Chapter Three
Annika’s heart leapt in the split second it took for her brain to digest the fact that he hadn’t spoken in response to what she’d said—not directly—because he hadn’t understood a word of it.
Clearly, though, he was not only capable of speech, he had a language!
And some of the words-sounds actually seemed a little familiar.
Which didn’t necessarily mean they were, or that they meant the same thing or even something similar to the language it reminded her of.
But it did mean he was a higher animal—which might not actually be a good thing for her, now that she thought on it.
She still felt hopeful. If he was intelligent there was at least a chance that she could negotiate her release.
If she could figure out how to communicate with him.
She’d studied language analytics and xeno-cryptography, had mastered both, mostly because it was required of anyone in her field. She was certain she could figure out how to communicate with him. It might take a little trial and error to communicate, but there were certain things that one could be fairly sure of even with extra-terrestrial beings. They were motivated by the same basic needs as humans, or indeed, any animal—survival and reproduction. Everything else was an extension of the basics. Which meant there could be some fairly wild variations, but it was unheard of as far she knew to find a humanoid species that didn’t have a lot in common with humans.
So she thought she could figure it was a given that he’d either taken her for breeding purposes—assuming he recognized her as a female and he was the male he appeared to be … or he’d captured her for food.
She wasn’t certain which possibility was more terrifying, but she couldn’t afford to dwell on any of the scenarios playing in her head. That would just turn her into a mindless vegetable and she needed her wits.
And she damned well couldn’t allow herself to believe he’d simply rescued her to be helpful—because he wasn’t human and she couldn’t afford to give him human-like qualities, no matter how determined she was to cling to similarities between humanoid species.
Even though she knew that there were actually species that had been discovered that were more human than humans—meaning they had the qualities humans had aspired to but never actually achieved—not as a whole, at any rate.
Before she could formulate any kind of plan to attempt communications, however, he approached her and scooped her into his arms. Taken off guard, she grabbed for him instinctively to keep from falling, but, with her hands still bound, she could do nothing but grip one brawny shoulder.
He carried her through a short corridor and into another cavern ‘room’. There, he settled her on a crude, makeshift bed that was surprisingly comfortable—particularly in comparison to the freezing cold stone floor he’d lain her on before. She didn’t get the opportunity to figure out how that had been achieved when her impression was that it was a completely primitive invention. As soon as he had settled her, he began to run his hands lightly along her arms.
Shocked and unnerved at the intimate touch, Annika struggled—briefly.
He grasped her arms, lifted them above her head and pinned them to the bed with one hand. At the same time, he moved over her, straddling her waist and pinning her down with his weight.
Stunned, Annika gaped up at him as he continued his examination.
He’d skimmed his hands over every part of her from her bound wrists downward before it dawned on her that he was either examining her to see if she had enough meat on her bones to be worth eating, or he was checking for broken or cracked bones. There was nothing the least bit sexual about his touch or the expression on his face, which seemed completely impersonal.
The artificial light and his closeness gave her the opportunity to examine him now that some of the shock had worn off and she was actually able to focus.
She was surprised he looked so human-like when he was clearly not human at all—not with the wings, because they were appendages, not some artifice for gliding on the air currents. She recalled that she’d felt the bunching and flexing of his muscles in flight, although at the time she’d been far too terrified of him and her situation, and still shaken from the crash, to realize she was taking mental notes.
Physically, though, beyond the wings—which were very much like bird wings in appearance at least—he could have passed for human even though there was enough exotic, alien variation to his facial features that he certainly wouldn’t have passed unnoticed. The difference wasn’t unappealing. In fact there was a stark, hawk-like look to his face that she might have found very appealing under other circumstances.
He was muscular in the way of men who spent a great deal of time and effort on building bulging, well defined muscles, but she thought she could safely discard that as a possible explanation for his cut physique. Flying couldn’t be effortless even without a burden, even though he’d made it seem that it was.
No doubt they used the air currents and dynamics of their bodies to conserve as much energy as possible, but it would still require a lot of muscle power and that most likely explained what she could only think was a stunning beautiful build—from what she could see of it, which was most of it.
He was wearing something sort of vest-like that exposed almost as much chest and back as it covered, and a loin cloth, leggings, something similar to moccasins—all of which seemed to be made from some sort of leather and tied to together to keep them in place.
The fingers on the hands that slid over her were long and graceful, his palms narrow.
Butterflies fluttered in her belly as she examined them coasting over her ribs.
Or maybe it was only that he found every sensitive patch of skin with the same apparent effortlessness that he’d captured her mid-air and flown away with her?
“What? What are you doing?” she asked in a strangled voice, more to distract herself than because she expected an answer.
In response—almost as if he completely understood her, he used a thumb and forefinger to trace one of her ribs.
If he’d punched her he couldn’t have more effectively knocked the breath out of her.
“I am checking for broken bones,” he responded to the question in her voice, demonstrating since he knew she did not understand.
