Page 4 of Maid for the Alien Prince

What surprised me most was that it didn’t seem to matter what age they were—they were all obsessed with living a rich and full life, no matter their age!

One was a blorack, well past his prime, and wanted to scale the mountains of ghizzark! Reaching the peak would almost certainly kill him—if the ascent didn’t do it first. But he was resolute.

Another had the goal of writing a great novel and had been in the process of outlining it before he was put under anesthesia. After he awoke, he was a flurry of activity as he said that while he was under, he saw crazy, magnificent things and wanted to capture them on paper.

I was itching to get started on my own life, although I wasn’t entirely sure what direction it would yet take.

Downstairs, a door slammed and a voice yelled. I rushed to my bedroom door, threw it open, and peered down the stairs.

I caught only a pair of long legs disappearing through the doorway and the slamming of the front door.

My father’s hunched form stood, barely visible, in the living room. He fell against the doorway, shook his head, and ran his hand through his thinning hair.

I wanted to speak out and reassure him that everything would be all right but by his broken and desperate body language, I didn’t think he would want me to see him in such a state.

I backed away from the door and slowly closed it, leaving it on the latch so it didn’t make any sound. I wanted there to be no doubt that I hadn’t seen what had just happened.

I felt angry at whoever had just left. How could they slam the door in my father’s face like that? As if he were nothing.

I paced back and forth, clenched my fists, then released them, and repeated it over and over again. It was meant to help release my pent-up anger, but it only seemed to make me feel worse!

I swore I would get revenge on whoever had made him feel this way.

After ten minutes of furiously pacing, I calmed down. Getting angry wasn’t going to help Dad.

I wondered why he still hadn’t come up to my room to discuss whatever it was that was on his mind. Something serious had taken place while I was away, and I had no idea what it could be.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then headed downstairs. I opened the door to the front room and found my father laying in his favorite armchair, sprawled across it in a way I had never seen before.

He was always so straight-backed and alert to his surroundings. Now, he didn’t even notice when I entered the room.

“I’m going to make some coffee,” I said. “Do you want some?”

His head turned toward me, but his eyes were fixed on some point on the floor. “Hm?”

“Coffee.” I made my voice as soft as I could muster. “Do you want a cup?”

“Oh. Yes. That would be… nice. Thank you.”

My stomach wrenched, swirling. Something was very, very wrong and I had to get to the bottom of it.

* * *

I knew exactly how Dad liked his coffee. I knew even better how savoring it made him feel better. He liked to take a sip, taste it, and focus on it, concentrating on the sensations as it slid down his throat. Now, he just gulped it down absentmindedly.

He’d always been so mindful of his surroundings, his thoughts and feelings, and what he put into his body. It was the only way a man of his age could remain in such trim shape.

I simply had to get to the bottom of what’d happened.

“How have things been while I was away?” I asked.

“Oh. Fine. The usual.”

His eyes drifted past me before he took another sip of his coffee. This time, he took a little more time with it and tasted it before letting it slide down his throat. He was beginning to relax, I realized, returning to his old self.

I blew the steam off my coffee and looked at him over the rim of my cup. “Who was that who left earlier?”

“Who?”

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