The Human Pet: A Sci-Fi Romance

Part 13

She needs to let me bathe her because it's not just to clean or calm her. I must examine my pet and make sure she is alright and does not have any serious wounds from her encounter with Loviatar.

I strip my clothing and climb into the water.

It's like she knows what I need because I don't even need to call her. She sheds her clothing and dives into the water, swimming straight into my arms and pressing against my chest.

"My brave pet, I need to look you over."

She is such a good pet, pliant and cooperative while I examine her limbs and skin, confirming that she does not have any new cuts or bruises. One can never be sure, so I do it several times.

Thank the stars, she has no new injuries. I do our previous bath routine, lathering her hair and skin with a soft soap made from a botanical concoction. She humors me, staying listless in my arms. She even lets me carry her out of the pool and wrap large towels around her.

She gets upset when I try to dress her, so I let her do that for herself, and then I carry her to my desk chair, holding her in my lap while I debate what I should do next. Try to feed my pet again? Cuddle with her? Both?

A chime from the wall unit alerts me that I've received an urgent message.

I swipe to accept it and words flicker across the screen.

Due to a complaint that has been filed about your pet, both you and your pet are required to report for a mandatory evaluation to the office of Dr. Rigel, a behavior specialist.

If you fail to report within one Cerberus rotation period, your pet will be immediately seized, and a panel will decide whether to rehome or destroy your pet.

"Destroy," I bellow at my wall unit. Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe?

My pet whines and presses closer to me. It's like she senses my distress and she's trying to comfort me.

On the corner of my wall unit, a countdown timer for one Cerberus rotation day, or 25-hour solar day has begun. As if I would forget the deadline...

I grab her leash. She immediately bounds to me, and I clip the leash to her collar.

My pet sometimes seems agitated when I do not let her walk by herself, but I cannot stop thinking about the word flickering on my wall unit: destroy. Will this be the last time I get to hold my pet? So, I scoop her into my arms and carry her down the corridors to Dr. Rigel's office.

When we arrive at the evaluator's lobby, another door opens. I'm disturbed. The creature standing in front of me with an outstretched hand is not a scourge.

"Welcome Commander Tarak, I'm Dr. Rigel, the behavior specialist assigned to your case. Thank you for being so prompt."

Something is wrong with Dr. Rigel. His skin is smooth and unblemished. In other words, Dr. Rigel has never seen a day of battle in his life. To top off his unnatural skin, large, white wings are on his back.

The wings trigger an old memory. In my youth, I'd been hunting with a scourge pack, and we encountered a gigantic bird, probably twice the wingspan of this Rigel. That stupid bird swooped in and tried to steal one of our recently downed prey, except one of my pack-mates caught the bird thief by its leg. In a flash, my pack tore that bird apart, snapping its bones. Feathers had flown everywhere.

Suddenly, I can't help myself, and I lick my lips while looking at Rigel, imagining what it would be like to hunt this bird: the crunch of his bones and the delightful sensation of his warm marrow sliding down the back of my throat.