Ice Planet Barbarians (Ice Planet Barbarians, #1)(16)

I push the dried food back to him and shake my head. Even if I wanted to eat it—and oh, do I want to—I can’t. Just the thought of putting even a small piece into my mouth makes my jaw clench up. My stomach issues a miserable protest.

The alien is mystified by my rejection of the food. He examines my mouth again and tries to touch my tongue. I brush his questioning hand aside. “The problem isn’t my mouth, it’s your food.”

He says something in his gibberish language and gestures at my bruises. Oh. He thinks I’m hurt and that’s why I can’t eat. I shake my head. “I’m fine. Really.”

The alien—Vektal—gazes at me curiously.

“I don’t suppose there’s a nice city full of friendly aliens a short distance away?” I ask. The small cave’s getting colder, and the air whistles, so I hitch my jacket a bit closer to my body.

Vektal picks up his fur cape and drapes it over my shoulders, talking to me in that weird rumbly language.

“Thanks,” I say and hug it closer. He’s not putting clothes on, so the cold must not be bothering him as much. I eye him as he bends over and feeds another log to the fire.

He’s got a tail. Okay. Lots of things have tails. That’s not so weird. I’m trying not to get weirded out by him, but he’s just so . . . different. His horns, for one. The hand that places another piece of wood on the fire has only four fingers. The boots on his feet look like a soft leather but are shaped extremely wide at the toes, so I can only wonder what’s going on in there.

Oh, and he’s a smoky gray-blue. Can’t forget that part. And he purrs. So yeah, other than being bipedal, maybe he’s not much like me after all.

“Sheorshie,” he says, mangling my name. He repeats it and then gives me a frown and a shake of his braided black hair. “Sheorshie Vektal,” he says again, then points at his eye and then shakes his head.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say to me,” I tell him. “That I’m not like you? I know I’m not.” I point at his food. “I wish to God I could eat this, but I can’t.” My eyes brim with exhausted tears. Everything feels as if it’s crashing down on me. “You have no idea how much my life has sucked in the last two weeks.”

He says something in a softer voice and wipes away the tear that spills down my cheek. I notice his skin feels like suede or chamois. It’s . . . nice. It feels friendly even if everything else in the world is all fucked up.

Vektal tugs the cloak down tighter on me. He pats the furs by the fire and says something else. My guess is that it’s something akin to “rest here” because he pats the furs again and waits. I lie down. I’m warm and snuggled in furs and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m in imminent danger. All this alien wants is oral sex.

The thought makes me giggle inwardly, and I’m smiling as I fall asleep.



? ? ?





I wake up later, feeling better than I have in a long, long time. I’m warm and under a thick blanket, and I’m cuddled up against a big, hard form that’s warmer than any heating pad. My fingers move over the surface. It feels like suede over bone, and I realize after I hear the soft purring begin that I’m pressed up against Vektal’s chest.

It’s . . . not the worst place in the world to be. I mean, if I have my choice between the old cargo bay, alone in the snow, or snuggled next to the pussy-loving alien, I’m going to go with option number three.

I debate pretending to remain asleep, but there’s something big and hard prodding into my stomach that tells me that Vektal’s conscious, acutely aware of my presence, and far more generously equipped than any guy I’ve ever met.

I sit up, tugging the blankets around me. My breath fogs in the air, and I glance around the cave. Weak sunlight is pouring in through the door flap, and the fire has gone out. It’s bitterly cold unless I’m pressed next to Vektal, and the urge to crawl back against him and huddle for warmth is real and strong.

But he sits up and begins to adjust his clothing. “Vy droskh,” he tells me. I don’t know if that’s “good morning” or “damn it’s cold” or what. He gets up, and as he does, my stomach rumbles again.

Vektal squints at me.

“I know,” I say. “Trust me, I know.” It’s embarrassing for me, too.

He begins to unwrap the food from last night, but I make a face and shake my head. I mime that it burns my tongue. He chuckles and then makes a gesture that looks like a rocking baby, which puzzles me. I’m not following this conversation at all.

“Hungry,” I say. I rub my stomach and mime eating something. “Food?” Every inch of me feels like a mooch for finding a guy and then demanding he feed me, but “food” is easier to mime than “If you’d give me a nice weapon I’d catch my own breakfast.” For right now, we have to proceed in baby steps.

Vektal nods and begins to put on the gear he discarded overnight. He’s bare-chested this morning, and his pectorals are just as grimly fascinating as I suspected they would be. They’re like slabs of cold iron over his smoky blue chest. I remember the warm, suede-feel of his skin. He sure was nice to rub up against. I watch him dress, intrigued by the differences in our bodies. Over certain spots on his body, he has knobby ridges. They trail along the back of each arm to his elbow. The ridges glide down the center of his chest and smooth out somewhere between his pectorals and his navel. And his thighs have the bumpy, textured ridges, too. I wonder what purpose they’re for. They decorate his brow, too, and right down his nose.