Page 71 of Her Alien Neighbor

There are so many things I want to do to her. So many parts of her incredible body I have yet to explore. But tonight is not the night for such things. We will have plenty of time for more adventurous pursuits.

“I’m…yours,” Vanessa says as her breath catches. Her face twists into a look of pure ecstasy and anguish as I continue pounding into her. I reach down and rub her clit, and she shatters a heartbeat later, her entire body shaking with the force of her release. “Good girl,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her throat, before taking the skin of her neck between my teeth and biting down.

That seems to stretch her orgasm a little further. Just long enough so that when I come, she’s coming with me. A loud, primal growl is ripped from my throat, and I feel her hands stroking the sides of my face as I come down.

I toss the condom into the small, steel trash bin next to the bed, then pull her body against me, her back to my front. We wiggle our way beneath the covers, chuckling at the clumsiness of it.

She falls asleep first, and the deep, even cadence of her breathing has me following close behind.

Several hours later, I awaken before her, sunlight streaming through the narrow gap between the blind and the window. Quietly, I pull myself out of bed, throw on a pair of black sweatpants, and head into the kitchen to make my mate breakfast in bed.

I go with chocolate chip pancakes drenched in maple syrup and fresh strawberry slices on the side. It does not take long to prepare enough for both of us, and on light feet, I tiptoe back into my bedroom carrying both plates. I even maintain my natural form, not bothering to mask, since Vanessa has already seen it. Besides, I want to spend more time with her like this, as I truly am.

Upon closing the door, I find Vanessa staring down at her phone, her brow furrowed, and lips parted. “What is it?” I ask, concern thick in my tone.

She doesn’t answer me at first. It is as if she is frozen in shock. At some point, she notices my presence and lifts her gaze to mine. “Um,” she says, her voice shaky as she puts a hand on her chest. “Sam just texted me.”

“And?” I ask. “Is she well?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, dazed. “She’s fine.” She rubs her forehead, then scoffs as she looks toward the ceiling. I have no idea what is happening, but her expressions are hard to follow. “But, uh, Trevor is dead.”

CHAPTER 19

VANESSA

Axil doesn’t say anything when I tell him Trevor is dead. I don’t know what to make of that. Truthfully, I don’t know what to make of Trevor’s death either. It seems impossible that I saw him last night, and a few hours later, he was gone.

“How?” he eventually asks, walking slowly toward where I’m sitting on the bed.

He puts two plates on the desk. Pancakes covered in syrup with strawberries on the side. Normally, my mouth would be watering at the sight of pancakes, but right now, it feels like there’s a rock in my stomach.

“Um, he crashed his motorcycle, I guess,” I reply, my gaze dropping back to Sam’s text. My eyes scan the letters again, making sure I didn’t miss something like a “just kidding!” or an “almost” before the word “died” because this…doesn’t feel real. “He was drinking at the reunion, so that could’ve had something to do with it. That’s all she said.”

“How do you feel?” he asks, sitting on the bed, facing me.

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. How am I supposed to feel? Sad that a life was lost? Relieved that the man who raped me and one of my best friends is now gone forever? I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel, but I know I should feel something, and it terrifies me that I don’t. What does that say about me?

My phone rings, breaking through my thoughts. It’s Sam.

“Hey, any more info?” I say as soon as I pick up.

“I mean, kind of. I can’t exactly call Beth directly, so I’m getting the story through, like, four people,” Sam explains. “Who knows if it’s accurate, but I guess he went off the road on one of those sharp turns on the way to their lake house. His bike hit a boulder.”

“Jesus, that’s brutal.”

“Seriously.” We’re both quiet for a long time, not knowing what to say. “Should we go to the funeral?”

I bark out a laugh. “What? Absolutely not. Why would we go to the funeral?”

“I don’t know,” she says, her tone sounding defeated. “Isn’t it the right thing to do?”

I consider this. Maybe attending the funeral of your rapist is thepolitething to do, knowing his girlfriend (whom you also hate) is grieving the loss of her man. But given that Sam and I would be standing off to the side the entire time, wondering if our presence is appropriate as we listen to his friends and family go on about what a wonderful guy he was while in our heads we’re screaming, “bullshit,” it doesn’t feel like therightthing to do.

“Seems dicey,” I tell her. “I think we should skip it.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “You okay?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. Are you?”

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