Chapter 5
FIVE
LAURA
Holy fuck, Ilia just tackled Dom. A gasp slips from me, hands to my face like a shrinking violet.
One moment Dom was heading toward me with his eyes bright, and then Ilia intercepts him.
They exchange a few guttural sentences in their own language and Dom goes quiet, and apparently that pisses off Ilia.
He grabs Dom by the back of the neck and shoves him down, tripping him up with one leg and smashing him to the floor of the spaceship with a ringing clang.
How dare he?
Ellen grabs my arm before I can run in there. “I’m not sure exactly what’s happening, but I trust Ilia.”
“What did Dom even do?”
Ellen shakes his head. “I don’t know, but they have a completely different culture to us. I'll sort it out but right now, stay with me.”
I recall Dom hanging from the machine shed beam, head dropped to his chest, smokey black lashes across his back. “Yes, very different, but they’re on Earth. They can choose something else.”
My best friend’s eyes turn sad. “They’ve lived under a strict regime all their lives. It’ll take time to heal that.”
Healing. I know nothing about healing, I’m about as useful as a wet bandage. Still, I can’t support the violence going on here, even if it isn’t directed at us.
Dom struggles to his knees under Ilia’s arm, grunting, “Wait. Law-rah forbade any pain.”
All eyes turn to me. At first, I want to curl into myself, but the thought of the aliens hurting each other makes me throw my shoulders back instead. “That’s right. Stop it, now.”
The guys exchange a look, and Ilia reaches down to take Dom’s shoulder. But instead of simmering anger, all I see is genuine concern.
Ellen asks, “Ilia, what was that for?”
“Parthiastocks need a strong hand,” he explains, lifting Dom up by his shoulders and setting him on his feet.
I frown. Some super religious fanatics swear by pain, don't they? Is violence and self-flagellation actually the alien version of self-care?
He turns Dom’s head this way and that with his thumb, looking into his lilac eyes. “If Dom is not put in his place, he’ll feel awful. Dom, are you managing? Have you found another outlet?”
Dom shakes his head once. “No. Not yet.”
“I’ll help you—”
“Your priorities have to shift.” Dom gestures toward Ellen.
Whatever’s going on, I can’t help but feel I’ve done something wrong. What Dom’s feeling might be genetically programmed into him, needing pain for relief. If so, I’ve cut off his only avenue to relax, subjecting him to endless anxiety.
I curl my hands into fists. I know what that’s like.
Ellen looks between us. “Is this parked for now? We should go get Arabella.”
With an incline of his head and putting a confident arm around Ellen’s shoulders, Ilia leads the way to padded chairs lining the shuttle’s seating area. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he tells me.
I lower myself into the nearest seat, my fingers already groping along the cushion seams, hunting for a safety belt.
My nails catch on something metallic, and I tug free a strange device that looks like a cross between a Rubik’s cube and a high-end watch.
Ellen’s already clicked hers into place with a practiced snap.
“Is there an in-flight magazine?” I joke, but my eyes flick to the glowing column, the chandelier thing dangling from the ceiling just waiting to be turned into shards of flying shanks.
I always read the safety card on planes.
Every time. Memorize exits, note the floatation device, then get an orange soda once we’re in the air.
I don’t even like orange soda, but I’ve never crashed, so clearly the ritual works.
Here, there’s no instructions on what to do if it all goes tits up.
No flight attendant smile. Just alien controls, alien chairs, and a pit in my stomach the size of the Atlantic. Worst of all, no orange soda.
I look up, straight into Dom’s face. He straightens from strapping Arik and Nevare in, meeting my eyes. There's concern in his face. Not pity: awareness. He sees me.
My stomach twists. I dig my nails into the seat’s upholstery hard enough to snap one clean off.
Ellen giggles. Giggles. My practical friend hasn’t giggled for years. “Ilia didn’t crash this shuttle, Law. We’ll be fine.”
“This shuttle, sure. A fifty percent success rate of landing on Earth isn’t a ringing endorsement.”
“Arture wasn’t piloting before,” Ilia says. “Now that he is, we will—”
The ship lifts off with a lurch that sends my stomach into a pit. I bite the inside of my cheeks hard enough to taste copper, clawing my hands into the seat cushions underneath me, as if that’ll be any help.
The walls of the cabin tilt in my vision, closing in, and the sound of the engines roars louder, like it’s inside my skull. My breaths come too fast, too shallow, I can’t slow them, I’m breathing through a straw, I can’t get enough air.
I force a breath in, shuddering. My throat still feels clamped shut. My heart won’t slow down. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
Dom moves, unstraping himself with a brisk click and striding to me, reaching out.
