Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
SANDRA
The first thing that hits me when the ship's doors open is the humidity.
It wraps around me like a warm, wet blanket, heavy with the scent of exotic flowers. Beyond the manicured edges of civilization, a jungle looms—thick and inviting, lush with growth that beckons to be explored.
Too bad there are probably spiders in there. Alien spiders with even more eyes and legs than normal ones.
The second thing I notice is the hotel itself.
It rises from the landscaped grounds like something out of a dream, all gleaming architecture and expansive balconies. Through the massive windows of the main building, I can see movement. Guests of every shape and species mill about in what must be the lobby.
And among them—unmistakably human—a woman with blonde hair laughs at something a massive snake-bodied alien just said.
My breath catches.
"Sandra?" Fercer's voice comes from beside me. "Are you alright? You've gone pale. Well. Paler."
No. Yes. I don't know.
Because there she is: a human woman, working, living, laughing, and she doesn't look like me. She's not someone barely surviving. She looks like she belongs here.
Suddenly I feel like the outsider that's never going to fit in.
You’ve never fit in, my brain very unhelpfully provides. Thanks brain, that’s just what a girl wants to hear.
"Fine," I manage. "Just... taking it in."
This is it, my brain whispers. This is what you came for. Other humans. A community.
Vyla brushes past us. I don't miss the smile sharp enough to cut glass.
Yeah, she definitely doesn’t like me.
We follow her into the lobby, and I can't stop staring. The tile floors gleam under soft lighting. Floating robots hum past carrying luggage. A translucent blob-creature squelches toward the front desk while a four-armed insectoid argues with someone about room service.
But it's the humans I can't look away from.
There are several of them scattered throughout the space—behind the desk, greeting guests, chatting with each other near a corridor entrance. They move with easy confidence. They smile like they actually mean it.
They work here, I realize. They live here. They're not running or hiding or scraping by.
This is exactly the life that I came for. The kind of life that Goren wanted for me.
"Ahh, finally, some service!" Vyla's voice cuts through my spiraling.
Vyla's looking past me, and when I turn, I see a tall Volscian male approaching. His crimson skin is a shade lighter than Fercer's, his black horns larger and unadorned, curving back with obvious natural grandeur. His dark eyes sweep across our little group with sharp assessment.
They land on me.
I feel suddenly—absurdly—like I'm being scanned for weaknesses. Like this alien can see straight through the "fiancée" act to the desperate stowaway underneath.
He's trying to figure out if I need help, I realize with a jolt. If I'm here by choice.
This is the exit, my brain urges. Go to him. Get out of here.
I open my mouth.
Fercer shifts beside me, and I catch the exhaustion in the line of his shoulders. The way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. Behind us, Vyla hovers like a particularly well-dressed vulture, just waiting to get her claws into him.
All Fercer wants is a break. A chance to be himself.
He helped you when he didn't have to, something whispers. For once, not my ever helpful brain monologuing like an entirely separate entity. He shared his all-important snacks.
Am I'm just going to abandon Fercer first chance I get?
The guilt lands like a punch to the sternum.
It's not abandonment, my brain argues. It's self-preservation. You don't owe him anything. This was a business arrangement.
The thought lands wrong in my chest.
Before I can think better of it, I close the distance and thread my arm through Fercer's.
His whole body goes still. Then, slowly, his hand comes up to cover mine. His calloused fingers squeeze gently, and in that moment I know I've done the right thing.
"Welcome to the Alien Hotel," the staff member says smoothly.
I double-take. He spoke with a British accent. Not English. Well, that too, since the translator installed into my brain does the hard work of converting languages. Given its track record, that's not always guaranteed. But in this case, Rist spoke with a very strong, very posh British accent.
"You must be Prince Rist," Vyla states, eyes traveling up and down the Volscian's body. Her expression suggests she finds him lacking. Of what, I don't know. By her statement, he's a freaking prince!
No idea why he's here working at a hotel, though.
"Just Rist, please. I’m no longer a prince." The former prince Rist replies with a tight-lipped smile. "We're honored to have you at the hotel, Mister Fercer. I trust your journey was pleasant?"
"Very much so." Fercer smiles. I gaze up at him, momentarily stunned. He's gorgeous when he smiles... and yet, now that I've seen him truly laugh, I can see how the happiness doesn't reach his eyes. This is his public persona. A mask. A lie the Devil shows to everyone—but me.
"My fiancée and I are looking forward to some peace and quiet," Fercer states.
A thrill zips through me at his words. It shouldn't. It's not real. But somehow it feels like he's claiming me. Me.
The prince's gaze shifts to me, assessing. Something in his expression shifts: acknowledgment. A silent "I see you, and I'll be here if that changes."
"Another human," he says, and his voice softens as if he’s speaking to only me. "You're going to love it here. We have quite the community now. If you need anything at all—anything—my staff and I are always available."
The emphasis isn't subtle: If you need out, say the word.
Take it, my brain urges. Tell him you want to end this ridiculous fake engagement charade and start an actual life.
"Thank you," I say, steadier than I expected. "I appreciate that. But I'm happy with my mate."
Fercer's whole body goes still. Then slowly, his fingers tighten on mine. Something warm blooms in my chest.
