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3
NIYAH
Abell rings somewhere. It’s a deep gong that calls me out of sleep. I stretch my arms over my head and yawn. My neck and shoulders crack then I push myself upright. I slept really hard and the remnants of dreams flitter through the edges of my thoughts.
Did I really dream of him? He is sexy. In a very alien, strange way.
The bell rings again and now that I’m more awake I hear Bhoja moving around downstairs. There is the clatter of dishes and before I can roll out of the bed there is an amazing, spicy scent teasing my senses and making my stomach grumble.
I make the bed up, pulling the blanket tight. The blanket is rough spun cloth and as I spread it over the bed I notice how threadbare it is. The house is nice, clean, and well-kept but everything is also worn. Showing signs of not neglect, but hard wear.
Once I have the bed sorted I go to the stairs. I stop at the top and inhale the smells. It makes my mouth water and my stomach grumbles loudly. Okay, time to face the music. Or the food. Or, really, the kind of hot alien who I think is cooking me breakfast.
I force my foot onto the step feeling reluctant. Fear is a powerful thing. And I am afraid. No matter how brave a face I try to put on all this I am captive to an alien race that I barely know anything about except that they and the other alien race I do know want to destroy each other. That and my mission. To find a way to stop the war that is surely going to be a genocide for one side or the other, most likely the Urr’ki.
Greta should be here, not me.
Thoughts like that accomplish nothing, no matter how true they might be. Greta was smooth, able, and so damn loveable. Everyone loved her. Even people who hated everything she stood for and wanted to fight against every belief she had loved her. Respected her. Then there was me. Standing in her dark shadow and eking my way through life.
The stairs creak loudly halfway down so there will be no surprising Bhoja. I didn’t really intend to scare him or something anyway but still. As I reach the last step he comes into view. He has a steaming skillet in one hand and a wooden spatula looking thing in the other. The most astonishing thing is that he’s wearing an apron. That makes me stop and stare, intentionally or not.
“Good morning,” he says.
I blink. I should speak. Say something. He spoke. I move my mouth but no words come out. I blink again then nod like I’m an idiot or something. An apron? It’s so incongruous that I’m left stunned.
“Uhm, sorry, morning,” I say.
Under the apron he is not wearing a shirt. The visible parts of his bulging pectoral muscles hold all of my attention where they emerge from the cloth. There are scars crisscrossing what I can see of his chest and one particularly nasty one. That one is puckered and twisted, though it’s clearly an old wound it looks like it must have pierced almost to his heart. Assuming his heart is where a human’s is. I realize I don’t actually know where an Urr’ki heart is. He frowns and then gestures towards the table with his head.
“Food?”
“Yes, please,” I say, smiling as I try to recover from my embarrassing lack of social skills.
He walks back into the kitchen area and I follow in his wake. No, I do not miss the view from behind, but I push that down too. Ridiculous.
I take my seat at the table. He places a dish in front of me then scrapes food from the skillet onto it. Steam rises from the food and this close the scent is absolutely mouthwatering. Literally. It looks like an egg scramble with white chunks of what I assume is some kind of a potato like root. The eggs, or egg like stuff, are purple though. It’s not an unappetizing color of purple though and even if it was I think the smell is enough to make me see past that.
I grab a utensil, blow on it, then take my first bite. The flavor comes in waves. And it’s so good. Then, as I chew, it transforms into something even more, layer after layer of tastes, each one complementing the last until at last I swallow.
“Oh, wow,” I say. “This is delicious.”
“Thank you,” he says, speaking softly.
He’s staring at his own plate and only now does he begin to eat too.
“You are a very good cook,” I say. “Are you a professional?”
“No,” he grunts, shaking his head.
As he answers his hand stops part way to his mouth, his jaw tightens, and his shoulders tense. The grunt is almost a growl.
“You could be,” I say, trying to be friendly and encouraging.
“No,” he growls. “Not anymore.”
Clearly this is not the direction to take this conversation. I was trying to be nice but I’m missing something and it’s obviously a sore subject. I resume eating and enjoying the food. I’ve almost finished my plate while we’ve ate in silence.
He is done and has been for a few minutes, but he continues to sit and stare at his plate. Maybe he just doesn’t like me. After all I was thrust on him out of nowhere. It’s not like he chose this or something.
