Chapter 4
FOUR
On any other evening, Broxen might have pondered the nature of mashed potatoes.
They were an oddity to him. Humans seemed to largely consider mashed foods suitable only for infants, but potatoes were an exception—so much so that every frozen meal he’d seen that was marketed toward males with appetites contained mashed potatoes.
Why? Did mashed potatoes possess some masculine quality that made it acceptable for adult males to eat them when any other pulped food was only for babies?
Tonight, however, his thoughts did not wander such paths, not even as he scooped another forkful of overcooked mashed potatoes into his mouth. He barely registered the taste. In fact, he’d barely tasted any of his dinner, though the tray was nearly empty now. And he didn’t care.
He had a date with Gabriela tomorrow.
To humans, that meant a mutual interest in becoming mates—or at least in exploring that possibility.
He’d told himself several times that it was best not to grow too hopeful.
His understanding of humans and their ways was limited at best, and he couldn’t be sure that Gabriela thought of this date on the same terms as him, but…
He had a date with her tomorrow, and she’d touched him.
Broxen speared the last chunk of chicken fried steak—a name so confusing he dared not think too hard about it—with his fork and ate it.
There’d been the accidental bump of her hip against his leg, which had been thrilling in its own way, but when she’d deliberately placed her hand on his chest, Broxen had nearly exploded with heat and excitement.
It had been a long while since any female had touched him intimately, and he couldn’t recall anyone having ever done so with such tenderness and affection.
It was a sort of intimacy he’d never experienced but had always longed for.
He knew there was no other female in the universe who could’ve made him feel that way with such a simple bit of contact.
He laid his left arm on the table and turned his palm up, staring at it as he slowly flexed and relaxed his fingers—fingers that still appeared so very foreign to him.
When he’d settled that hand over Gabriela’s, she hadn’t pulled away.
She hadn’t recoiled or widened her eyes in alarm.
Her hand had fit so perfectly beneath his, and her skin had been so warm, smooth, and soft. He’d never felt its like.
Her scent had filled his nose; soft, sweet, and fresh, reminding him of coconuts but with another fragrance beneath that was undeniably unique and feminine, something that was purely Gabriela. Just the memory of her scent made his tail curl tight against his leg.
Delightful tingles had coursed across his chest and up his arm while he and Gabriela had stood like that, and he’d wondered what it would have felt like to have her hands on other parts of his body with no barrier between them. To have her palm slide across his back, down his tail…up his thigh.
To have her hand on his cock.
Broxen’s blood heated, flowing down to his groin to make his shaft throb. He dropped his left hand to his lap, clamping it over his swelling erection as though he could somehow relieve that sudden pressure, as though he could hold back this flood of desire.
He’d wanted Gabriela for so long now. Why hadn’t he acted sooner? Why had he wasted so much time?
She agreed to a date, to some hot chocolate. That’s all.
Gritting his teeth, Broxen growled, placed both hands on the edge of the table, and pushed his chair out. His cock continued to pulse, but he had to accept that there was nothing he could do about it—nothing fulfilling, anyway. His own hand couldn’t give him the release he needed.
As he stood, his jeans pulled taut over his shaft, triggering a wave of discomfort and pleasure that almost made him shudder. He released a strained breath and collected his fork and the empty freezer meal tray, carrying them into the kitchen. His gaze wandered around the house as he walked.
Almost everything in Broxen’s home had either been left behind by the prior owners or purchased second hand, whether at thrift stores, from private sellers, or at the flea market down in Cascade.
The dining table’s wood bore more than a dozen scratches and stains from its previous owners, most of which weren’t visible at a glance.
Only two of the four chairs around it matched the adornments carved on the lip under the tabletop.
The couch’s floral-patterned upholstery was a different color on the back as it was elsewhere, likely thanks to years of being exposed to the sun, and the leather recliner was cracked and worn.
The blankets he’d draped over the backrests of the couch and recliner were also faded.
