Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
SANDRA
Ican’t sleep.
This is ridiculous. I’m lying on the most comfortable bed I’ve ever encountered. Yes, I’m counting the ones from Earth, back when I had a life that included furniture stores and throw pillows and not being abducted by aliens.
My stomach growls.
Ah. There it is.
The journey here had been tense. Every interaction with Vyla feels like being studied by a predator deciding whether to strike.
The way she’d looked at me when Fercer introduced me as his fiancée.
That smile sharp enough to draw blood. Those pointed teeth glittering like she was calculating exactly where to bite.
She has a thing for him. Fercer, on the other hand—I can’t tell if he’s oblivious or just ignoring the obvious in hopes it goes away.
And this girl has just stepped right between them. In the spotlight.
I’d been too nervous to eat properly. Had she poisoned my meal? I’m not about to discount the possibility.
It means now, at whatever ungodly hour this is, my body has decided to remind me that anxiety is not, in fact, a food group.
You could just go back to sleep, my brain suggests. Ignore it. Be a normal person for once.
My stomach growls again. Almost accusatory.
“To think that I’m losing arguments to my own digestive system. This is a new low, even for me,” I mutter, throwing off the blanket.
I pad barefoot across the small bedroom toward the attached lounge.
Rich people. When they travel, they don’t rent rooms stuffed with multiple single beds pushed together.
They rent entire houses, complete with bathrooms the size of my old apartment.
Probably a kitchen tucked away somewhere, servants on standby.
A personal tailor in case seventeen jackets suddenly aren’t enough.
The main living area is dark, but not completely. A decorative lamp casts a soft glow across a figure.
Fercer’s awake.
He’s sprawled across an oversized armchair, long legs stretched out, tail curled loosely around one ankle. He’s changed into something simpler, soft gray pants hanging low on his hips.
No shirt.
My brain short-circuits.
Firm pecs catching the low light. Defined abs my eyes trace downward without permission, following that ridiculous V-line like a road map to somewhere I absolutely should not be thinking about.
What are you doing? my brain demands. We had rules. Boundaries. We were NOT going to ogle the rockstar like some groupie.
I yank my gaze to his face. I am not staring at this guy like he’s eye candy. His criminally attractive everything is completely unnoticeable. I noticed nothing.
He’s completely absorbed in a book.
Not a tablet. Not a holographic display. An actual physical book with paper pages and a spine. I haven’t seen paper in—forever. I didn’t even know that simple technology even existed out here in space.
I should go back to my room. I should pretend I didn’t see anything.
He turns a page, and I catch a glimpse of the cover.
I forget how to be subtle.
“Is that a romance novel?”
Fercer startles so violently he nearly drops the book. His head whips toward me, eyes wide, and for one glorious moment, the galaxy’s most desired rockstar looks exactly like a teenager caught with contraband under his mattress.
“What? I—no.” He fumbles, trying to angle the cover away, but it’s too late.
The illustration features a muscular red-skinned warrior clutching a swooning female, dramatically backlit by two moons. The title reads: Captured by the Alien Barbarian.
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“Oh my god.” I press a hand over my mouth. “You, the Devil himself, you read romance novels?”
Fercer’s crimson skin darkens to burgundy. “It’s not—this isn’t.” He stops, exhales, visibly collects himself. “What are you doing awake?”
“I asked first.”
“You didn’t ask. You accused.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms, suddenly aware I’m wearing borrowed sleep clothes—his, expensive, softer than anything I deserve. “I was looking for food. Your turn.”
He stares at me for a long moment.
He sighs and holds up the book.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “It’s a romance novel. Based on true events, apparently.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“I’ve read this one four times.” He runs his thumb along the worn spine, almost tender.
Four times? The pages are starting to fall out.
I don’t know what to do with this. The version of Fercer I’d constructed—arrogant rockstar, professional charmer, wearer of seventeen leather jackets—doesn’t compute with this male, soft and rumpled in low light, cradling a paperback like something precious.
Without all the swagger, he looks... younger. Tired. Vulnerable.
“Why?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “I mean, you could have anyone. Probably have had anyone. Why read about fake relationships when you could just...”
I trail off, gesturing vaguely. When you could just snap your fingers and have the real thing.
Fercer is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is different. Stripped of the arrogance he’s always carried.
“It’s not about the steam.” He glances away. “It’s the other part.”
He swallows.
“It’s about the romance. How they fall in love, and they want to be together against all odds. That one other person in the universe who’ll stand by your side no matter what.”
The words hang between us. Not uncomfortable, just present. Full of things neither of us is saying.
My stomach growls.
Really? Now? We were having a moment.
Fercer blinks, tension fracturing. A surprised laugh escapes him. “Was that...”
“Don’t.” Heat rises to my cheeks. “It’s been a long day. I couldn’t eat.”
“Fair enough.”
“Your creepy manager made it... difficult. I mean, what did she even bring us to eat? I swear she picked the most disgusting thing from the menu.”
Fercer’s jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he’s going to brush it off. Instead, he exhales slowly.
“There’s a reason Vyla’s so protective.” He runs a hand through his hair. “A few months ago, someone started... following me. Showing up at hotels. Backstage. Private events that weren’t announced.”
My stomach drops. “A stalker?”
His smile is thin, humorless. “The messages they left behind started friendly. Then got detailed. About what we were going to do together. Our life. How I just needed to meet her and I’d understand we were meant to be.”
Her. The stalker is a woman. My skin crawls.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That’s terrifying. No wonder you were so upset when you found me.” I pause. “I never meant to scare you.”
The idea of someone watching, waiting, constructing an entire fantasy relationship without consent makes me want to check every shadow in the room.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to give me a chance. You had every reason not to. It... it really means a lot.”
