Page 7 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy
Small, furious, dust-smudged, alive with curiosity, green eyes wide in a face I have spent twenty-four years seeing in mirrors without ever understanding that someone else might look at it and feel struck. Not attracted. Not interested. Struck, as if some old law of existence has come down like a hammer.
My knees weaken.
Ghar goes rigid beneath my hand. His golden eyes flare wide, and every controlled line of him locks in place as if he has been shot through the chest and refuses to fall on principle.
The sound around us vanishes. The generators, the comms, the drills, Merrow’s distant complaining, all of it drops away into a pressure so intimate it is almost obscene.
One soul with two bodies.
The phrase surfaces from old lectures, old texts, old arguments I have dismissed with clinical arrogance. Jalshagar recognition. Fated mates. Neurological convergence wrapped in religious poetry. Cross-species bonding phenomenon. Precursor meddling dressed up as romance so the galaxy can feel special about reproductive compatibility.
No.
Absolutely not.
I yank my hand back.
Sound crashes in again. My scanner shrieks an error alarm. Wind drags dust across the stone. Someone says my name, but I cannot tell who.
Ghar stares at me. His face has gone terrifyingly still, but his breathing has changed. Each inhale expands his armored chest with visible effort. His hands remain at his sides, fingers curled, claws pressing against his palms hard enough that I wonder whether he is drawing blood.
I step back and nearly trip over a cable.
Teren catches the gate behind him. “Anita?”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly.
Ghar’s voice comes out low and rough. “You felt it.”
“No.”
His gaze narrows. “Do not lie to me.”
That snaps something useful back into place. Anger, thank God. Anger is familiar ground. Anger has handrails.
“Excuse me?” I demand. “We are not doing this.”
His eyes search mine with an intensity that makes my pulse misbehave. “Anita—”
“Nope. No. Absolutely not. Whatever that was, it was not mystical, romantic, sacred, or any other word people use when they want biology to wear a fancy hat.”
Merrow looks between us with dawning alarm. “What happened?”
“Static discharge,” I say.
Ghar does not look away from me. “That was not static.”
“It was a neurological stress response triggered by contact under extreme environmental conditions.”
Teren whispers, “That is a lot of syllables for panic.”
I point at him without looking. “Not helping, Terry.”
Brakk barks a laugh. “Oh, she’s definitely going to fit in.”
Ghar takes half a step toward me, then stops himself with visible force. The restraint is so severe it might as well be another wall. “You should go to medical.”
“I should finish my scan.”
