Page 4 of Mated to the Grumpy Alien

So yeah, the vocabulary difference is a significant problem. Still, non-verbal communication cues are supposed to be universal.

“I believe there has been a misunderstanding,” I say calmly. Which is pretty damn amazing because there is no part of me that feels calm. Nope, I’m pretty much on the verge of all-out panic, but I’m keeping that shit locked down as long as I can so I can try to think my way out of this mess. Also, it’s difficult to talk with a bit of cloth across my mouth.

One of the guys holding me and carrying me towards the flames pokes at my soft and squishy belly. That isn’t enough to appease his curiosity, so he grabs at the roll of my belly and squeezes.

I try to squirm away from his pokes and prods.

“Yes, the fat girl will be tasty when she’s barbecued on that flame. Oh for fuck’s sake, how am I here?” I shout to no one. Evidently, I’ve lost the battle to keep my panic locked down. It’s about to roll out, and not only will I be burned at the stake, but I won’t even get to do it with dignity. There will be no cold indifference like Joan of Arc. Nope, I’m gonna scream and cry and blubber over everyone.

“I hope I rot your teeth and give you diarrhea,” I yell. I kick my legs and try to flail about but for all their primitive ways, they clearly know how to tie some knots.

My eyes meet those of a young girl in the crowd of screaming people. I stare at her, willing her to understand me.

“Whatever they think I did, I didn’t do it.” Then I see that one guy in the crowd, the guy who still has the tell-tale red eyes and streaks down his cheeks. Shit. “Okay, yes, I did spray that one guy with the pepper spray, but come on, consent matters.”

The girl is swallowed up in the crowd as the big guy’s chanting grows louder and more insistent. He’s clearly their leader, that one, but I already tried reasoning with him. He just smacked me on the head and I woke up a few hours later. Or what I assume was hours later.

Then there’s a loud, commanding voice, again in a language I do not recognize, shouting above the crowd.

All of the villagers around me seem to shrink in size and all fall to their knees. Even the men carrying me, which means I’m wobbling around their shoulders and trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Because knowing my luck, it won’t be good. It’s not like this is when Henry Cavill is going to ride in on a white horse and save my ass.

The crowd parts and oh my hell… well, it’s not exactly Henry Cavill, but whoever he is, he’s just as pretty. Even from my nearly upside down position I can tell this man is ridiculously attractive with his sculpted features, and muscles on his muscles. He’s massive, at least a head taller than all the people in the village, which means next to him I’d feel downright dainty.

Unlike the people of this village, he’s not wrapped in furs and cloaks. No, he’s wearing boots and pants with some sort of modern-looking fastenings. And he’s bare-chested, despite the frigid temperatures.

Speaking of chests… his is… wait, that can’t be right. His is gold? Shimmering and gold, like he just walked down from Mount Olympus. Like a live-action Hercules come to save me.

The big guy in the village comes over and yanks me out of the hands of the guys who’ve been carrying me.

The giant stranger stops a dozen feet away, a sword hangs casually from his hand. He eyes the man holding me, his gaze heated as he mutters words to the man behind me.

New guy is clearly pissed about something. Maybe he didn’t get invited to the party today? Maybe they didn’t invite him to the barbecue because they were afraid he’d eat everything. I’m trying to focus on those non-verbal clues to see if I can decipher the conversation, but all I have figured out so far is that Mr. Golden Pecs is furious.

He gestures toward my bindings, barking orders to one of the men standing off to the side. He’s an older man from the crowd, not one of the guys with the brute who was previously carrying me. The man slinks forward without looking at the brute and quickly slices through the ropes binding my wrists and ankles.

In response, the brute grabs my upper arm, holding me tightly to his side. He cowers, ducking his head, but he doesn’t let go of me. He says something in response, words hissed but full of anger and resentment. It doesn’t take a genius to read the context clues here.

Two huge barbarians are fighting over me.

Pretty sure I’ve read a book like this. In theory being the prize between two strapping men sounds like the stuff of fantasies.

In real life? Not so much.

I can clearly see who genetics or anthropology would want me to pick. Golden boy here is not just pretty to look at. He also is bigger, clearly stronger, and despite the language gap, he seems more intelligent. I don’t know. Something in his eyes that reveals he’s maybe not as simple thinking as the men in the village. That sounds terrible. I’m not a snob, I promise. But it’s like instead of a village idiot, these guys have a village genius.

So yeah, if I get to pick, I’m going with Hercules, because he’s hot and his eyes look smart. Yep, solid plan there, Cressida.

I think I might have said some of those thoughts out loud because now both men are staring at me. I give a little wave to the new guy. He grunts in response. Yes, obviously a genius. What is wrong with me?

Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. Is that what’s really happening? Like I’m still in line at the museum after the earthquake and maybe I have a concussion. Maybe this is a dream extension from the book I was reading the night before. What was I reading?

The brute’s fingers bite into my bicep and I whimper in pain. That doesn’t feel like a dream, that feels real. At my sound, Hercules roars at the brute.

That’s my queue. I’m not waiting around to see which of these guys wins. I’m not a ninja or anything, but the part of Austin I teach in is a bit rough. It behooves a single woman to know how to defend herself. So, yeah. I’ve taken some self-defense classes.

The second I feel the brute’s grasp loosen, I make my move. He might be huge, but he only has one hand wrapped around my bicep. I jerk my elbow forward and then slam it back into his solar plexus. At the same time, I stomp my heel down on his foot. His weird leather moccasins are no match for my Doc Martens.

When he releases my arm to howl in pain, I slam the palm of my left hand into his nose.