Page 28 of Alien Prince's Fake Bride
“I have to carry you,” he rumbles as the lighting furiously strikes his ‘umbrella’, again and again.
I jump up onto him, carefully avoiding the now white-hot rod, curling my legs around him and clinging to his massive torso as hard as I can while he supports me with his one free arm and two tendrils.
Then he strolls casually into the elevator. The doors close, and it goes eerily quiet.
I wipe some moisture off my face. “Thanks. I think I got into the wrong room.”
“That’s a gun turret,” he tells me while I still hang onto him. Bellatriz translates. “The ship’s main plasma guns all have turrets like that, mostly outside the ship’s main hull. They’re used for shooting at other spaceships. Nobody’s allowed inside those turrets when in flight. Can you guess why?”
“Because they dothat?” My throat is sore from the screaming.
“Because they do that,” he confirms as he exits the elevator and carries me along a corridor. The ‘umbrella’ radiates intense heat. “The guns are immensely powerful. But they must be kept charged even when they’re not being fired. Any disturbance inside the turret makes it go crazy. It set off an alarm all over the ship. I was sure it was you. And I was sure you had to be dead in there.”
“Sorry. That would have ruined your marriage scheme.”
His eyes flare crimson. “I was relieved to see that you were still alive, not because of the ‘marriage scheme’, but because I’ve grown fond of your company.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“We don’t need this now.” He drops the ‘umbrella’ to the floor. It’s still so hot the air around it shimmers, and the floor where it lies crackles and hisses. Opening a door, he carries me inside. I should probably not cling to him like a needy rag doll, but that experience was terrible and I need the closeness.
This room is a cabin with a bed and some furniture, but it’s much larger than the other one. A clear dome spans most of the ceiling, showing the starry sky of space outside. Most Space Force members would kill to have a view like this from their sleeping quarters.
The walls are mostly bare, but there are some exotic weapons hanging on them. Apart from the skylight, I don’t see any luxuries. This is a warrior prince, that much is obvious.
Mareliux puts me down on a wide bed. “You wanted to explore the ship more than Caret’ax let you?”
I look up at the skylight. The room is bright, so I can see my own reflection up there. My hair is standing around my head like a halo. It crackles with static when I smooth it down with my hands. “He showed me nothing interesting. I like to know how things work. How is your hand?”
He shows it to me. The blue palm has gone purple. “I didn’t touch the lightning rod, but it was so hot it burned me anyway.”
I take hold of one fingertip and study his giant hand. It does look burned. “Do you have lotions or something like that? A medpack, maybe?”
He goes to a cabinet and comes back with an alien-looking jar, all curvy and weird. “This should work. Do you have experience as a medic?” He sits down next to me and hands me the jar.
The trust it implies makes me melt a little.
I open the jar and gaze suspiciously at the contents. It’s a translucent gel with a pink tinge. “I took the course that everyone takes. I don’t think this requires much experience. Why did you have that lightning rod, anyway? If nobody’s supposed to be in there?” I scoop up some gel and apply it to his palm.
“Even when powered down, the gun usually contains a tiny amount of charge,” he rumbles. “When in port, the workers use those lighting rods to soak it up. One zap of voltage is enough to drain the power banks completely when the gun is not active. Then the mechanics can enter the turret and work safely.”
I enjoy rubbing lotion on his hand. It’s a big hand, strong and manly. His forearms are like bundles of steel rope. “Thank you for getting me out of there. I think I would have died.”
“We’ve lost a good few crewmembers in that way over the centuries. Death is usually instant. I’m astonished you were able to survive for as long as you did. And relieved.” His gaze softens, the bright red going crimson. One of his tendrils reaches out towards me.
“You held the lightning rod with the Syntrix,” I state as I finish up and close the jar. “You have a lot of control. Did you also use Syntrix to call my name?”
He chuckles. “You didn’t hear it when I just shouted, so I had to try. I’m surprised you were able to sense it! Using Syntrix to communicate is not common.”
I trace the lines on his palm with my fingertip, feeling the calluses and scars earned in many battles. “It was a feeling more than a sound. Like a tug, deep inside. With my name on it.” My own hands tremble slightly as I recall the raw power of that place, the paralyzing fear.
His thumb brushes across the back of my hand. “A tug? Yes, that’s what it would feel like. But again, it’s not common. Either you’re unusually strong in the Syntrix, or we have a special connection.”
He’s being really cool about this. He knows I was snooping around his ship, and then I just about killed myself. I know a lot of guys who would not have reacted this well to it. My assessment of Mareliux may need to be adjusted. What kind of strength would it take to be this calm? He’s been through a lot of things, this prince.
On an impulse I lift his hand to my cheek, the rough skin surprisingly gentle against my face. “I was so scared,” I whisper, the memory vivid and painful. “I couldn’t move. I just saw the flashes and heard the loud noise.”
His other hand comes to cup my jaw. The crimson in his eyes deepens and goes darker, mirroring the warmth spreading through me. “But you’re safe now,” he points out with his low rumble. “You’re here.”
