He then snips away the restraints with startling efficiency, catching me in his arms before gently setting me down. He keeps his hands on my waist as I stumble forward on legs made of jelly.
“Stability should return in a few minutes,” he informs me. “You may experience residual sensitivity for several hours.”
“That was… Just wow,” I say breathlessly, glancing down at the tattered remains of my pants with a mixture of regret and arousal.
“Ah, yes. Your garments.” Riven follows my gaze, a low chittering sound rumbling from his chest. “A regrettable but necessary casualty. Wait one moment.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s already gathering the tattered pieces of my cargo pants from the ground. Then, his eight legs begin to work in a dizzying ballet.
Fine strands of silk emerge from the spinnerets at his wrists, and his legs act as the world’s most efficient needles. Soon the silk thread fuses the torn canvas back together, the seams so perfect they’re invisible. In less than a minute, he’s holding up my pants, completely whole and looking brand new.
“That’s crazy,” I say, unable to look away from his handiwork. “I had no idea you could do that.”
“Basic textile repair,” he says casually. He then nudges the sad, discarded scrap of my cotton underwear with the tip of one leg, before making a sound of quiet disgust. “These, however, are unacceptable.”
“They’re practical,” I protest weakly, though even I can admit they’re not exactly sexy.
He ignores me completely, instead spinning another web of silk in his hands, this one a delicate, pearlescent white so fine it’salmost translucent. In seconds, he has crafted a pair of seamless, elegant panties. He holds them out to me, his expression unreadable.
“You will wear these,” he states.
It’s a command.
I’m so shocked I just stare at him. My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. He wants me to wear underwear he just made for me? The sheer audacity of it is staggering.
But then I look at the garment he’s holding. The silk seems to glow in the porch light, incredibly soft and delicate. A traitorous thrill, sharp and hot, shoots through me at the thought of his command, of him dressing me.
“They’re beautiful,” I admit, reaching for them with something like reverence.
My hands shake as I take them from him. The silk is impossibly light, softer than anything I’ve ever felt. It feels like touching a cloud. Wordlessly, feeling his six eyes on me the entire time, I slip them on.
They conform to my body perfectly, the fabric cool and smooth against my still-sensitive skin. The sensation is so intimate, so scandalously luxurious, it feels like a continuation of his touch. I quickly pull on my newly repaired pants and try to regain the last shreds of my dignity, despite my face still burning with embarrassment.
“Human mass-produced textiles are disgracefully inferior,” he observes, picking up the box of slippers. “Inefficient design principles.”
“Right,” I say, my voice still shaky. I clear my throat. “So, uh, about what just happened… Was that… I mean, do you do that to every girl who gets trapped in your webs?” I’m aiming for casual, but there’s a note of possessiveness in my voice I can’t quite hide.
He pauses, tilting his head. For the first time, he seems uncertain. “Well, you are the first human female. But yes, when a potential mate responds to prowess displays the way you had… it signals acceptance. My actions were meant to demonstrate worthiness. Consider them a sort of… courting display.” The words are slow, careful, as if he’s translating a concept he’s never had to explain before.
“Courting?” My voice cracks on the word.
Jesus, ifthatwas courting, I can’t even imagine what full-blown dating is like with this guy!
“Well, yes. The Vyder equivalent.” Riven gestures with one of his upper arms, a surprisingly human-like shrug. “Your human courtship rituals are… perplexing. You’ll have to forgive my inexperience with the subject, though I have done extensive research. For instance, I know that it is customary for males to present females with roses, the symbolic vegetation for love, but I have none to give. They don’t grow well on this mountain, you see.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Where exactly are you getting your information on human courtship?”
“Anthropological documentaries,” he says with perfect seriousness. “Primarily The Bachelor and Love is Blind. These documentaries present consistent patterns of competitive mate selection in controlled environments. Very illuminating.”
The image of this terrifying creature taking notes while watching reality TV dating shows is so profoundly absurd, my composure finally breaks. A real, honest laugh bubbles out of me. “Riven, those aren’t documentaries.”
He seems genuinely perplexed. “They’re not? But the subjects agree to compete for mates under scientific observation. It’s classic behavioral study methodology.”
“It’s really not.” And just like that, my heart skips in my chest. Because underneath all that alien predator magnificence, he’s desperately trying to figure out how to court a mate properly.
Based on reality TV.
“Well,” I say, and my voice comes out softer than before. “For future reference, dinner is usually a good next step. No symbolic vegetation required.”
