“Note the male’s territorial display,” he observes as we watch some dating show trainwreck. “The chest-puffing, the aggressive proximity to rival males. Textbook dominance behavior.”
“That’s just Chad being drunk and obnoxious.”
“Exactly. Dominance behavior.”
“That’s not—” I stop, because honestly, he might have a point about Chad.
“The female appears receptive,” Riven continues, fully committed to his analysis. “Observe the hair-tossing, and the strategic clothing adjustments to display assets.”
“Assets?”
“Mammary presentation is a key element of human courtship,” he states with the confidence of someone who has definitely been watching too much reality TV. “As is the ‘smoky eye,’ though I remain unclear on how atmospheric particulates enhance attractiveness.”
I’m laughing so hard I nearly fall out of his lap. “It’s makeup! It’s just a makeup technique!”
“Hmm. My research suggests otherwise.” He pulls me closer with one leg, settling me more firmly against his side. “Though I find your natural appearance far more appealing than these… enhanced specimens.”
“Smooth recovery.”
“I contain multitudes.”
The nights are… well. The nights are why I’m going to need at least a week to recover once I get home. Possibly a month. Maybe a year.
At night, we return to the hammocks—all of them, eventually, as I make good on my promise to try each one. Riven approaches each session with the focused intensity of someone conducting very important research, carefully cataloging which positions I prefer, which angles make me gasp, which patterns of hisvibrating cock make me completely lose the ability to form coherent sentences.
It’s during these moments, wrapped in his silk with his body against mine, that I realize I’ve stopped trying to optimize or control anything. For the first time in years—maybe ever—I’m just… existing. Being cared for. Letting someone else take charge.
It feels like finally setting down a weight I didn’t know I was carrying.
On the fifth night, we’re tangled together in his largest hammock, my head on his chest, his legs curved around us like a living cage. The silk he’s woven around us is warm, and I can hear the storm outside, muffled by the cave’s depth.
“What happens when the roads clear?” I ask quietly.
His whole body tenses beneath me. “You return to your route. Your father. Your life.”
“And you?”
“I remain here. As always.”
There’s something hollow in his voice, and I tilt my head up to look at him. In the bioluminescent glow of the silk, his alien features are softened, almost gentle.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say carefully. “I meant… us. What happens to us?”
His mandibles click softly. “That depends on what you want to happen.”
“I’m asking what you want.”
“I want—” He stops, and I feel the vibration of his internal struggle through the silk. “I want you to stay. I want to wake up with you in my nest every morning and fall asleep with you in my arms every night. I want—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, and I realize his voice has been getting progressively rougher, more desperate.
“I want to keep you,” he finally says, so quietly I almost miss it. “But I have no right to ask that of you.”
My heart flips in my chest. This massive, alien predator who could literally keep me here with minimal effort—who has more strength in one leg than I have in my whole body—is asking permission. Is acknowledging my choice.
“You’renot asking,” I point out. “I’m asking you. Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” His legs tighten around me fractionally. “Yes, I want you to be mine. Permanently. Exclusively. In every way that matters to both our species.”
