Page 100 of Rok's Captive
But even as I think it, I find my gaze drawn to her again and again. To the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder. To the soft swell of her chest beneath her coverings. To her hands, small and delicate, yet capable of such strength.
This soft creature is mine to protect, I remind myself. Mine to guide safely to my clan. Nothing more.
But as she settles back against the cave wall, her eyes drifting closed in exhaustion, I cannot help but wonder if that is truly all she is to me. If that is all she can ever be.
The stars that appeared beneath my skin, the transformation of my body, the constant pull I feel toward her—surely these things mean something. Surely the ancestors would not have remade me so completely without purpose.
I watch her as she slips into sleep, her breathing deep and even, her face peaceful in the firelight. And in that moment, I make a silent vow to the ancestors, to Ain herself.
I will discover what this connection between us means. I will understand why I have been transformed. And I will honor whatever purpose the ancestors have set before me, even if it means embracing feelings I cannot yet name.
Until then, I will protect her with every breath in my body. I will guide her safely through the dust. I will reunite her with her clan and bring her into mine.
And I will control this fire within me, no matter the cost.
Chapter29
PROOF THAT ALIENS HAVE EXCELLENT TASTE (IN EVERYTHING)
JUSTINE
Iwake with a start, my heart pounding and my skin flushed. The dream clings to me like damned desert dust—vivid and embarrassingly real. Rok’s hands were everywhere, leaving trails of lightning. I’d gasped as his claws scored my ribs, pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.‘Mine,’ he’d snarled against my throat as my back arched, offering myself. His mouth had sealed over my nipple, sucking hard, and I’d cried out—only to wake panting…and with my fingers already buried between my thighs.
I freeze. Oh. Oh no. My clit throbs.
I’ve never woken up like this, fingers wet, hips grinding into my own hand. A broken sound escapes me. Another alien fantasy to add to my growing collection. What is this planet doing to me?
I press my thighs together, trying to quiet the persistent ache there, and take a deep breath to steady myself. The cave is dark, just faint starlight filtering through the narrow entrance, but something feels off. Something woke me.
A sound. Movement.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I make out Rok’s silhouette near the cave entrance. He’s pacing—three steps one way, pivot, three steps back—his movements jagged and tense. His breathing sounds labored, almost pained, and alarm shoots through me.
“Rok?” I whisper, sitting up. “Are you okay?”
He freezes at the sound of my voice, his massive form going completely still. When he turns, I can just make out the gleam of his eyes, the tight set of his jaw. His teeth are bared in what looks like a grimace of pain.
My first thought is danger—maybe something attacked him while I slept. My second thought is that he’s undergoing another transformation, like the one that brought those stars beneath his skin and his new magic stick.
But as I look closer, I catch a glimpse of movement at his waist. His hand is moving rhythmically, gripping something beneath the makeshift loincloth.
Oh my god. He’s masturbating. Right here in the cave while I sleep.
My brain short-circuits, embarrassment and something else—something hotter, sweeter—flooding through me. I should look away. I should absolutely, definitely look away.
I don’t.
And as I watch, I realize this isn’t what I thought at all. His movements aren’t the smooth, practiced motion of self-pleasure. He’s gripping himself hard, almost painfully, his posture rigid with what looks like agony rather than ecstasy.
He’s not masturbating—he’s suffering. As I watch, he seems to lose whatever battle he’s fighting with himself and collapses against the cave wall, sliding down until he’s sitting, legs splayed, one hand still clutching himself so tightly I wince in sympathy.
I should look away. I should pretend to be asleep. I should do anything but stare at an alien in the throes of what appears to be the universe’s worst case of blue balls.
But I can’t tear my eyes away, especially when he lets out a sound—low, pained, almost a whimper—that cracks something open in my chest.
He’s tormented. Genuinely suffering. And suddenly it hits me that he’s been this way since his transformation—constantly aroused, with no release, no relief, not even during the brief private moment I thought he took outside the cave earlier.
For some reason, he’s denying himself. Controlling himself. Even when it causes him pain.
