The words come out harsher than intended, but to my surprise, the nanites must have picked up on the context. The phrase translated partially, at least.
"You have that out of order," he booms. "We need to start having sex—which I have decided is a great idea—in order to stop. But how about we skip the stopping part?"
My eyes widen.
This conversation is spiraling out of control. I'm not sure if it's residual adrenaline from the fight, the cool water, or the sheer absurdity of the situation, but there's a newfound energy coursing through me.
No need to let him know I like it.
"We are not having sex," I shoot back.
My voice is surprisingly steady when I go on. "And even if we were, which we're not, there's no way it would involve whatever you're implying."
"Why not?" he challenges, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Seems like a perfectly logical solution to our predicament."
"What predicament? But to answer your question, because," I mutter, searching for the right words. "Because sex is for... for..." I trail off, unable to think of a single reason why two mismatched species from different planets would have sex in the middle of a jungle.
"For pleasure?" he supplies helpfully, a suggestive glint in his eyes. "Isn't that what you said before?"
"Well, sure, of course sex is for that. I just didn't agree to doing anything with you."
"Are you sure? You seem to suggest it every few minutes."
I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Look, Drasuk," I begin, forcing myself to take a deep breath. "We don't even know if we're compatible. And besides, there are more important things right now, like cleaning this wound and figuring out how to get back on track with the mission. Save the women. Save the world."
I snicker at the pop culture reference, fully aware he won't understand it.
"True," he concedes. "But procreation is a fundamental instinct for most life forms. How can you resist the natural urge to continue your bloodline?"
"Ugh," I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "This conversation is officially over."
Knowing I won't win in a war of words, I move on to my original task.
Focusing on my body, I picture the nanite suit reforming around my torso, leaving just a small opening around the wound on my side. To my relief, the suit responds immediately, closing back up and encasing my arms and chest once more.
A flicker of disappointment crosses Drasuk's face, but I ignore it. Dunking myself back under the water, I scrub at the wound as best I can, wincing with each touch. The embedded spikes are stubborn, refusing to budge.
When I resurface, I move to a large rock at the water's edge and start picking at the spikes, hissing when they cut my fingers.
"You're going to hurt yourself more if you keep doing that," Drasuk says, pushing his way in and taking over bossily.
"Hey, I can handle it," I protest, but he ignores me, his large, oddly shaped hands surprisingly agile as he begins to remove them.
His touch is gentle, and despite myself, I relax a little, though I'm not done protesting.
All I needed were some decent gloves. I would have figured it out.
I try to push him off, but there's no real heat in my effort, and he refuses to budge. Eventually, I give in and let him help.
We fall into a tense silence as he works. The rushing water is a soothing counterpoint to the pain he is inflicting with each tug. His hands move with dexterity, each spike coming out with a precision that belies his size.
I watch him, fascinated despite myself.
"You're good at this," I admit grudgingly.
He glances up, his spines shifting to show his approval.
"I've had practice," he says simply.