Fercer glances at me, startled, like he never expected an apology. Or thanks.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” His lie is transparent. “I just wanted you to know why Vyla might seem territorial. She’s trying to keep me safe.”
Great. Now I feel guilty for mentally calling her a vulture. Only a little guilty; she still glared at me like I was something stuck to her expensive heels.
“Hence the surprise vacation,” I say, trying to lighten things.
He laughs.
“Yeah.” He unfolds himself from the chair, setting the book aside with obvious reluctance and reverence. “Come on. I know where the good snacks are hidden.”
I follow him to a small alcove off the living area. Fercer rummages through a cabinet and produces a container of golden, flaky biscuits.
“Here.” He offers it. “Don’t tell anyone. Not even Vyla. She’d confiscate them to maintain my sculpted image.”
He waves an arm down his front. The mouthwatering crimson skin. The sculpted chest I am not staring at again. Those low-hung pants that should be illegal in multiple star systems.
Eyes up. EYES UP.
And he’s still talking, isn’t he? He’s saying words, and I’m supposed to be listening instead of mentally cataloging every ridge of his abdomen like some kind of deranged cartographer.
My mouth opens before my brain catches up.
“I mean, it’s working.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“The dieting!” I add frantically. “You look. Fine. Normal. Totally normal amount of... muscles...”
I trail off, wishing a black hole would swallow me. This is how I die, not from stowaway charges, not from Vyla’s glares, but from my inability to form sentences around a shirtless alien.
“I eat a lot, as you can tell.” I gesture to my own body. My soft belly and pudgy behind. “I get hangry if I don’t eat regularly. Like, real grumpy. And headaches too, sometimes. So I’m always snacking and—”
What is wrong with you? my brain demands. You were doing so well. You had the whole ‘mysterious stowaway’ thing going, and now you’re just...
“You look fine too,” Fercer says.
I freeze mid-internal-meltdown.
He’s smiling. Not the arrogant smirk he sometimes flashes. Something smaller. Real.
“When on tour, you never know what you’re going to eat. Or when.” His voice drops lower. “So I’ve always got something stashed away. Just in case I get snackish.”
His eyes hold mine, dark and intense.
A tingle spreads through me. My skin prickles with awareness of how close he is, how easy it would be to reach out.
Don’t you dare, my brain warns.
Is he... referring to me?
No. Insane. He’s a rockstar. I’m just... me. A stowaway stress-eating in his suite. I’m not a person who makes it onto lists. I’m not even list-adjacent.
I snatch a cookie and stuff it in my mouth. Can’t say anything stupid if I’m chewing.
Oh.
Oh damn.
The cookie melts on my tongue, sweet and buttery. My eyes go wide.
“Who would’ve thought,” I manage around crumbs, “the Devil has to sneak candy like a five-year-old.”
He laughs, really laughs, and the sound does something stupid to my chest.
It feels like we’re sharing something. A secret between just the two of us.
I reach for another. Apparently, I deal with confusing emotions by eating. Shocking absolutely no one, my brain snarks.
“Goren had a sweet tooth too,” I say quietly, before I can stop myself. “The alien I lived with.”
The words hang there. I didn’t mean to say them; they just popped into existence.
Fercer’s expression shifts, but he doesn’t push. Just waits.
“He always snuck extra sugar into everything.” I focus on the cookie. “Said I was too skinny. Which, look at me, I’ve never been skinny, so his translator was broken.”
Talking about Goren feels like pressing on a bruise.
“He sounds like he was good to you,” Fercer says softly.
“He was.” Another bite. Sweetness instead of the tight feeling in my chest. “He kept telling me to find my own people. Said I’d be lonely with just him. As if!”
I huff a laugh that comes out choked. “That’s why I’m trying to reach Cardonia. Apparently, there are other humans here.”
Fercer doesn’t offer empty comfort. He nods slowly, like he understands something I’m not saying.
“The exhaustion of performing,” he says. “It’s not just physical. After a while, you forget who you are underneath. You’re left wondering who you even are anymore.”
“Even you?” I try for lightness. “The Devil himself?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Especially me. Every relationship, every connection—I can’t tell if they want the fame or want me. The real me. Whoever that is.”
“And that’s why you like reading romance novels,” I say.
It’s about making that connection. A real one.
“Well, I don’t know who you are,” I point out with a tight laugh. “But just for your knowledge, I still think seventeen jackets is excessive.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s actually kind of nice.”
Something warm flickers in his expression as he holds my gaze.
Don’t, I tell myself sharply. Don’t get attached. Soon we’ll be going our own ways, and we won’t see each other ever again.
But Fercer is looking at me like I just gave him something valuable, and I don’t know what to do with that.
“I should sleep,” I say, grabbing another cookie for the road. “Early arrival tomorrow, right?”
“Right.” He straightens, and some of the mask slides back. Cracks show now that I know where to look. “Vyla will want to coordinate our story.”
I snort. “Can’t wait.”
At the doorway, I pause.
Don’t turn around. Don’t say anything else.
I ignore my brain. I’m practiced at it, after all.
“For what it’s worth,” I say to the darkness, “the guy who reads romance novels and sneaks sweets is more interesting than whatever Devil persona you’ve built.”
I don’t wait for his response. I retreat to my room, my heart doing something stupid.
This is temporary, I remind myself—a business arrangement.
But my mind replays that moment when he all but admitted he wanted something—someone—real.
Oh no.
I might actually like him.
This is fine. I’ve survived worse than catching feelings for a romance-novel-reading rock star with a secret sweet tooth.
Probably.
Maybe.
You are so screwed, my brain sighs.
Yeah. Yeah, I really am.