Imagining the female with Hadrian or Theron has more anger rippling through me. I don’t rekking care… So why am I ready to knock the rogshite out of one of those two?
“I prefer to be alone. Let someone else have her.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You?”
He shifts his eyes away. “I don’t want her.”
“Sayer?”
“He doesn’t want her either,” he snaps sharply at me.
We both grow quiet. For a moment, I feel a pang of protectiveness over her. Why do they not want her? Because she is more solidly built than Emery or Aria? Are these morts so insecure that they need a fragile mate to feel better about themselves?
“She was chasing after you when we found her,” Jareth says with a sigh. “This one is much friendlier than the other two were. Healthy, too. I think, perhaps, she found comfort in you somehow.”
I snarl from behind my mask. She made me a weak, blubbering mess. Her simple, harmless touch sent me hurtling into the madness of my mind.
But then…
I try to ignore the memory.
I will survive.
Somehow, sweetly spoken words that felt like they moved and tickled my skin dragged me from the vast void inside my nog. When I came back to, I fled from her. A shudder ripples down my spine.
“Think about it,” he says. “Now come on. I’ll help you get the armworms decontaminated.”
“Careful,” I tell him, ignoring his earlier words over about the female altogether. “The female armworm has eggs in her.”
He makes a loud sound of excitement before grabbing up the bag. We make our way back inside, the crushing, trapped feeling when I’m indoors nearly suffocating me. Just inside the doors, we step into a mini decontamination stall and take the time to clean off our suits first. Then, we wash the armworms before transferring them to a sterile bag. We exit the decontamination stall and carry on our way. The descent is filled with Jareth’s voice as he talks about some book Sayer is working on. I’m only half listening.
My mind is back on the female.
“Molly.”
I look at him in confusion as he pulls off his mask at the bottom of the stairs. “What is this strange word?”
He laughs, baring his double fangs at me. “It’s her name, mortarekker. Your mate.”
I growl as I yank off my mask. “She is not my mate. Take care of that tongue, or I’ll take care of it for you.”
“Oooh, I’m rekking terrified,” he says, feigning fear. It makes me want to thump him right between his eyes.
“Leave my presence, pest.”
He snorts. “You’re lucky we’re trapped here with you. Otherwise you wouldn’t have any friends.”
His choice of words has my sub-bones cracking in my neck and my ears flattening against my nog. The smile falls from his mouth as he realizes his misstep, and I relax once more.
“Enough with the amusement,” he says, growing serious. “Remember what I said about Molly. She needs a good mate. Someone who doesn’t want to use her to breed like a rogcow. As much as I’m looking forward to our race thriving again, I don’t think the same way as Breccan. He may be our commander, but he sometimes gets so set in his ways. Molly needs friends, not five morts hovering over her just waiting for her to bend over so they can spurt their seed in her.”
I whirl around, fury rising up so quick I swear my vision turns crimson. “They threaten to take her against her will?” The roar that erupts from me vibrates off the walls.
He flinches and quickly shakes his nog. “N-No, Draven. I’m only saying they want her for a mate.”
As I follow him through the doors and we shed our zu-gear, I can’t help but replay his words. Five morts. Not myself. Not Breccan or Calix as they already have mates. And not Sayer and Jareth. Because they don’t want mates either for some reason.
Hadrian, Galen, Oz, Avrell, and Theron.
Hadrian may be the youngest mort, but I see the way his eyes linger on Breccan and Aria, jealousy flickering in them. Galen, our faction’s botanist, always seems to be sneaking peeks at the females. Ozias may have his nog down tinkering on his projects, being he’s our mechanical engineer, but I’ve watched him on more than one occasion licking his lips whenever Aria is near, his projects easily forgotten. Theron, our rekking crazy pilot and navigator of the Mayvina, has been quite vocal about taking a mate. And then there’s Avrell. He may be our doctor and looks after the health of these alien females, but I’ve felt the longing coming from him in waves. I know he desperately craves a mate.
I stride past Jareth down the corridor on a path to anywhere but near him and his maddening words until voices in the sub-faction have me halting. Jareth chuckles as he passes with our bag of armworms. Ignoring him, I peek my head into the sub-faction. The new female—Molly—sits on the lounger in the middle of the room with Sayer at her side and with Oz and Galen standing nearby. Both Oz and Galen seem enraptured by whatever it is she’s saying. I watch as she speaks with her hands. Big gestures. Wild movements. And she doesn’t even need to use them because her voice…