Page 41 of Alien’s Retrieved Mate

"Kel."

He sighed. Actually sighed. I hadn't heard him do that before. "Some will accept it. Many will not. Resonance is sacred in our culture — it is the highest bond between two beings. The idea that it could occur with someone outside our species challenges fundamental beliefs about our biology and our place in the galactic order."

"So I'll be controversial."

"You will be the first."

"That's a nicer word for controversial."

Almost a smile. The ghost of one, at the corner of his mouth. It transformed his face, softened the sharp angles, warmed the stone, and it lasted less than a second before it was gone. But I saw it. And my chest did the thing.

"There is another concern," he said, and his voice shifted. Heavier. "Regarding your planet's uncontacted status."

"What about it?"

"Standard protocol for uncontacted individuals who become aware of galactic civilization involves evaluation and processing — and in almost all cases, memory modification and return."

I stopped walking. "Memory modification."

"The technical term is cognitive restoration. The colloquial term is⁠—"

"Mind wipe."

He stopped. Turned. His markings were pulsing irregularly. "I will not allow that to happen."

"They can do that? They can just... erase my memory and send me back?"

"It is protocol. Not law. And there are exemptions."

"What exemptions?"

He held my gaze. "A resonance bond. The citizenship statute was written around a verified bond, not species — its authors never imagined a non-Valorian case. If formally declared, it grants the bonded partner Valorian citizenship. A Valorian citizen cannot be subjected to cognitive restoration." He paused. "But it is not without cost. A declaration is permanent. For me as well. I would be surrendering my position with the Authority — retrieval specialists cannot hold active bond status. It is considered a conflict of interest. My career, the work I have built for eight years, would be over."

"You'd lose your job."

"I would lose my purpose. As I have understood it until now."

I stared at him. The implication landed like a physical weight.

And underneath it, the thing I'd been refusing to look at since the two moons rose on my first night here: I was never going home normally. Either they wiped my brain and sent back a version of me that didn't remember any of this — didn't remember him — or I stayed. Out here. In a galaxy my mother didn't know existed.

My mother. Who thought I was in Colombia. Who was probably, right now, sitting at the kitchen table in Minneapolis with her coffee and her crossword puzzle, mildly worried because I hadn't called in a while but not panicking yet because I'd warned her the jungle had bad cell service. She'd give it another week. Then she'd call the volunteer coordinator. Then the embassy. And then she'd spend the rest of her life not knowing what happened to her daughter, because "abducted by aliens" wasn't going to show up in any missing persons database.

I swallowed hard. Blinked. Kept walking.

There would be time to fall apart about that later. There would have to be, because if I started now I wouldn't stop.

"So the way to prevent your government from brain-wiping me and dumping me back on Earth is for us to formally bond."

"Yes."

"Which is essentially getting married."

"The concept is approximately equivalent."

"How long do Valorians live?"

The question surprised him. His stride faltered for half a step. "We age at approximately the same rate. Standard Valorian lifespan is about one hundred and ten standard years with modern medicine. My scanner's baselines and the fragmentary species data in my training archive put yours in a similar range, and you would have access to the same preventive care here."