Page 12 of Gyft
I smile, pleased that she obeys. But then she notices my fangs, and looks away with a gulp, her small hand fluttering toward the cloth decoration she placed on her neck.
I’ll have to reassure her once we have each other’s languages that the mateship bite will never occur between us. That our marriage is in name only.
But a strange feeling hits the pit of my belly at the thought. I feel oddly rejected. Confused, I drape my cloak over her, fastening it at the throat, and lift the hood to cover her head.
She gasps. Perhaps she didn’t know she could see through it? How did she think we got around with our faces covered?
“Come, bride. Let’s meet the farmers here and see if they’ll let us spend the night.” As if they wouldn’t. They’d undoubtedly recognize Gyft T’shil, High Commander to the King.
Whether or not they’ll run screaming at his alien bride remains to be seen.
I offer her my arm and when she takes it, she smiles up at me. I’m glad she’s on my left. On the other side, she could probably hear my heart thumping.
Her skin is soft, her body plush and ripe. Round hips, a small waist and voluptuous cleavage, even though there’s only one deep valley between two breasts.
I’d preferred the normal three before I met her.
But I find I’m curious about nuzzling between two.
To be fair, I should wait until we can understand each other before even thinking about exploring her private parts. She’ll need to know it’s a one and done. That she’ll be free to take another soon.
A prickling sensation of heat licks up the base of my neck.
She twists her ankle and yelps.
“Be careful,” I snap, my voice a bit short because of the sudden heated anger raging through me. Where it came from, I’m not sure, because I’m the one who decided the bride can go on her own way. “You don’t want to hurt yourself before I can call for a ride.”
“Not sure who trained you in security, buddy. But you suck. Bodyguards don’t offer an arm like this is a high school prom, especially not to married women. I’m married to your boss, you know. Gyft.”
“I know you’re mine, female. You don’t need to keep reminding me. It gets old.” But it doesn’t really. Instead, the reminder just made something primitive and male rear its head inside me.
“Commander Gyft? Is that you?”
We’ve been discovered. I mutter under my breath before securely fastening the cloak at her throat to hide her and whirling around to see the farm owner. He’s aged a bit since I was here last, but I hardly ever require shelter so I usually see him from afar.
He’s cleaned up for dinner, because he’s normally dusty from the day’s labor. But now he stands, fresh and smelling of soap, his eyes bright and curious beneath the wide brim of the khaki brichet he’s tossed on. He’s mated, of course, so there’s no reason to wear it over his face. His dark freelig is tied back from his head.
“It is I. I was collecting my new alien bride from the edge of the forest. Naturally, we’ll need to make our way to my shuttle. I parked away from the deadlands, but the bride landed in the forest, so I headed there on foot.”
He bows deeply. “Is that one of the Earth aliens, then? May I see her—”
“You may not.” My voice is loud and sharp with authority. And fear that he will know just how ugly she is.
He looks confused, then nods. “Night is upon us, Commander. You will not make it far.”
I sigh. “Do you have a spare room we can use for the night?”
“I would be honored to house the High Commander,” he says, his eyes flicking toward her as if still trying to see what she looks like. “I am Minstrel Grekl M’irshlak. My monesse and I live here with our twin souls.” He makes a grand gesture toward the farmhouse with his arm.
“We would be humbled to stay,” I say formerly.
He leads the way. I take the bride’s arm and steer her toward their home, walking slightly behind the farmer to avoid him looking over his shoulder at her. Behind me, the bride babble-whispers because she just can’t help herself.
“Menga!” Minstrel M’irshlak calls out, which is hardly necessary because his nosy mate watches from the kitchen window.
I wince. She is one of those country busybodies, then. I’m sure the news of this encounter will be all over the village before we are even picked up. It will be hard to keep my bride under wraps after this.
In a flash, his mate appears, the dishtowel still flung over one arm. She wears an old, shapeless dress, though she still has the smooth, blue-green skin of youth, a silvery sheen not as metallic as mine. But then again, I’ve met the deadlands. And unlike my white freelig, hers are rich and blue, the ends moving freely. In the hallway, I see twin souls peering around the corner, silver eyes wide. They have their mother’s blue hue.
