Page 82 of Claimed by an Alien Warrior

“There was a man in the passenger seat, a very large man, right before I walked over.”

“I-I don’t know what to say, officer. It’s just me in this truck. Maybe it was just a…a reflection on the back window?”

He backed away, settling his hand on the grip of his pistol as he searched the immediate area. Allowing the truck wide berth, he walked around to the passenger side. Zoey watched in the mirrors as he dipped, probably checking underneath the truck, and popped back up.

Her mouth was terribly dry.

The cop’s eyebrows were low when he returned to her window, but his eyes were wide and troubled. He stammered and stuttered a few times before he regained his composure, and his demeanor made a subtle shift from confused to annoyed.

“License and registration, ma’am.”

“My license is in my purse, and I’ll have to get the registration out of the glove compartment. Is that okay?”

“Not a problem.”

Moving as slowly and non-threateningly as possible, she unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to her purse, removing her license from her wallet. She leaned over the passenger seat, placing a hand down to hold herself up.

But her hand didn’t land on the seat.

Rendash released a muffled grunt.

Zoey cringed. She knew exactly where she’d set her hand by the feel of it. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“Everything all right, ma’am?” the cop asked.

“Yeah, one sec.” She opened the glove box and rummaged through the contents. She froze when she discovered a black revolver with a short barrel tucked between various papers and the owner’s manual.

It probably would’ve been the last thing she saw that night in Utah if Ren hadn’t intervened.

The chill creeping along her spine had nothing to do with the cold air flowing in through the open window. There was agunin the truck, and there was a cop behind her!

“Control,” Ren whispered, barely loud enough to hear.

Easier said than done, big guy.

Zoey rounded her lips and exhaled slowly. She plucked the registration out and closed the glove compartment. Sitting back in her seat, she extended her arm through the window to hand the cop her license and the registration.

He seemed to only give the license a cursory glance. “California, huh? Bet this weather’s a big change for you. Do you know why I pulled you over today, ma’am?”

“I don’t.” She returned her hands to the steering wheel. It tooka lotof willpower to keep her fingers from fidgeting nervously.

“The tags on this vehicle’s license plates are two months expired.”

“Really? I didn’t think to check when—” she swallowed, giving her a moment to recall her would-be murderer’s name “—when Matt leant me the truck. I’m so sorry.”

“It happens. But it’s something that really needs to be corrected, miss—” the cop lifted the license closer “—Weston.” The cop tilted his head.

A two-ton ball of dread sank in her stomach.

“Zoey Weston?” He shifted his hold on her license and pulled his sunglasses down again, leaning closer. “Would you mind removing your sunglasses, ma’am?”

Oh, shit. Shit shit shit.

“Sure,” she replied in a small voice, raising a hand to comply.

His eyes rounded. “You’re the woman whose car they found on I-70 in Utah, aren’t you?

“Um, yeah. Car broke down on the interstate, which is why I’m borrowing the truck.”

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