What little doubt lingered in her mind vanished when he shifted off of her and examined her pelvis, hips, thighs, calves and her feet in the same manner.
She might have been relieved, more certain she knew what he was up to, but when he’d finished examining her bones he reached for the closure to her suit.
She tried to fight him off.
He subdued her and stripped her.
She had the satisfaction, at least, of knowing she’d given him a fight. He was panting slightly as he examined her skin.
This time, however, he was far less impersonal.
“Don’t even try to convince me you’re examining my breasts for injury!” she snapped when he cupped a breast with one hand and squeezed it experimentally.
He met her gaze for a long moment. When he looked away, he examined her cursorily with his gaze and finally released his grip on her arms.
To her relief, he untied her wrists.
Almost immediately, circulation began to return to her hands. She gritted her teeth at the pins and needles effect of blood rushing into her extremities and stimulating her nerves. When she opened her eyes again, she saw he was watching her.
He made a gesture that seemed to summon. She studied him suspiciously for a long moment and finally struggled to sit up.
It was more of a struggle than she’d expected. Every muscle in her body seemed to scream at once. Grunting, she fell back, trying to gather herself.
He surged toward her when she fell back, his expression grim.
It unnerved Annika since she didn’t know why he was looking at her like that.
To her surprise, instead of jerking her to her feet, he pressed her back against the bedding, shaking his head when she countered, trying to get up. She relented only because she could see she was in no shape to win a battle of wills that was physical—probably wouldn’t be on her best day with any man, let alone one as muscular as the alien was.
When he seemed satisfied she wouldn’t try to get up again, he left. He returned a few minutes later carrying a woven cloth and an earthen jug, which she discovered held water.
She wasn’t left long to wonder the purpose. He dipped the cloth into the jug and then rung the excess water from it and took one of her hands, lightly rubbing.
It was icy cold, but she doubted it was going to get warmer sitting in the jug and she caught the drift rather easily.
She was filthy—no surprise since she’d just been in a crash.
Horrific thoughts flickered through her mind, images, but she closed her mind to them, focusing instead on the offer for the comfort of cleanliness.
She reached to take the cloth from him. They struggled briefly over possession and then he yielded it to her. Surprise flickered through her and then relief.
After a pregnant moment, he rose to his full height, turned and left her.
She’d offended him, she realized uneasily. She was still unwilling to give up her independence or her privacy by refusing to be bathed by a strange man of another species. But she was also concerned about antagonizing the only ally she had at the moment.
“Annika,” she said on impulse. “My name is Ah-na-ka.”
He hesitated at the door and glanced back at her. She touched her upper chest with one palm. “Annika. I’m Ah-na-ka.”
He frowned, seemed to be struggling with the sounds she’d made. “Um Ah-na?”
She touched her chest again. “I,” she emphasized. “I am Annika.”
He studied her for a long moment. She’d just decided she hadn’t managed to get it across to him that she had a name. Then he touched his chest. “Zhor.”
She tried to convince herself that her heart was racing when he swept from the room because she’d managed to communicate. However tiny the victory, it was a start.
Somehow, it didn’t feel like that was what had set her heart to hammering uncomfortably, though.
* * * *
Zhor was in turmoil when he left the woman to bathe herself.
Alien or not, she was a pretty little thing, and with a womanly shape dearly familiar if half forgotten.
He did not even want to think about how long it had been since he had touched a woman—any woman—let alone one not his kin that he could bury himself in and seek heaven.
Too long, and he wanted her so bad he could taste it, had to fight his urge to conquer, to take, to force her to accept him.
No doubt she would hate him if he did as he pleased, though, did what he wanted to do to her.
And he did not want that, did not want to see loathing on her face when there was a chance he might see passion.
He did not want to feel her fear and hatred each time he took her, to wonder if she was plotting to slit his throat in his sleep.
Or to poison him.
It had been so long, though, since he had courted a woman and seduced her into desiring him that he was not sure he had the patience now or even remembered how.
And she was not one of their women.
Could he?
And what if he found that she wanted none of him no matter what he did to please?
What then?
He settled by the pit where he built his cook fire and broke sticks absently, for it was a ritual so imprinted upon him it took no thought at all. So deep in thought that surprise flickered through him when the fire caught the dry sticks and leapt upward, dancing high enough the licking flames nearly lapped his brows from his face.
He leapt back, disgust twisting his expression as the smell of singed hair filled the cavern.
Uttering a sound of annoyance, he lifted his cook pot from the basin of cold water he used to prevent his food from spoiling and set it over the fire to reheat the stew he had burned the night before.
It was just as well, he thought wryly, that he was satisfied with a quantity of food that filled his belly and not too nice in his requirements of flavor—because he had given up long since on being able to reproduce the dishes his mother once had. He remembered with fond nostalgia, though it had been almost half a lifetime ago, but he did not remember well enough to produce anything even close.