It’s while I sip my water that I notice there’s something…off about my doorframe.
I approach my front door, heart pounding, and when I touch the door itself, the old-fashioned deadbolt falls to the floor. I pick it up, and notice there are claw marks all over it. The outside of the door has been scratched with deep, furious gouges as well, as if someone—a praxiian someone—tried to claw his way in. The damage is recent, because I didn’t notice it when I got home…and the rest of the evening I’ve been too occupied by Vordigar to pay attention to anything but him.
That means my praxiian stalker came by tonight. I stare at the lock, and then out at the darkness. He could have come inside. He broke the door open. Instead…he must have heard Vordigar and me in the bedroom. He must have heard what we were doing and left.
My skin prickles and I feel extremely unsafe. I put a hand on the door to close it again, and when I do, my fingers brush against something wet on the outside. It’s a dry night. Uneasy, my throat works as I get a flashlight and shine it on the door.
Long, wet ropes of milky semen are splashed all over my door.
The praxiian broke into my house to get me, and heard me and Vordigar having sex. He didn’t leave. He jerked off against my door.
I should be glad we weren’t hurt but all I can think is…he doesn’t want me dead. This means he wants me alive.
I swallow hard, try to calm myself, and go to get a towel to clean things up. The old scars on my brow hurt. I wet the towel and return to the door, scrubbing the acrid, sticky alien jizz off my door. After this, I’ll have to replace the lock and hope that Vordigar doesn’t notice. It’s not his problem. It’s my problem alone.
Always alone.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I sniff, hard. It’s then I realize my face is wet and my nose is running, and I can’t seem to stop the sobs that threaten to choke out of me.
Most of the time, when life throws shit at me, I can handle it. I’ve handled my abduction and my enslavement. I’ve handled my freedom and the resulting loneliness. I’ve handled my farm even though I knew nothing about farming when I started and no one would help me. I handle—every day—being human in a universe that thinks we’re dogs. But sometimes it gets to me. I know I can handle this. I’ll figure a way out of things.
Right now, though, it feels good to cry.
So I let myself weep as I finish cleaning the door and toss the towel into the laundry. I keep weeping as I grab my tools and work on replacing the lock. I have no idea how it fits on the door, but I’ll figure it out.
I always figure something out.
“Piper?” Vordigar’s sleepy voice makes my skin prickle with awareness. “You coming back to bed?”
I swallow hard, trying to steady my voice as I swipe tears from my face. “Soon.” Please just stay in bed. I don’t want to have to answer questions about this. Please just—
The bedroom door opens wider and I hear Vordigar’s feet on the floor behind me. “What’s going on?”
I get up from the door and slide the lock behind my hand. “Nothing. I’m coming back. I promise.” It’s dark enough that I hope he doesn’t notice my red eyes or my faltering smile.
His gaze pierces right through me, though. He watches me with narrowed eyes and then approaches me, then pulls my hand back and I’m forced to show him the broken lock.
“It’s nothing—”
“Why does it smell like praxiian here?” His nostrils flare and he moves toward the door. Inwardly I wince as he sees the deep furrows and scratches around where the lock used to be. He looks at me in surprise. “He tried to break in?”
I shrug.
Vordigar looks at the lock in his hand, as if he’s just now realizing what I was doing. That I was quietly repairing it in the middle of the night. “You weren’t going to tell me?”
“I didn’t want to burden you with my problems,” I say in a small voice. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”
His jaw clenches. He tosses the lock down and moves to my side. When I try to duck my head, he puts a finger under my chin and gazes at my face, studying my swollen eyes and leaky nose. “It’s fine, is it?”
I pull away from him. “Once I get a new husband, it’ll stop. I just—”
I watch in confusion as Vordigar storms out of the room. Curious, I follow him toward the bedroom and watch from the doorway as he picks up his communicator. I can see it flashing with unread messages, and he dials someone with a grim look on his face. There’s no answer—it’s the middle of the night here—and so he leaves a short, terse message. “I can’t make it. Head on out without me.”