Page 39 of Desired By her Alien Prince

"Not all texts have been translated yet."

"That's okay. I should be able to read them." This time I took the offered tablet and stared speechless for a moment at a listing that could have come from any web search on Earth. I swallowed my misgivings and forced myself once again to forget that I was aboard an alien spaceship and read out loud what I found about Mórrígan and Lugh, who were, according to these sources, Celtic gods who had lived thousands of years ago.

Mórrígan was revered as a goddess of war and sometimes referred to as a raven, which I supposed made sense with her black hair and with her being taken to an alien ship and brought back.

Lugh had been some kind of god like Apollo, and that made me smile. I found all sorts of legends associated with one or the other, sometimes with both, and smiled sadly when I realized that the people back then must have turned their tragic story into folklore, leaving the true story behind.

It didn't matter though. Behlial's constant visits to Earth had predictably left their marks in human legends. What mattered to me was that I felt validated in my growing emotions toward Azazel.

I never had a chance of not loving him. I had felt Mórrígan's emotions for him as if they were my own. Well, I suppose they had been my own. I hugged Azazel tight, happy that we were given a second chance at our love.

That night though, as I slept in Azazel's arms, I realized we hadn't been given a second chance, or a third, or a fourth. Over and over, images played in my head of a handsome young man picking his bride (me) from seven others, and over and over I witnessed the two falling deeply in love with each other only to have each story come to a tragic end at his death. In each dream, vision, memory, whatever you want to call it, I was left behind on Earth to mourn him, or sometimes, I found my own death shortly after his demise.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks and my body felt cold as I woke with a start.

"What is it?" Azazel's arms surrounded me, and I threw myself against him with a cry.

"Oh, Azazel," I sobbed, clinging to his massive shoulders while his hands gently rubbed up and down my back.

"Did you have another bad dream?"

Unable to form words just yet, I shook my head against his chest as he held me, and I tried to fight my way out of the tendrils of what I had seen and what held me captive in a state of despair.

The feeling of doom didn't lessen though; it sat like a rock in my stomach, growing and making it harder to breathe.

Finally I managed, "Azazel, it's hopeless."

"Nothing is hopeless, karamia."

The word caused shivers inside me. "Don't call me that."

"Karamia?" He looked confused. He had called me that a hundred times or more and I had liked it, but now, after I had seen what happened to us and heard him call me that in so many different ways, it only made me shudder.

"I dreamed… I saw… I remembered…" I finally settled on, "We have known each other for a long time, but only for a short time in each life. You've picked me for as long as this quest has been going on, and each time… you… die." More sobs wracked my body as he held me.

"Shh," he said by my ear. "Shh, it's alright now, karamia, it will all be alright."

"It never is." I cried even harder as the hopelessness of our situation sunk deeper into the pit of my stomach where it united with the rock already sitting there, making it heavier, harder.

His hands caressed my hair. "I will make it right this time, Fay, I swear to you."

I shook my head. "We tried so many times, so many ways, Azazel."

I felt his smile against my hair. "In all these times, I never won?"

"Don't joke," I lifted my head. "Please don't joke."

"I'm not."

I turned my head to look at him, his usually arrogant smile had been replaced by a more mischievous one.

"What are you planning?"

"First tell me everything you saw and what went wrong," he demanded.

And so I did, even though it hurt like hell. How do you tell someone you saw him die over and over?

"We tried running away and hiding on Earth. You tried to fight your brothers in every way possible," I said sadly, grabbing on to his hard biceps, needing the reassurance of his warm flesh, his breathing body. I needed to exorcise the memory of holding his stiff, often mutilated body as the warmth drained from it.

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