Page 78 of Rok's Captive
I wrap my arms around myself, now very aware of my nudity.
Not fair. He’s been naked all along.
Within minutes, he has a small fire burning, its warm glow filling the chamber with dancing shadows. I stare at it, having no clue how he got a fire started. There’s no kindling. Just those strange dark stones in the center. The ones I’d thought were charred.
I’m frowning at the fire when Rok moves. My gaze shifts to him as he retrieves the lizard creatures, carrying them to the fire. He selects one, positioning it over the flames using a long, straight stick as a makeshift spit. It is only when he pulls it back that I realize it’s not a stick at all. Just a crude length of bone that looks like it came from the quill of some great creature. The lizard’s scales hiss and pop as they heat, the iridescent colors dulling to a matte gray.
After a few minutes, he removes it from the fire. The meat is barely warmed through. With practiced motions, he uses a claw to slice off specific parts—the ridge of spines along the back, something that might be a gland near what I assume is the creature’s throat—tossing these into the fire where they emit a noxious-smelling smoke. Next to go are the shiny scales. All plucked off like they were nothing but feathers.
Then, apparently satisfied that he’s removed anything dangerous, he sets the lizard before me, those golden eyes meeting mine.
“Uh…thank you.”
With a satisfied grunt, he moves to the fire again. Reaching for another of the creatures, he prepares it the same way—a brief pass over the fire, removal of what I assume are poisonous or inedible parts, and the scales. In the next second, he tears into what remains, his sharp teeth easily ripping through flesh that still looks mostly raw to my eyes.
My stomach growls loudly, a painful reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anything substantial, and my gaze slides to my meal in front of me. Raw alien lizard isn’t exactly at the top of my culinary wishlist, but at this point, I’m not sure I can afford to be picky.
Rok pauses mid-bite, his eyes flicking to me. I give him a smile, taking up the lizard in my hand. The meat is warm but definitely not cooked, blood oozing from where his claws pierced the flesh. My stomach churns in a conflicted mix of hunger and revulsion.
I watch him eat for a moment, trying to gather my courage. He tears into the meat with efficient movements, his focus entirely on his meal. No table manners necessary in the apocalypse, I guess. Or on alien planets.
Looking down at my portion, I make a decision. Moving closer to the fire, I find a flat stone and place the creature on it, positioning it directly in the flames. Rok watches with curiosity as I cook it properly, using his bone stick to turn it occasionally until the flesh turns from translucent to opaque, the blood congealing, and the meat firming.
When it seems done enough not to give me alien-lizard salmonella (if that’s even a thing), I tear off a small piece and cautiously take a bite.
It’s…not terrible. Sort of like chicken that spent too much time marinating in fish sauce, with an aftertaste that reminds me vaguely of rosemary. The texture is chewy but not unpleasantly so, and my body’s desperate need for protein overrides any lingering concerns about the taste.
I eat slowly, savoring each bite, knowing I need to be careful after going so long without proper food. As I eat, I can’t help glancing at Rok, noting the way he studiously avoids looking at me, focusing instead on his own meal or the fire or the walls of the chamber—anywhere but at me.
The silence between us stretches. It’s tense. Uncomfortable. So different from the easy companionship we’d somehow managed to build despite the language barrier. Before…well, before whatever happened happened.
I set down my half-eaten food, suddenly losing interest in eating. My eyes drift to Rok’s profile, illuminated by the dancing firelight. The strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates on his meal, the way the glow beneath his skin pulses with his heartbeat—steady, controlled, alive.
For a moment, everything else fades away—the hunger, the fear, the confusion, the alien world around us. There’s just him, just this moment, just us.
“I wish I could understand you,” I whisper, the words hardly more than a breath. “It would make all of this so much easier.”
He freezes, the chunk of meat in his hand forgotten. Slowly, with a deliberateness that makes me hold my breath, he turns to face me.
His eyes are wide, intent, fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter in my chest. Before I can react, he’s moving—not with the careful restraint from earlier, but with purpose, closing the distance between us in a swift, fluid motion.
I instinctively pull back, raising my hands. “Whoa, hold on?—”
But he’s not grabbing for me, not pinning me down or trying to resume what we started earlier. Instead, he crouches before me, his chest heaving with rapid breaths, his eyes searching mine with a desperate kind of hope I don’t understand.
“Rok?” I whisper, confused by the sudden change.
He reaches out, cupping my face in his hands with exquisite gentleness, and presses his forehead to mine. His eyes close, his breath warm against my lips, and I’m struck by the ritual feel of the gesture.
“I don’t…I don’t know what you want,” I whisper. It almost feels sacred, what he’s doing right now.
He stays like that, forehead pressed to mine, eyes closed, utterly still but for the rise and fall of his chest. Waiting. Expecting something from me I can’t even begin to guess at.
And in that moment of complete confusion, I think:Fuck it.
What do I have to lose? My dignity? Left that behind when I started having wet dreams about an alien. My sanity? Questionable at best since I crash-landed on this dust ball. My heart?
Well. That might be a concern.
