Page 3 of Snowed in with the Alien Pilot

“Evelyn, please. We’ve known each other far too long for such formality.”

Rhade’s enhanced hearing caught the genuine warmth in their exchange, the easy familiarity of long acquaintance. His fingers curled into fists, leather creaking. Every instinct screamed to step between them, to establish dominance. Murphy’s expensive cologne mixed unpleasantly with shuttle fuel and ozone from the landing pad’s force field.

There was something in how Murphy carried himself—an echo of Latharian grace that spoke to ancient bloodlines. The rumors about certain humans carrying more Latharian DNA were suddenly more credible.

“Shall we?”

Murphy guided Evelyn inside, and Rhade forced himself to turn away. Six hours before he needed to fly her back. Six hours to plan his next move, to make her see him as more than just another officer under her command.

He returned to the shuttle, his steps measured despite the violence building under his skin. The cockpit still held traces of her scent, and he inhaled deeply, letting it fuel the fire in his blood.

Six months of careful planning. Six months of watching her, learning her habits. He’d turned down countless offers from younger human females at the academy. They were girls playing at being warriors. Evelyn was a warrior born, as much a match for him as any Latharian female would have been.

More of a match. The females of his species had been sweet and delicate, lacking that element of command that radiated from Evelyn’s very being. None of them could silence a roomwith just a raised eyebrow or inspire absolute loyalty with nothing more than quiet competence.

The diplomatic center’s windows glowed warmly in the gathering darkness. Was she dancing? The thought of another male’s hands on her waist made his teeth grind. He channeled his frustration into routine security checks.

He’d learned patience in his years of service, learned to wait for the perfect moment to strike. Evelyn was worth pursuing with careful strategy rather than brute force. He would make her see him as more than just another officer. Make her understand that he could match her strength for strength, challenge her in ways these human males never could.

The night stretched ahead, full of possibilities and frustrations. Rhade settled into his watch, already working through scenarios and strategies. He would have her—not just in his bed, but in every aspect of his life. It was only a matter of time and patience.

And if there was one thing Latharian warriors excelled at, it was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

3

As she entered the grand ballroom on President Murphy's arm, the weight of diplomatic responsibility settled across Evelyn’s shoulders like a flight harness. Years of military service had her gaze sweeping the room with practiced efficiency. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast dappled, soft light across the gathering. Earth’s most influential figures mingled with aliens she’d never met.

The midnight blue silk of her dress whispered against her legs with each step, a far cry from the familiar comfort of her dress uniform. After twenty-five years in the Air Force, fifteen of those as a combat pilot before her promotion to General, formal wear was more like a costume than clothing. Still, she maintained her posture, her bearing as crisp as if she were on the bridge of her command ship rather than playing diplomat.

“Your expression suggests you’re plotting escape routes,” Murphy said in a low murmur, hand over hers where it rested in the crook of his elbow. “At least try not to look like you’re planning a retreat.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, I’d rather be reviewing tactical reports.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Or having a root canal.”

Murphy’s shoulders trembled with carefully controlled amusement. “We both know why you’re here, General. I need my most powerful pieces on the board.” His gesture encompassed the room, where humans in formal wear mingled with towering alien delegates. “Particularly tonight.”

The Latharians stood out, their seven-foot frames encased in formal leather armor that emphasized their warrior heritage. But it was the unfamiliar aliens that caught her interest. They matched the Lathar in height, but their skin ranged from deep crimson to rich purple, with prominent tusks curving up from their lower jaws. The most striking was a female who dominated the space around her, her purple skin marked with heavy scarring that told of a lifetime of battle and violence.

“The Vorrtan,” Murphy supplied, following her gaze. “That particular lady is the Vorrtan ambassador’s grandmother. She’s their most powerful warlady – think of her as their equivalent of a five-star general.”

Evelyn noted the way the Latharians cast measured glances at the Vorrtan delegation. There was history, written in the tension of squared shoulders and carefully maintained distances. The same body language she’d seen in countless briefing rooms before conflicts erupted. “Quite the powder keg you’ve assembled, sir.”

“Sometimes diplomacy requires a controlled burn to prevent a wildfire.” Murphy’s smile didn’t waver, though his voice dropped lower.

“Speaking of which, do try to avoid punching any admirals tonight. The incident with Admiral Chen last spring generated enough paperwork to last a lifetime.”

“He assaulted a civilian under my command presence.” The steel in her voice could have reinforced a bunker. “Rank doesn’t excuse criminal behavior.”

“I don’t disagree with your assessment or response, but perhaps we could avoid physical solutions to social problems tonight?” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Circulate. Play nice. That’s an order, General.”

Evelyn gave a slight nod, releasing Murphy’s arm as he moved away to greet other guests. She watched him for a few seconds, aware that even with the aliens in the room, the most dangerous person here was a plain human.

She performed her diplomatic duties for the next hour with the same precision she’d used to fly combat missions. Her trained eye noted the currents of power flowing through the room – the way the Vorrtan warlady’s presence created eddies of tension, how the Latharian warriors maintained strategic positioning throughout the space. The human military contingent’s reactions were equally telling, though they were by far the least professional.

Their constant grumbling about ‘aliens in leather’ bored her within fifteen minutes, and she glared at them, especially when they made the comments in earshot of their leather-clad guests. The petty jealousy was as transparent as it was unprofessional.

She took a measured sip of champagne, using the motion to mask her observation of a particularly tense interaction between a Vorrtan and a Latharian warrior.

“These aliens think they own the place,” Admiral McGaran’s whiskey-roughened voice interrupted her surveillance as he bumped into her elbow, and she nearly spilled her champagne down her gown. “Care to dance, General Allen?”

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