CHAPTER 23

 

TARA

 

I’m scared he’s going to hurt me back.  I’m terrified that he’s going to hurt me back.  What had I been thinking?

But then he sniffs—his big nose going up in the air, his chest looking about four times wider as it expands with oxygen—and he rears back, his quills clacking a little.

Taking in the fact that he hasn’t pummeled me with those great big hands, or bitten me right back with those great big teeth, I suck in a breath before saying, “I’m sorry.  I don’t actually have a death wish, but I bet you’re having a hard time believing that right now…”

I wince.

At this, something resembling a snarl comes out of his nose, and I flinch.

When I get the courage to peel open an eye, it’s to see him staring down at me, looking very disturbed, if my alien-expression-reading skills are up to snuff today.  It’s not like I’m sure: it’s kind of a new talent.

I wish he’d stop staring at me.  I wish he’d do something, even say something: I have no idea what he’s thinking as his eyes are fixed so intensely on me.  The backs of my knees tingle and I’m so uncomfortable that when the alarm starts to blare this time, I nearly pee on myself but I’m relieved because it means he’s going to go away.

Instead of turning and walking away though, he crouches right where he’s at, a fair distance from me since I backed away from him a moment ago.  He pulls the container of food out again, and his reach is long enough that despite the space between us, he still has no trouble offering up another treat right to my mouth.

I can’t believe he’s giving me another chance to bite him.

Then again, I don’t have a death wish.  I’m not going to pull that move twice.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I lean forward and close my lips over his claws, pulling the treat off of them quickly and not looking at him again until I’ve finished chewing and swallowing.

A second alarm starts up, and I realize I’m fidgeting and growing pretty anxious about the warning alarm itself—at the fact that he’s not leaving to go fix whatever that’s for.

That’s when he brings the feather duster up and makes a point of petting my head with it again.  Reluctantly, I meet his eyes.

He doesn’t look angry.

Determined, but not angry.  I’m glad and ridiculously filled with gratitude that he didn’t retaliate.  Being decent and not breaking the human into bite size pieces is suddenly reason enough for me to want to rejoice.  But despite that… I am so confused!  I don’t know what he wants from me, what the purpose is of what we’re doing right now.

I’m feeling really darn sorry for pets all of a sudden.  We bring them into the house, we blather at them in a foreign language, and when we see them doing something we like, we decide when to reward them for it, decide to assign the behavior a command, and we expect them to repeat it.

Thing is, I don’t know what the command is here!  I don’t know what behavior he’s going for.  Or was it simply reassurance?

A third alarm starts, and it could just be me, but it sounds really serious this time—and I can’t help it: I basically let out… a whine.

This is my life.  I’m a dog.  I’m a spacedog to three crazy aliens.  I’ve been taken from my puppies and adopted by aliens who are, in one form or another, trying to train me in very different ways.

The backs of my eyes burn.  It’s the ‘my puppies,’ specifically, the thoughts of ‘my puppies,’ that have me sniffing back tears.

The alien snatches my chin in his claws, which makes my jaw drop open in shock—handy, because he crams another treat in my mouth and lets me go fast, making an ‘eat!’ motion.

Yes, like this makes it all better.  I choke a little as I snort.

One side of his mouth kicks up.

I blow out a ragged exhale.  At least he’s really not mad at me.  And apparently, he doesn’t want me to cry.  That’s got to be a good sign.

My nerves are still a mess from the rising level of alarm in the alarms, but I catch on that he intends to feed me each and every treat he brought.  So I eat fast, and when I’m done, he stands, eyeing me for another round of uncomfortably long seconds before he draws the feather tip down the side of my temple, brushing the corner of my eye, my cheek, my jaw.

And then he’s gone.