This ability to wash was another blessing long denied him. He often showered more than once a day because it felt so good to be clean. And yet, he never truly did. Some part of him always felt dirty, defiled, no matter how hard or often he scrubbed at his skin and hair. Back in Wales, he’d been forced to ignore it, making do with tepid sponge baths and cold rinses from rainwater. Now, it seemed that the more he washed, the dirtier he felt. He knew it was nonsense, but he couldn’t shake it. And the longer he stood under that spray, the more his mind insisted on focusing on unpleasant matters. Keeping busy was his best defense.
With that thought in mind, he hurried to finish, no longer enjoying the experience. This was how it always ended. The soft towels at his disposal made quick work of drying him. His closet and drawers were filled with more clothing than he could possibly use. He grabbed items at random—a sweater, jeans and socks. Underwear was available, but really, that was something that made no sense to him. Small clothes were for rich people, unless it was about keeping warm, which it wasn’t for him. It was enough to have the barrier provided by what he did tug on. Low boots in soft leather completed his dressing. His final act to get ready for the day was to brush and pull back his hair into a slick tail. He didn’t mind it being wet because, again, the whole house was warm. He didn’t have the patience for using that air-blowing contraption that Lucien had given him.
Before he left his room, he gathered the wet towels and dirty clothing from the hamper. He went straight down to the laundry room and threw a couple of loads into the machines that existed for the purpose, adding others that were waiting in the baskets. Washing wasn’t his job in this house. Frankly, nothing officially was, which bothered him. Doing nothing was not in his nature, and the lack of duties disturbed him more than any amount of hard labor did. He wanted to be useful, and the appliances made everything almost a joy to do.
Once that was done, he proceeded to the kitchen. Here again was an area that wasn’t his assigned domain, but there were a lot of mouths to feed, even with some having been captured. The fresh reminder of how his son had been taken from him made him stagger. He gripped the counter until his heartbeat steadied and his vision cleared. It was too easy to spiral into fear and despair and much better to shove his feelings aside and channel his energy into starting breakfast. He knew that those who ruled the kitchen, alien and human alike, wouldn’t fault him for it. In fact, it continued to surprise him how often he was praised and thanked for his efforts. With what little confidence he possessed, he prepped for breakfast, allowing himself the time for a cup of tea and a couple of pieces of toast. Hunger was a thing of the past, but he didn’t have much of an appetite on the best of days.
Omelets were a staple of the household, so he chopped vegetables and sautéed them while warming multi-cartons of eggs on the counter. He started on sausages next, with an eye to cooking them nearly through so that it would be easy to finish them when breakfast started in earnest. Then he made the decision to bake buns, knowing that anything not eaten here would be sent to the place where homeless children were fed.
He had to put aside his disappointment about not being able to go there anymore. He’d found such fulfillment in the work, but Alex—the leader who was so different from Dracul, yet no less forceful—had forbidden it. It was dangerous for any of them to leave the house now, although the building itself had been breached easily enough. Really, at this point, nowhere was safe—not that he mentioned that indelicate fact. It still didn’t make sense to him, either, that anyone would worry about him. Dracul was unlikely to target him, and if he did, why would it matter? The concern for him was both touching and confusing—such common feelings these days.
So he did what he’d always done—just got on with things.
He was taking the first batch of buns out of the oven when the doorbell pealed. He’d no sooner moved his head in that direction than two aliens, the ones known as Val and Willem, vaulted down to the first floor from the top of the stairs with guns in their hands. Their dramatic appearance caused him to wobble his tray and he scrambled to catch the buns before they fell on the floor. He landed on his knees with a jarring thud that made him wince, but he’d saved all but one of his baked goods. Then, already jackhammering, his heart skipped a beat when he heard the voice of the visitor.
“Hey, guys, what a warm welcome. Are those guns stuck in my face for me? ‘Cause I, you know, come in peace and all that.”
The tone of the human cop, Sergeant Jefferson—Craig—was easy-going, yet Alun heard the steel underneath it. This was a man who didn’t scare easily and was someone to fear in his own right. It didn’t surprise Alun that the aliens didn’t appear to succumb to the sergeant’s dominant nature, but his own reaction to the man was unexpected. He should have given him a wide berth, as he did with all men, human and alien alike. Yet he found himself perversely drawn to the cop. After his initial reaction to hearing the man’s arrival, Alun’s nerves calmed with the sound of the banter continuing between the human and his alien hosts.
“It’s too-fucking-early o’clock, Jefferson. We weren’t expecting visitors.” This from Val, the scary security chief who was nevertheless always respectful to Alun.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing, my man. Dracul’s goons aren’t going to ring the bell, so I had that logic going for me.”
“Forgive us if we’re a bit jumpy,” Willem replied.
“I hear you… Hey, Alun.” Alun froze and looked up to see Craig hurry over to him. He had to fight the impulse to cringe away. “Let me help you.” The man grinned as he crouched beside him and reached for the tray.
Alun was momentarily mesmerized—and not by fear. This man was unlike anyone he was used to dealing with. It wasn’t only his looks, either, although his dark skin was unusual in Alun’s personal experience, even before his enslavement. No, it was the way he telegraphed both trustworthiness and concern with a single expression. True empathy showed through his dark brown eyes and, at the same time, made Alun feel secure. It conveyed an ‘I’ve got you’ sentiment that let Alun know he didn’t have to worry about anything. Craig was in charge, although not to dominate. And the easy smile he gave encompassed his whole face, a genuine warmth that infused Alun with a sense of calm and protection.
It also left him tongue-tied. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He didn’t know what to say or how to react. He simply allowed the man to relieve him of his burden, freeing him to juggle the buns that had fallen. Only one had touched the floor and rolled across it.
Val scooped it up and shoved it into his mouth. “Hmm, delicious.”
“It’s not even iced, like,” he heard himself say before he could stop his tongue from wagging. He shrunk back instinctively in anticipation of a blow that he understood wasn’t coming but that he feared nevertheless.
Craig took him gently by the arm and helped him to his feet. Funny how that gesture hadn’t startled him in the least. “No worries. I don’t think our giant friend here cares about those kinds of details, although apparently he follows the five-second rule. You know,” he added, when Alun could only blink back at him in confusion, “if it doesn’t stay on the floor for more than a few seconds, it’s safe to eat.”