telling me Zar is dead. Kissing Zar’s lips when he’s not inside the mind is a recipe for disaster. There was something about him combing my hair with his claws. Zar used to do it to help me sleep at night. It was so loving. It spurred me to ask for the kiss. Temporary insanity.
I clear my throat, then jump down. Going to the sink, I wet a cloth and wipe the tears and snot from my face, then busy myself, looking under the cupboards for containers.
“Let’s clean this up. I need a nap.”
I’ve got to get ahold of myself. My behavior isn’t doing anyone any good.