Don't be an idiot, my brain snaps. Take the exit.
It’s just a few more days. To help Fercer out. Not at all because I want to spend more time with him.
TAKE THE EXIT!
But I'm already moving, following a floating luggage robot down a corridor toward our suite.
The door slides open to reveal a space that probably costs more per night than everything I've ever owned combined. High ceilings, a balcony overlooking those manicured gardens, furniture designed by someone who'd never heard the word "budget."
Vyla lingers in the doorway. "I'll have dinner arrangements made. Perhaps we could discuss your schedule for the week, Fercer? I have some ideas."
"Tomorrow." Fercer's voice is pleasant but firm. "It's been a long journey. Sandra and I would like to rest."
Something flickers across Vyla's face. "Of course. Rest well."
The door closes behind her.
Silence stretches.
We're alone. No watchful eyes. Just the two of us in this ridiculous suite, standing arm in arm.
Fercer exhales slowly, and some of the tension drains from his frame.
"Why did you do that?" he asks quietly.
"Do what?"
"Stay." He turns to face me. "You've reached your destination. You could have just walked away. But you stayed."
I shrug, aiming for casual. Doubt suddenly blooms within me, and I wonder if he wanted me out of the way.
"I owe you," I say, not quite meeting his eyes. "For the passage. The food. The not-throwing-me-out-an-airlock. Consider this me paying you back. You can take a few more days to just relax and be around someone who's not going to fawn over or harass you. That's all."
"Is that all this is?"
The question hangs between us.
Yes, I should say. Obviously. What else would it be?
But Fercer is looking at me with those dark eyes, and I'm remembering his voice in the low light of the ship as he told me he wanted a real connection. The way he laughed when I called him out on the jackets.
"Sandra." He steps closer. "I..."
He stops. Swallows. Looks at me like he's trying to memorize something.
Then he kisses me.
It's soft. Uncertain. Nothing like what I'd expect from the galaxy's most desired rockstar. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, gentle as anything, and for one endless moment, my brain goes completely, blissfully silent.
Then he pulls back.
"That's... in the books, that's what happens," he says, the words tumbling out. "When they want to say thanks. He kisses her, and it's... I got lost. In the moment. I shouldn't have..."
He's stammering. The smooth performer is stammering at me like a teenager who just accidentally confessed his feelings.
It's the most endearing thing I've ever seen.
Also terrifying.
"It's fine," I hear myself say. "We're selling the relationship, right? Practice. That's all."
"Right." He latches onto the excuse like a lifeline. "Practice. For the act."
"Exactly."
We stand there, not quite looking at each other.
My heart is hammering. My lips are tingling. My brain has apparently evacuated the premises and left only a screaming void behind.
What was THAT? the void demands, once it remembers how words work.
Practice. Which means nothing. The kiss meant nothing.
Except my lips are still tingling and my stupid heart didn't get the memo.
This is bad, my brain announces. This is very bad. You are in so much trouble.
I know. I KNOW.
Do you? Because you're still standing there staring at his mouth like it owes you money.
I jerk my gaze up to the ceiling. The very interesting ceiling. Look at all those... ceiling... parts.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely toward the separate bedroom, already backing away. "I have bathroom needs! Long journey. You know how it is."
Bathroom needs? BATHROOM NEEDS? That's what you're going with?
"Right. Yes." Fercer nods too quickly, pointing somewhere deeper into the suite without looking. "Through there. Probably."
"Great. Perfect. I'll just..."
I take another step backward, and my hip connects solidly with a decorative end table. Something expensive-sounding wobbles. I slap a hand down to steady it, miss, and end up awkwardly hugging a lamp instead.
"I'm fine," I announce to no one. "This is fine."
You are a disaster, my brain informs me. An absolute catastrophe of a human being.
The lamp and I part ways. I continue my retreat with as much dignity as I can muster, which is none.
I have a dignity deficit.
Fercer makes a sound that might be a laugh. I refuse to look back and confirm.
The bedroom door doesn't slide open automatically. I fumble with what might be a sensor, or a light switch, or possibly an intercom.
It slides open. I practically fall through it.
"Goodnight!" I call out, way too loud, and slam my palm against what I desperately hope is the close button.
The door mercifully shuts.
Did you just say goodnight? My brain asks. You haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.
I press my back against it, staring at the ceiling.
This is fine, I tell myself. Everything is fine.
The room isn’t on fire... but my face certainly feels like it is.
It was just a kiss. A practice kiss. For the act. I definitely didn't just flee the scene like the room was on fire while sexually harassing a lamp.
You know that's not what that was, my brain says flatly. The kiss, I mean. Not the lamp thing. The lamp thing was just sad.
Yeah. Yeah, I know.
Don't get attached, I remind myself fiercely. People leave. They always leave.
Fercer's planning to go back to his career eventually. Back to screaming fans and people who actually know how to act normal around furniture. And I'll be here. Starting over. Alone.
This is temporary. Can't forget that.
But I can still feel the ghost of his mouth on mine. Still see the way he looked at me, like I was the moment in his romance novels. The part where someone gets chosen.
You are so, so screwed, my brain sighs.
Yeah. Yeah, I really am.