"I'm looking at your spikes." She gently runs her hand along one of my biceps, and I want to pull my cock free and jerk it, her touch feels so good. "Do they not retract?"
"If they do, I do not know how," I admit.
"Oh," she breathes, the sound soft. "There's dried blood at the base of this one." Her gaze moves up my arm, to the next deadly, thick spike jutting from my skin. "This one, too." Her soft gaze moves to my harder one. "Are you in pain?"
I grunt. What is the answer to that? Is there not always some pain? "They itch."
"I'll bring you an ointment," Bee says with a little smile. "And maybe you'll learn how to retract them with time."
Staring down at the small human, I fight the urge to grab her. I don't know if I want to startle her, or simply remind her that I'm a monster. She doesn't seem to be aware of this fact. "You should be afraid of me."
Bee pretends to consider this, but her smile remains on her face. "Why?"
"I'm a monster."
"No," she corrects. "You were cloned from a monster and treated poorly when you were awoken. I suspect anyone would have lashed out if that was the case." She pats my arm, rubbing it lightly, and then moves away, back to her stool.
I don't want her to go. Not even across the room. But I say nothing, because I cannot show weakness. The guards in the hall watch her, their faces stuffed with her foods, and between smacks of their lips, they comment on how fearless she is. How Riffin is an idiot for letting her do this.
“Letting” her. I suspect no one “lets” Bee do anything she doesn't want to do, and the thought amuses me.
"So we need a new mattress for you," Bee says, ticking it off on one hand as she sits down again. "A sturdier blanket. Ointment for your spikes and your wrists. What about clothes? Do you need better ones?"
I glance down at the loose trou covering my legs. They are all I have, and while I would be just as comfortable naked, it's obvious from the layers that the other males wear—and the layers that Bee wears—that no one is naked. People wear clothes around other people. So I shrug.
Bee continues to study me. "What about a bath? Would you like one?"
"Are you offering to bathe me, Bee?"
Her eyes go wide and she makes a little sound that might be a protest. "I—me? No." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and flushes, dropping her gaze. "Nice try though, Victor."
I grin, because why shouldn't I ask? And my grin widens when I catch a faint—very faint—new scent in the air.
Arousal. Just a hint of it, but it's enough to let me know that I affect her as much as she affects me. Good.
7
BEE
Victor seems to be finding his footing. With a new name and the horrid cage out of his room, he stands a little straighter, his posture less bestial and more upright. Prouder. It's a good sign, and I'm happy for him. I want him to feel good about who he is, while accepting that he's not the monster everyone has him pegged to be. He's going to prove them all wrong and I'm going to be there every step of the way.
Well, maybe not every step of the way. I'm not going to bathe him.
Just thinking about the fact that he asked makes me flustered.
I know this is all a game to him. That even though his cage is gone, he's still a prisoner. Like any prisoner, he's going to test the bars to see where they give, or if they give at all. And I'm part of that cage, so of course he's going to test me.
I definitely should not find it exciting. It's fucked up that I do. It's even more fucked up that I look forward to him pushing at me, to see which of us will give first. I'm not used to men pushing back. Ever since I've been “freed,” I've adopted a manipulative personality to protect myself. I act sugary sweet, like the Southern belles of old (even though I'm not southern) simply because I can get what I want that way. I stay safer if everyone knows and likes me, if they think of me fondly. It's the only weapon I have against a shitty universe that's determined to break me into pieces, so I wield it indiscriminately.
It's one reason I think I become frustrated with Riffin. He means well, but he always lets me have the upper hand, in exchange for kisses. Maybe it's fucked up that I find the fact that I can manipulate him like everyone else a little…repulsive.
Crulden—excuse me, Victor—sees through my bullshit. And even though it makes me a bit more vulnerable, it also makes me feel oddly seen. Like he knows it's all part of my survival instinct and sees the real me through it. It feels like he understands what it's like to have to put on a front to protect yourself around others. I wonder if that's why I'm drawn to him.
Either that or it is really long past time for me to break it off with Riffin.
I immediately drop the bathing conversation, because no good can come of that. Instead, I focus on something that can help him fit in with the rest of society—his eating habits. Victor eats like it's all about to be snatched away from him. He shoves his muzzle into his bowl and eats rapidly, flinging crumbs with such abandonment that it's a wonder he gets any of the food into his mouth. Today, I hand him a pair of the eating sticks that everyone here uses and a bowl full of noodles. The eating sticks aren't quite like chopsticks—they're fatter at one end than the other and the ends are flattened, so they're almost like tweezers. I got quickly used to them, but I know some humans still prefer forks and spoons. If Victor is going to mix in with everyone else, though, he needs to blend.
So, sticks it is.
I have the guards bring in a small table and another stool, and we sit across from each other as he practices. His big hands don't work well with the delicate utensils, and between that and the sloppiness of noodles, it's a lesson that doesn't go particularly well. We end up spending all afternoon fighting over how he needs to hold the sticks, getting him to cup the bowl properly instead of just shoving his face into the contents. I keep my smile on and my attitude bright, even when Victor gets all snarly and angry at me because I won't let him eat the now-cold soup without using the sticks.
We bicker over it for so long that I'm certain Victor is starting fights just to prick at me and get under my skin. I refuse to let him get to me, though. I stay strong and correct his grip and make him repeat the small motions over and over again.
"You are trying my patience, female," he growls, finally flinging the sticks into the bowl and shoving it aside.
"My name is Bee," I correct sweetly, plucking the sticks back out of the bowl and offering them to him again. "Not female. Not human. Bee. And you have to practice, Victor, or else you're never going to get anywhere. You need to show them that you're just the same as any other alien on this planet, and the first step is copying their mannerisms. So if you want to be a sulky baby, go right ahead, but if you want to beat them at their own game, you learn to use their tools."
And I wiggle the sticks at him.
His eyes narrow and he snatches them back out of my grip. Instead of flinging them to the floor as I expect, he clamps his jaw, glares at me, and holds them properly once more. Or tries to—his fingers are thick and his claws get in the way. But it's a close approximation.