Page 38 of An Alien for the Farm

I lift my head slightly, brows furrowing. “But not for you?”

He gives me that slight smile again. “Do not fret. We Kari are still happy here.”

I know there’s more to it, but something tells me I shouldn’t push for more information from him. At least, not yet. What he just told me must have taken a lot to say. When I was stuck with aliens on that refugee ship, no one spoke about their trauma. As if mere mention of it was taboo. For Zynar to speak to me so openly tells me he trusts me. Out here, that means a helluva whole lot and I give him one last squeeze.

Releasing him more reluctantly than I should, considering the mandate I gave myself, I hope he can’t hear my heart thundering in my chest as I rise. He’s finished with the sandwich already and he grabs the other two drinks and stuffs them into his pocket.

He rises too, rolling his shoulders as he looks down at me. The pain and distance seep away from his eyes. “Thank you, Liora.”

I blush. Standing there awkwardly, I nod slightly. He takes a step toward me before he stops and his large hands squeeze into fists before he releases them. With a grin, Zynar heads off across the field. I turn and watch him go, knowing that somehow, despite years of preaching to myself, this alien is slowly breaking down walls and I don’t know how.

Heading back to the house, I walk across the field, looking over my shoulder every few strides. The scythe moves with precision as Zynar works, most definitely a thousand times faster than I ever could have. I’ll have a proper field soon, one I can till to yield crops. Every day this place is looking more and more like the farm it’s supposed to be and it’s mostly because of him.

I surprise myself by smiling. That sense of accomplishment I wanted to feel by improving this place myself isn’t deterred. It’s still there.

Zynar works non-stop for the whole day. At one point, I find myself pulling a chair next to the window again, drink in hand as I watch him work. His movements are fluid and efficient, each swing of the scythe precise and powerful. My gaze follows him, heart beating faster with every stride he takes. The way his muscles flex under the hot sun, the power in each swing…it captivates me.

Maybe I’m staring because he seems less like an untouchable being and more ‘human’ to me now, if that’s possible. His trauma, my trauma, shouldn’t do that. Bonding over something so terrible should be wrong, simply because it shouldn’t have happened to either of us. But it did.

When he pauses, wiping sweat from his brow, and looks toward the house, our gazes meet. For a heartbeat, time stands still. I feel a pull, a connection that defies logic and reason. It doesn’t make sense, and yet it’s there. Like a current underneath my thoughts, building, getting stronger with each moment that he’s here.

Giving him a wave, I force myself to rise from the seat, suddenly self-conscious of the fact I’ve simply been sitting there watching him. My gaze sweeps across the kitchen and I stretch, preparing to clean up. There’s still the towel I’d used to wipe him down and I lift it now. Within the fibers, I can smell his intoxicating sweet scent. I don’t know which devil tells me to bring it to my nose, but I do, knees almost buckling at the intensity of sweet sugar that hits me.

I groan, heart thundering at the response as I stare down at the towel still pressed to my nose. Now why did I do that?

But it smells so good. Like something I want to press my face into all the time. I tell myself to put the towel down but my fingers only tighten in the fibers as I inhale again.

“Mm, so good.” A trickle of something goes down my navel and bursts like a firework in my groin. My breaths come a little harder and I groan again. I’m sniffing his sweat! And getting turned on.

It’s a strange sensation being both horrified and horny. Like getting hit by a double H whammy—one part horror show, one part hot flash.

Why does he smell so good? I’ve smelled him before, each time making me want to inhale deeper, but I guess I’ve never smelled his direct sweat before. I inhale again, and that firework bursts in my crotch, making a tingle go through my privates. I stand there in the center of my living room, towel to my nose, and snort again despite myself. When my entire pussy clenches, I almost fall to my knees with the power of the throb.

I breathe hard, inadvertently breathing more of him in as my eyes widen, thoughts, explanations swirling in my mind. Is this the virility thing he was talking about? The thing the computer warned me of? Is this a sample of what the Tasqals wanted from his race? Good god, his scent is like a drug.

It reminds me of how some plants use chemical signals to attract mates or influence other organisms. Like that lesson I taught my students of how bee orchids mimic the scent of female bees to attract males, or how some plants release compounds to draw in predators of their pests. Trust me to ramble in my own head, but is Zynar’s scent the same? Pheromones? My eyes flutter and I can’t deny his scent is doing something similar to me, a chemical signal that’s impossible to ignore.

It takes great effort for me to pull the towel from my nose, to force myself into the bathroom. I stare at the little basket I set in the corner for laundry. I should set it down here, instead, I can’t release it from my fingers. The thought actually sends a panic through me. My heart beats harder, anxiety rising, everything within me telling me that washing the towel is wrong. My gaze shifts in the direction of my bedroom. Am I so crazy?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hurry into the bedroom and set the towel on the edge of the bed. Turning away from it, I make to leave the room before I stop in my tracks. I turn back around and grab it again. What is wrong with me? I should put it in the laundry bin. What do I do? The opposite. Instead of placing it where logic tells me to, I fold it neatly, but still don’t remove it from my bed. Now, before I can get some sense into my brain, I hurry out of the room, that lingering scent in my lungs and a lump in my throat.

I can’t be going crazy over a towel. But here I am. The thought of washing it almost hurt.

It’s with great effort that I get through the rest of the day. I force myself not to look out the window. Not to track Zynar’s every move. I focus on improving the house. I even found a can of plaster, the words on the tin translated using my handy comm device, and I set to fixing the cracks in the window sills and walls.

It takes some of my focus, this work, even though the only thing I want to focus on is the alien working on my farm.

Night doesn’t come soon enough. By the time the sun goes down, my entire body is buzzing with some unknown energy I’ve never felt before. I suddenly feel like a teen who is just discovering myself and the world. It’s unknown territory where the rules of everything no longer apply.

I’m pacing when I hear him. My heart stutters and I move to the door, ears perked.

He’s transporting the last stacks of hay to the barn, and I hear the moment he’s finished. His boots hit the worn planks on the porch and my throat goes dry when I hear him right outside the door. I prepare myself to open it, only Zynar doesn’t knock.

I hear when he lifts the pack he’d set there by the door and then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Liora?”

Something tingles inside me. “Y-yes?” I try to project my voice so it doesn’t sound like I’m right behind the door, even though that’s where I’m standing like some creep.

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