Slag: Book Four in the Galaxy Pirates Alien Abduction Romance Series (Shifter) Alana Khan (love letters to the dead .txt) 📖

somehow we’d find a way to escape to a better place. All I needed were a few singing birds circling my head and the credits would roll for another Hollywood blockbuster.

Then we swam and found the reds and had better-than-ever-in-my-life sex. And I’m certain Slag would agree because for him it was the-only-sex-in-my-life sex.

That first night I had a good hunch the reds were aphrodisiacs. Now I’m certain of it. We had sex in every possible way and in every position. We had it fast and slow and in the water. Slag learned every way to turn me on, and then he perfected it. And then I got sore. But we couldn’t stop.

I tried an experiment. I decided we shouldn’t eat for a few days. It’s not like there were other things on the menu. The animals we hear at night have better night vision than us—we can’t sneak up on them. There’s no other vegetation that looks promising. And eating insects? I won’t even go there.

So the intense arousal began to subside after two days of fasting, but how long could we be expected to keep that up?

Now we just fast when my poor nethers can’t take it anymore.

I shouldn’t complain, though, not only is the sex terrific, but Slag and I are friends. I’m pretty sure his thoughts are more clear than they had been in the mine. I think he understands most of what I tell him.

We found several huge rocks that made natural bowls, and due to Slag’s colossal strength, he fills and carries them from the interior every day so we have fresh drinking water in the outer cave at all times.

We try to explore the planet, but it’s hard since the reds make us so horny we have to stop every hour or two to take the edge off. Thus far, though, we haven’t come upon any other humanoids, so we don’t have to worry about being interrupted.

A week ago we explored farther outside the cave than we have in the past, and saw the rooftop of Sooma Ryone’s mansion. It’s half a day’s walk and I doubt anyone’s looking for us. They left us for dead. But still, his evil presence looms over us like a pall.

The day after our return from that expedition everything changed.

I’d worried about Slag’s health since I realized the mine was heavily irradiated. I was only there two days and felt the effects. Since escaping, though, my energy and thinking have returned to normal.

Though Slag can’t talk, he understands some of what I say and can nod and shake his head.

Communication is hard, I have to ask just the right questions. He has a subdural translator just like me. I guess it’s worth the expense to our owners so we can be more productive slaves. If I ask the perfect questions, I can get a lot of information with just him nodding yes or no.

I’ve seen so many times in emergency situations where it’s only after the adrenaline wears off that the body feels exhausted. I can’t imagine how long Slag’s body has been in survival mode

After asking hundreds of questions, I understand he was down there a long time. Like years. Many years. He says most miners die within months, some last a year. The big male has no idea why he stayed strong and never died.

But he’s dying now. At least I think he is. It doesn’t make sense that within weeks of escaping the toxic environment, his body decides to give out now, but that seems to be what’s happening. I guess all those years in the mines have finally taken their toll.

Six days ago, the normally strong green giant laid down for a nap. In the middle of the day. That alone should have tipped me off, but I chalked it up to being his first vacation day in years.

The day after that he rested after carrying one hollowed-out rock from the stream. Usually, he brought two.

Since then his health has swiftly declined. Sometimes his eyes can’t focus on me, even though he tries. Just now I started crying when his hand couldn’t get a piece of fruit from where it lay on his chest to his mouth.

“Slag,” I say as I crawl next to him on the soft pile of vines we’ve made into a bed in the outer cave. I turn to face him and cup my hand to his cheek. Although I’m afraid to admit to either of us how much he means to me, I decide to say it.

“I don’t know how much you understand, Big Guy.” I pet his face. “Sometimes I think you get everything I say. Sometimes you fade out on me.”

I think he’s tuned in now. His gaze doesn’t leave mine.

“You scared me so much at first. When you came roaring toward me that first day and knocked all those males to the ground, I thought it was so you could have me to yourself . . . you know, to hurt me. But you protected me, Slag, and continue to protect me. I care about you. We’re a team.”

He nuzzles my hand, then his head falls against the bed and his eyes glaze over.

I couldn’t love him, could I? I don’t even know him. It’s not Stockholm Syndrome—he didn’t kidnap me—but maybe it’s some White Knight Syndrome. He certainly saved my life a couple of times. Although I saved his, too.

I cuddle him all day as he gets quieter, refusing food and water.

Geographically, we’re in a bowl. I think that’s why we escape the brunt of the howling winds much of the time, but all day the winds have been picking up, punctuating the drama that’s going on inside our little cave.

Suddenly, the ground trembles. Between the intensifying winds and the quaking soil, it pulls Slag from