Page 22 of Stolen By Her Alien Mate

“Alas, no.”

“Alas, no,” she repeats, chuckling as she pulls a cloth from her waistband and wipes the counter in front of her. “You sure do have an odd way of talking. Where did you say you were from?”

“Perse. It’s … far from here.”

“And you said you’re a prince, didn’t you?”

“I am.” I nod, hoping that the language module the Adjunct created for me translated terms of ranking accurately. “I am Prince Kael De Survacia, highest ranking member of the Clan Survacia.”

“Hmm.” The sound she makes seems both amused and skeptical.

The whole conversation is a bit frustrating. On Perse, we have one language. Many dialects, yes. But only one core language.

Normally when I do recon I have the advantage of knowing the language, the dialects, the minutiae of the local culture. I’ve never felt quite so disadvantaged as this before.

Still, even with the language barrier, I can tell from the gleam in her eyes that Lorraine wants me to succeed. She is one hundred percent on Joey’s side. She’s the kind of friend who will advocate tirelessly for my Joey. She wants me to succeed, because she wants me to be right for her friend.

I can appreciate that kind of loyalty, especially now that the Adjunct has found me more information about this foster care system Joey grew up in. Without a Persæn guardian to look out for her, at least the Tides provided her with a human equivalent.

Lorraine props her hip against the counter and asks, “So is that Kale like the vegetable?”

It takes me a second to connect her words to the mental image my brain pulls up of a dark leafy green. I laugh. “No. Not like the vegetable.”

“How about a piece of pie to go with your coffee?” The older waitress slides over a plate with a triangular piece of food with a red gelatinous something in the middle of it.

I quirk my eyebrow at her and eye the food with skepticism. The vizzes I’d watched the previous evening had made much of a popular earth food called a hamburger and soda. So, this morning, I procured one from the restaurant recommended by the vizzes. The hamburger was weirdly floppy and tasteless. The soda, far too sweet and aggressively fizzy. How had my Joey Kincaid survived so long on such unpleasant food?

Lorraine must sense my hesitancy, because she nudges it closer to me. “Cherry. It’s the best pie we serve.”

“Where is she today?” I ask before stabbing at this pie with my fork.

“School. She’s off every Wednesday for her classes, the rest she takes in the evenings and on her computer.” Lorraine wipes at the counter top again, the damp rag smelling faintly of the bulber flower, a yellowish-green bloom that can be crushed and used as a disinfectant.

At least this planet, no matter how primitive, is clean. Mostly.

“Has she not aged out of schooling?”

Lorraine clucks her tongue. “Well, sure she’s finished high school, but Joey’s ambitious. She’s taking college classes, works this job, and one other. The girl’s got hustle.”

Though I’m not familiar with the term hustle–and my time in the HSC only pulls up an image of a dance–I get the gist of the term. Joey is hard working.

I expected no less.

Her beauty, her voluptuous curves, those took me by surprise. As did the instantaneous urge to claim her. To make her mine. Not just to mate with her. And not just for the purpose of bonding. But to own her, body and soul. To be owned by her in exchange.

All of that, I did not expect.

The restaurant is mostly empty, so Lorraine lingers near me, watching, waiting for me to try the food. Reluctantly, I raise the fork to my mouth, not sure what to expect.

Compared to the limp, unpleasantness of the hamburger, the pie is unexpectedly pleasing. The golden brown top is flaky and seems to melt in my mouth. The gelatinous center is both sweet and tart, bursting with flavor.

I nod. “Yes. This is more like it.” I stab another bite. “Now, this is what food should taste like.”

Lorraine smiles, and for a second, something about her expression reminds me of Jopin. In the early days, she’d assisted Lantimere with our training. None of us remembered much about our own mothers. Jopin had tried so hard not to baby us. She didn’t want us to be weak. But I’d always known how and when a smile and a wink would get me an extra dollop of voupado sauce or the thickest slice of hoirino.

I flash Lorraine that smile now. “You are clearly a woman of outstanding taste.”

She snorts, looking more amused than annoyed. Perfect.