Gyft (Rescued by the Alien)

Chapter Eight

OLIVIA:

ALIENS ARE RATHER mannerless.

From the farmer who tried to look up my hood, to the wife who obviously brought up food so she could take a sneak-peek at the human, to the bratty-looking kids who stare at me with smirky little faces. Who snickered and obviously talked about me, even though I couldn’t understand their words.

Though they brought food, my guard barked at them until the woman turned red, rounded up her children and left. It doesn’t seem to have affected him any as he uncovers each dish and still mutters to me. It doesn’t even matter to him that I can’t understand.

“I’m sure they didn’t mean it, whatever happened,” I assure him, smelling a mostly vegetable soup that makes my stomach growl. At least I think these are colorful vegetables, but also some larger, tender pieces of meat on the side. Not silvery-metallic, like their skin shades, at least. They don’t eat each other.

But... eek. Surely not human flesh either? I’m the only human, right?

I watch the guard carefully. He’s still irritated, but I’m waiting to see if he eats. Surely a vampire doesn’t eat real food?

He picks up a round, yellow berry and pops it into his mouth.

So alien vampires eat.

But then the guard’s distress penetrates. He hasn’t hurt me yet, used his fangs for good, I guess you could say .

I place my hand over his. “Hey, big guy. It’s okay. However she insulted you, it’s okay. Let it roll off.”

He looks down at my hand on his.

I’m going to try to find a way for us to be together. “I... I like you,” I admit. “I don’t want to be married to this Gyft-guy.”

“Gyft,” he says, correcting me like he thought Gyft-guy was pronounced incorrectly.

“Yeah, I know.” I smile at him. “It’s you and me against the world, right? The humans, the aliens, the husband. Though, I’d want you to meet Yvette. She’s my best friend. I can’t live without her,” I confide. “I feel like reaching for my comm and calling her. But, of course, it’s impossible. We’re light-years away.”

He reaches out to stroke my cheek as if he can sense my unhappiness. Aww, he’s such a sweet guy.

“Yvette’s probably gearing up for Christmas right now. You guys probably don’t have an alien equivalent, do you? It’s almost like an entire month of celebration. The lights, the decorations, the music. The stories... we make it about the children, bringing them gifts and bribing them to be good. Probably what those two kids needed.” I gesture to the door where the family left and his eyes flick there.

“Shrigtul mageesi blorckan,” he murmurs and his tone sounds possessive. Like he’s worried about me?

“It’s okay, handsome. Taste this soup so I can see if you make a face before I try it?” I bring the spoon up to his lips.

Gah, his full lips, pink with a slightly purple hue. So freaking gorgeous if we could bottle that perfect color for a lipstick.

“Mmm.”

“Really? It’s good?” I dip the spoon back in, take some and sip it myself. “Oh, my God, it’s delicious.” I take another spoonful and then offer him some.

He opens up quickly and then it dawns on me... we’re sharing the same spoon. So intimate .

I love this.

I take a bit of mushy stuff from the plate and hold my finger up. “Not sure what you do with this?”

He smiles gently, then takes my hand and brings the finger to his mouth.

His warm mouth.

He sucks it clean, the pull on my finger feeling wet and suddenly sexual.

“Ooh, baby,” I moan.

He takes a little pinkish brown stick and dips it into the mush, then brings it to his mouth and bites it off, as if showing me the stick is edible and crunchy.

He double-dips, then brings it to my lips.

I open up and he pops the rest of the little stick in. It’s slightly sweet, kind of watery, like a carrot stick. The mushy stuff is a little buttery and a little salty, with a foreign tang that goes well with the round veggie stick.

Or...

“Is that a finger?” I gasp.

My God. It might be. It’s round, about as big as a ring finger, with a stumpy looking end. Plus, it crunches deep in the middle. Is that bone? Cartilage?

I blanch a little, then hold it up to my hand, against my pinky, so it looks like a sixth finger sticking out.

And he starts laughing.

It’s like a deep, belly-aching laugh as he throws his head back. I can see his fangs, his throat move as he gasps in air, and I’m so enthralled with him, I forget to be insulted that he’s laughing at me.

Then he shakes his head no, takes the fake finger, bites it in half, then takes my pinky and goes to bite...

I jerk my hand, but he smiles as he holds it still, then kisses it .

“Well, it’s just that it’s kind of flesh-colored,” I grumble. “Maybe darker than my own skin tone, but we come in a variety of shades, you know.”

Still chuckling, he takes a cover off one of the dishes to show me something that resembles a sliced roast. Maybe he’s telling me that’s the meat?

I eye it warily, hoping to tell if it’s human-shaped.

But then he takes a fork—one with too many tines—and spears it through a corner of the roast, taking a small chunk out, and holds it up to my lips.

I flick my tongue out for a tentative lick. A blend of salty, exotic spices hits my tongue.

“Hope it’s chicken,” I whisper, and take a bite, chewing slowly. It’s definitely meaty, with a slightly different texture. More melt-in-your-mouth.

He looks like he’s waiting for my response, so I nod. “It’s good.”

He smiles and then indicates the soup spoon, so I give him another bite before taking one of my own. Yup, no meaty chunks in the soup. At least I know it’s alien vegetarian soup.