One was a rough sort of wool that cycled through a variety of colors from top to bottom with patterns interspersed through it, while the other was red and black plaid that was slightly frayed on one end.
The four-foot-tall carved black bear standing in the corner had clearly spent a good part of its existence outdoors.
The little pieces of décor he’d collected over the last year were simply objects he’d found intriguing. He was unsure about the different styles humans used in furnishing their homes, but he thought his house had a slight rustic feel to it, like so many other places in the area.
He dropped the plastic tray in the trashcan and washed his fork at the sink.
Though he’d been the one to choose the furniture and decorations, though most of it was old and worn, though he was comfortable here, none of it felt quite right.
Everything here had history, even if he didn’t know any of it.
The furniture had seen years of use, had been part of people’s lives.
But Broxen had contributed so little to that history.
The faint red stain on the right side of the dining table might’ve been left by a child coloring something atop it, or from some sugary drink spilling, or any number of sources—no matter its source, it had been left there because someone had been living.
Being inside Gabriela’s home for the first time had only made him more aware of his situation.
Where were the pictures of happy times here?
Where were the truly personal touches that made this place his own?
Where were the children’s toys on the floor, or the incomplete puzzle on the table, the cozy blanket crumpled on the couch after being used to keep a male and his mate warm?
There were no holiday decorations here, no tree or lights.
Gabriela had a small fir tree inside her home, adorned with multicolored lights and small ornaments of different shapes and colors and thin, shimmering silver strands.
He knew it was a Christmas tree, though he understood little about the holiday or the traditions surrounding it.
But he didn’t have to know much about it to have picked up the sense of festivity.
There were subtle green, red, and white decorations sprinkled around Gabriela’s home, the same sort he’d seen in town lately, or adorning people’s homes.
She’d even had a small scene arranged on her fireplace mantle with tiny figurines, some sort of shelter with people dressed in robes and a tiny baby at the center.
There’d been something almost reverent about it. Something oddly wholesome.
Where was the feeling that someone had been living in this place?
Broxen had simply been…surviving.
Astius had tried to make Broxen understand that for years.
He’d tried to make Broxen see that the existence he’d always known, the path he’d always walked, wasn’t the only one.
It hadn’t been the only way. That Broxen didn’t have to be what he thought circumstance had forced him to become. And it was all about the small things.
Broxen might have come to Earth to hide, but he didn’t have to settle for it being nothing but a hideaway. No one knew he was here. This could be a fresh start. A new life…a better life.
He turned and glanced toward the front window.
He’d closed the blinds, but he could see Gabriela’s house in his mind’s eye.
Maybe he didn’t deserve happiness after the things he’d done.
Maybe he didn’t deserve the female who he desired above all else, maybe he didn’t deserve to feel good.
But he couldn’t deny that he wanted all those things—craved those things.
Happiness and a mate had been unimaginable for him a year ago.
Now, having those things seemed possible. Maybe not likely, but possible.
The doorbell chimed. Broxen started, reflexively reaching for a weapon he wasn’t carrying as he was jarred from his thoughts.
He clenched his jaw and growled a curse, pushing away from the kitchen sink to walk to the front door.
He’d never been the sort of person to be so easily caught off-guard.
He’d never been the sort of person to lose himself so deeply in contemplation.
Zorak akai, he probably hadn’t known what contemplation even meant until recently.
He wasn’t sure yet if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Broxen unlatched the deadbolt, grasped the knob, and opened the front door.
His brow furrowed in confusion as he stared out into empty evening air.
The street was dark but for the exterior lights of the houses along it, and the only sound was from the wind rustling the nearby trees.
His confusion vanished when he lowered his gaze.
Ana stood before him, smiling broadly, wearing the same, strange animal clothing he’d seen her in earlier with the horned hood on her head and her pant legs tucked into a pair of pink snow boots. In front of her, she held a round plate topped with various shapes colored red, green, white, and blue.
“Hi, Mr. Lee!” She lifted the plate. “My mom told me to bring you some of the Christmas cookies we made.”