Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 135784 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135784 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I'm relieved when the conversation moves quickly off of me again. The two males haggle for a while. Jerrok names a price, and then Rothort replies with a price. Neither likes what the other is offering, and this goes on for quite a while. Sweat trickles down my face from the stagnant, too-humid station air. I smell something cooking in the distance, but even though it's long past lunchtime, I'm not hungry. There's a sour knot in the pit of my stomach and I just want to get away from this praxiian.
Actually, I just want to get away from everyone.
The small, gray alien assistant comes out with two cups of tea on a tray and offers them to me and Jerrok. I'm just about to reach for one out of politeness, when Jerrok puts a hand up and his big body stiffens, joints creaking. "Did I say you could feed my mate?"
The creature freezes and looks over at his master, who shrugs. "Just a cup of tea, Lankham. Don't get your tail in a twist."
"My mate will drink when I say she can drink," Jerrok continues in a tight voice, and his tail starts lashing back and forth, whipping against my heavy cloak. "She's mine."
"Universe save me from overprotective males and their mates." Rothort throws up his hands. "Fine. Let's just agree on a price and get you out of my face."
They haggle for a bit longer, but the mood has changed. It's no longer easy and like a game, both Rothort and “Lankham” are tense, and I feel my skin prickling with alarm. I almost reached for the tea, and what if they had noticed my very non-ooli hands? Was that a trap to expose us? Or just kindness? I don't know and I feel like an idiot. When we leave Rothort's booth with an empty sled and full pockets, I breathe a sigh of relief. Hopefully we can get out of here soon.
But when Jerrok immediately wheels the cart over to another booth, I stifle a groan. Right. We have to buy food. I bite back a whimper of frustration as someone brushes against me, and when Jerrok growls at them and pulls me closer, I don't protest. I bury my face against his shoulder and let him shield me with his body as he haggles with the food merchant for pallets of cheap noodles and freeze-dried meat. The stink of this place—the nearness of everyone—it's getting to me. I can feel my body tingling with the onset of panic, my breathing raspy. I push my nose against his armpit, breathing in his slightly sweaty smell. For some reason, I like it. I like the strong scent of him, that normal scent of the body, the slightly spicy scent of mesakkah. Even though this is Jerrok, right now he's the only familiar thing I have to hold onto.
He leans his head down toward me, his hand on the back of my hood. "You all right?"
I have to be, don't I? But I nod, still clutching at his belt, unable to let go. If I do, I might burst into a full-on panic attack.
"Count," he murmurs into my ear.
Count? Right. It's what he does to calm down. I swallow hard and begin to count under my breath, low enough that no one can hear me but him. "One. Two. Three. Four—"
Just then, the entire station gives a violent shiver, the floor lurching. The lights go out, and everyone screams.
19
JERROK
The little human's doing her best to be brave, and I feel bad for her. She's been jumpy the entire time, but the moment Rothort came out, I thought she was going to break and run. Kef me, this was a bad call. I forgot that her owner—the one she ran away from—was a praxiian. And Rothort looks rough, but he's a decent sort for a praxiian. Gives me fair prices and doesn't ask questions. Doesn't rib me about the fact that my new “mate” is ooli. He just does business.
Even so, I find myself being more and more protective of her as she slides closer and closer, as if she wants to crawl under my skin. In a strange way, I like it. I hate that she's scared, of course. I'd much rather her spit fire at me like she does when she has her pet at her side. But the hands that cling to me are…nice. How long has it been since anyone reached for me? I'm sure I'm a bastard for enjoying it, but I like that I can pull her against my side and she reaches for me. That I can comfort her.
The food vendor here—who deals exclusively in rations he steals from other ships—has a good deal of noodles, so I start haggling with him. I ignore his smirks as my “ooli” mate clings to me. Let him think I'm grabbing dregs for companionship. They all think Lankham os'Riit is turfless space trash anyhow. They don't know me. I use a fake guise every time I get off station. Let them think what they want—that person is discarded the moment I'm home.