Page 12 of Romancing Rem'eb

I rub my chest and pace in my small cell, wondering how I’m going to get free. Rem’eb said he’d help me. He also said there was a guard and we can’t go now. Rem’eb is clearly my best bet so far. And he likes me.

Do I seduce him to ensure that he breaks me free? Is that even necessary? I won’t know until I know what’s happened with R’jaal, but I need a plan.

A plan and a weapon.

With the light coming from the strange tube—that looks as if it’s crammed full of a strange, yellow-green moss—I check every nook and cranny of my cell for objects. It’s absolutely bare, which doesn’t surprise me, but I wanted to check anyhow. I see a few spots with promising chinks in the mortar between the bricks, so if I can get a sharp object of some kind, maybe I can tunnel my way out, prison-break-style.

Just as I’m starting to wonder if Rem’eb is going to return, the door opens again. Someone steps in carrying a huge armful of bedding, so tall that his face is concealed, and I step backward automatically to give him space. I glance at the open door, wondering if I should make a break for it, but I’m not entirely sure where I am. For now, I have to stick with the devil I know.

Rem’eb drops the woven basket of bedding down onto the floor with a heavy thud. “This is the first load. Wait here and I will return again.”

“Where do you think I’m going to go?” I call back. Wait here, indeed.

He disappears as quickly as he’d reappeared, so I pull the materials out of the basket to give them a look. Since becoming stranded on the ice planet almost five years ago, I’ve come to expect a different sort of bedding than a plush mattress and feather-down pillows and cotton sheets. The sa-khui that live here are basically hunter-gatherers, and while there’s a computer with the old ship that crashed them here, they’re content to live as they are. We work on introducing small things into our lives here on Not-Hoth. My friend Tiffany loves to do creative works and recently figured out how to spin wool from dvisti into yarn, and she taught me. I’ve gotten pretty good at knitting, but it’s a slow process for sure, especially when nice furry animals are right there and are killed for the meat they provide. It makes sense to just use hides and furs for everything, especially in the cold.

But the bedding that Rem’eb has given me is very different from the furs we use above. There’s a strange mat of some kind, rolled up and made with more of the strange, woody texture that’s a little softer and spongier than the door. I don’t know what it is, only that there seems to be a lot of it down here. It’s woven together with ropes into a thick, heavy mat that has a little give when you lie upon it. Much better than the floor. There’s also a long, slithery-feeling fabric of a vivid gold-yellow and I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do with it. Is it for a dress of some kind? It seems too fancy to be a sheet, too thin to be a blanket. I fold it up again and set it at the foot of the mat.

Rem’eb returns a short time later, this time with a large tray in his arms. He has what looks like a plate full of colorful items that must be food and a large pitcher. He sets the tray down on the floor and then gestures one more time, indicating that I should wait. This is almost like a picnic date…or it would be if the circumstances weren’t so fucked up.

I watch, almost amused, as he returns very quickly for the third time with a large earthenware pot in his arms and puts it in the corner of the room. I frown, trying to figure out what it’s for, and then it hits me as he unfolds a screen made of the same strange yellow-gold cloth.

This is my toilet. Because I’m a captive.

My amusement sours. I’m reminded that I’ve been stolen away and taken from everything I know. I cross my arms over my chest again and eye him.

“I think that is everything for now,” he says, glancing about the tiny room. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“A way out?” I jibe. When he gives me a blank look at my sarcastic words, I gesture at the door.

His face falls.

It immediately sends panic through me, because I should be nice to him. I need him to be on my side. I need him to fall in love with me so he’ll help me escape. I can’t be bitchy and scream at the fact that I’ve been kidnapped, even if that’s how I feel inside.

“Sorry,” I whisper, and put a small smile on my face.

“Now is not the time yet, Tia,” he says, and my name sounds like a caress on his lips. He watches me closely, his eyes full of apology. “I give you my word that I will help you, but we are both being watched.”

I nod, because what else can I do? “Thank you,” I tell him, and tap my chin and extend my hand out in the ASL sign as well, just in case he knows it.

He doesn’t. He gives me a curious look and then moves to stand right in front of me, his tail swishing behind him. “Is there an injury on your chin? Let me see.”

And before I can protest, he carefully cups my face in two of his hands and tilts my head back.

My heart hammers in my breast at his nearness. I hold my breath, gazing up at him. I’m fairly tall for a human woman, but he towers over me. Strangely, though, I’m not afraid of him or his size. He tenderly cradles my face in his hands and studies my chin very intently, and then our eyes meet.

He’s going to kiss me, I realize, and a pulse of heat shoots straight through my body.

But he only skims a thumb across my chin. “I see nothing.” His voice is deceptively soft. “If you have been bruised, I cannot tell. Your hide is very different than mine. Strange and furless, but attractive all the same.”

Our eyes meet again and I suck in a breath. If he tugged me a little closer, I’d be pressed against his chest, my body against his. He’s wearing a short kilt and I’m only wearing my sleeping gear, so we’d have a lot of warm skin pressed to warm skin…

Good lord, why am I so freaking horny for this man?

I pull away, unnerved by my own response. He’s still a stranger to me, even though he’s kind. Even though I need to woo him to my side to get free, I can’t just start groping his dick. That’s not who I am, no matter if it’s my best chance for survival.

Rem’eb isn’t bothered by my retreat. He lets me go, his arms falling to his sides. His color ripples to match the walls for a brief moment, the only outward sign of his distress. “If you have pain anywhere, let me know. I can have my father’s herbalists make a poultice. And I will speak to him about your rough treatment.”

“Sounds like I need to seduce Daddy,” I mutter to myself, rubbing my bare arms and pretending the goosebumps there are from the cold. I don’t like that idea, though. There’s a strange attraction to Rem’eb, even if he’s called “The Fist” for some reason. I can’t imagine seeing another four-armed furry alien and thinking, “Man, I’d like to tap that.”

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