Page 12 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

I snarl, palming the undeniable proof of my own twisted hunger. My fingers still stink of her—sweat and cheap whiskey and salt.

"Pathetic." The word drips venom. Disgust coils in my gut—not just at her, but at the way my body betrays me. A warrior shouldn't crave the enemy.Ishouldn't ache to pin her again, to carveI own youinto her skin with teeth and tongue until she?—

The grandfather clock chimes midnight.

I inhale sharply, forcing myself upright amidst the wreckage.Noon.She’ll come. And when she does, I won’t let her forget who holds the debt now.

I'm too angry to sleep, so I head outside to chop some wood for the hearth. I don't need the warmth but the dancing fire is nice.

The axe bites into the wood with a satisfyingcrack. I split the log clean in two, then grab another from the pile. My musclescoil and release, over and over, the rhythm of it grounding me. The scent of fresh pine sap mingles with the sharp tang of my own sweat. The night air is cool against my heated scales, but it does nothing to quell the fire still simmering in my chest.

The pile of split wood grows taller with each swing. Stacked neatly, it nearly reaches my shoulder—enough to keep the hearth burning for weeks. My breath comes in measured huffs, the weight of the axe a familiar comfort. But no matter how many logs I split, the image of her face lingers. That mix of fear and defiance. The way her pulse raced under my grip.

My compad buzzes. I lower the axe and fish the device from my pocket. Pyke's hologram materializes, his scaled face lit by the soft blue glow. His crimson eyes narrow as he takes in the scene behind me—the stack of wood, the axe in my hand, the faint sheen of sweat on my scales.

"Report," Pyke says, his voice clipped. "What happened with the protests?"

I shrug, muscles still taut from exertion. "There were no protests. By the time I arrived, it was just a couple of bikers and some signs on the ground. Nothing worth noting."

Pyke leans forward, his holographic form flickering slightly. "Nothing worth noting? Guvan, our sensors picked up significant activity. You’re telling me there’s nothing to report?"

I exhale sharply, the memory of her hitting me like a second wind. "There was one incident."

"One incident? Care to elaborate?" Pyke raises a brow, his tone dry.

I hesitate, then press the compad’s scanner to my claws. The device whirs, analyzing the trace skin cells still clinging to my scales. "A human woman. She smashed my car window."

Pyke’s holographic arms cross over his chest. "And?"

"And nothing. I handled it."

"Handled it how, exactly?" Pyke’s voice is sharper now, edge of a blade just waiting to cut.

"I let her live, if that’s what you’re asking." I snarl the words, my grip tightening on the axe. "She’ll be working off her debt. No harm done to the timeline or Veritas."

The compad pings, displaying Reily’s name and address. Pyke’s eyes scan the data, then widen slightly. "Reily Dawson? Our intel says she’s the instigator behind the protests."

I grunt, dismissing the flare of curiosity that sparks at her name. "Lucky coincidence, then. If she’s too busy scrubbing my floors, she won’t have time to stir up trouble."

Pyke rubs his scaled jaw, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You might’ve stumbled into a solution, Guvan. Keep her occupied. Keep her out of trouble."

"So…I can keep her?" The words slip out, and I wince. "I mean, I can keep her to her agreement?"

Pyke’s smile widens, though there’s a warning in his eyes. "Just…behave yourself, Guvan."

Pyke’s hologram flickers out, and I toss the compad onto the counter. The house is too quiet, the kind of quiet that lets memories creep in like shadows. I head for the shower, stripping off my clothes and tossing them into a heap. The water hisses as I crank it to scalding, stepping under the stream with a low growl. The heat bites into my scales, stinging but not enough to burn. I clench my fists against the tile, letting the water drown out everything—the memory of her pulse under my claws, the shards ofSunrise on Vakutascattered across the floor.

"Broken glass," I mutter, spitting the words like they taste foul. I scrub my hands over my face, the scars along my left cheek twinging faintly. "Just broken glass." My voice echoes off the tiles, hollow and unconvincing.

When the water runs cold, I step out and towel off, not bothering to dry completely. The night air will do the rest. Ithrow on a pair of loose pants and head for the porch, the wood creaking under my weight. The air smells of pine and damp earth, the creek murmuring in the distance. I stretch out on the chair, the rough wood pressing into my back, and close my eyes.

Sleep comes quickly, too quickly. My dreams are a chaotic swirl—battles fought and lost, comrades screaming my name, the acrid stench of burning metal and scorched scales. And thenher. Reily. Sometimes she’s standing in the woods, her eyes wide and defiant, her shirt torn away. Her breath catches as I close the distance, my claws brushing her collarbone. Other times, she’s closer, her body pressed against mine, warmth bleeding through my scales. "You’re mine," I snarl in the dream, but she doesn’t flinch. She laughs, low and throaty, and?—

I jolt awake, my heart hammering. The night is silent except for the creek’s soft murmur. I scrub a hand over my face, my scales hot to the touch. "Damn it," I mutter, pushing out of the chair and pacing the porch. The wood groans under my weight. My claws rake through my hair, tugging at the roots. "Get a grip, Guvan. She’s a liability, not… notthat."

But the image lingers, stubborn and vivid. I grab the axe leaning against the wall and head back to the woodpile. The steady rhythm of splitting logs helps, the sharpcrackof the blade cutting through the silence. Each swing drives the dream further away, until my arms ache and my breath comes in ragged huffs.

I stack the wood neatly, my motions mechanical. The pile grows, but the night stretches on, endless and restless.

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