Not for me, but for the seat. His hands clamp down on either side of mine, fingers braced around the rests with that iron grip I saw in the machine shed earlier.
He doesn’t touch me, but he’s there. Solid.
If I fly off the seat, I’ll ram into him rather than bounce around the ship.
“Breathe,” he whispers. Low, firm. “Draw it in slow. Out again. Match me.”
He starts breathing in rhythmic, deep exhales, shoulders rising and falling in deliberate control. His lilac eyes never leave mine.
I try. Inhale. Exhale. My breath comes short at first, hiccupping. But his calm is infectious. He’s a wall of warmth and steady pressure, radiating confidence like an anchor in a storm.
“I—hate—flying,” I manage, through clenched teeth.
“I will protect you,” he says quietly.
I don’t know him. Not really. But I know he means that promise.
I lift my hand and lay it over his. I pretend it’s to stabilize him, but we both know it’s for me. His hand doesn't move. The scales on the top of his hand are warm, rough in a way that feels earned. His eyes burn into mine, a deep, rich violet that fills the whole shuttle, the whole sky.
The lurching levels out. The pitch steadies. I suck in a deep breath and don’t taste fear for the first time in five minutes.
Ilia’s tending to Ellen, who also looks pale despite her hearty assurances earlier. I don’t think they’ve noticed anything outside their bubble, but they will see Dom soon.
Dom rises without fanfare and heads for Nevare, checking him with a carer’s concern. Then he glances at me. “Thank you for allowing me to brace on your chair. I foolishly forgot to strap myself in.”
“Occupied with Nevare, as always,” Ilia chips in, glaring toward the cockpit.
He even covered for me.
Dom inclines his head. “I hope you are well, female.”
“Laura,” I say, emphasizing. “I’m fine, thanks. What’s the pilot up to?”
“I will check.” He presses his fist over his heart, bowing his head, like I’m his empress and he’s my loyal soldier.
And okay—that makes my stomach flip again, for entirely different reasons.
I watch him walk away, muscles shifting under iridescent scales that shimmer red to purple. He takes everything I say seriously and way too literally, but not like a robot. He doesn’t parrot.
He likes being told what to do.
Interesting.
We’re in the air a minute at most, fortunately level, before the craft slides back down. Ilia moves away from Ellen and taps something on the smooth ship sides. The wall shimmers into tiny cubes, twisting and opening up into a hatch. A rush of wind sweeps in, and Ilia jumps out into it.
“I have her!” he shouts, voice clear over the hum of the engines.
I exhale. Arabella’s going to be soaked in this storm, but she’ll be fine.
Gara steps up into the ship carrying her. She’s more than wet—she’s limp, drenched and unconscious.
I rocket upright. “What have you done to her?”
Gara blows water from his nose, eyes firmly on Arabella’s face. “She passed out. I don’t know why.”
He lays her on the table. Her head lolls to the side, curls unraveling, and a stab of fear punches through my ribs. My chest seizes, cold and hot all at once. Not Arabella, not like this. I can’t breathe, can’t think; I only see Alice, only see every victim I’ve already failed.
I demand, “What happened?”
“She lost consciousness.” Gara strokes her red curls away from her face.
I push between them, shouting, “What the fuck did you do to her?”
Quick as blinking, Dom darts next to me, arm flashing out. His fist snaps around Gara’s throat, and he hauls the smaller alien into the air.
“Your orders, Law-rah?” Dom grates out.
Shit.
Gara’s hands grab Dom’s wrist, wide green eyes turning to me. The air grows tight, as if the ship lost all oxygen.
“Put him down,” Ellen says, leaping into action. “Laura, none of the guys here would ever hurt us. It’s just not part of their makeup, like, at all.”
“I… I know.” She’s one hundred percent sure we were fine, even though she knows nothing about what went on here. We could have had a terrible time with them, but she’s absolutely certain we didn’t. And she’s right. They haven’t harmed us.
Dom puts Gara down slowly, then looks at me, his eyes darker now. Less violet flame, more bruised stormcloud.
I know he wouldn't hurt us. None of them will.
“Let him go. We’ve got to take Arabella home,” I say.
The trip back is not as eventful as the way out, and this time Arture keeps his shit together and I don’t need support. Ilia and Ellen take Arabella up to a room, Gara following like a balloon tied with string to her wrist, leaving the triplets and the pilot in the shed outside.
As Ilia lays her on the spare bed, Arabella stirs, half waking to stare at us with blurry eyes.
“Rest now,” Ellen tells her, and she does, conking out flat on the bed.