Page 43 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

I haul the box out of the car, my arms straining under the weight. It’s the last of my things from the old house—a few books, some clothes, and the old guitar Mom gave me when I was twelve. I’m halfway to the door when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I wrestle it out one-handed, glancing at the screen.Mr. Mayor.I grin and hit answer.

“Hello, Clem,” I say, balancing the box on my hip. “Have you worn a butt imprint into the seat yet?”

Clem’s deep laugh rumbles through the phone. “Not yet, but give it time. Turns out being mayor is a lot less exciting thanBoss Hoag made it look. Mostly just signing papers and arguing with people who still think I’m gonna let them build that dam.”

“Well, I’m glad you won,” I say, shifting the box. “Coldwater’s lucky to have you.”

“To be fair, I’m glad Boris and Barfbag aren’t old enough to run yet. I don’t know if I could’ve beaten them,” Clem says, his tone teasing.

I laugh, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, those two would’ve turned City Hall into a mosh pit.”

Clem chuckles, but then his voice turns serious. “Hey, Reily, I’ve been meaning to ask—are you gonna sign that recording contract? The one from the music festival?”

I sigh, setting the box down on the porch. “I don’t know, Clem. At one time, it’s all I wanted—to be a star, to get out of this town. But now… I’m just glad the town is safe, my mom’s healthy, and I found a good man. Even if he is scaly.”

Clem’s laugh is warm. “Well, whatever you decide, you’ve got our support. Coldwater’s proud of you, Reily.”

“Thanks, Clem. That means a lot.”

We say our goodbyes, and I tuck my phone back into my pocket. I reach for the doorknob but stop when I see a note tacked to the door with my name on it. I pluck it off, unfolding the paper with one hand while balancing the box with the other.

Now, what’s this about?

I bite my lower lip, my thighs squeezing together as I read the note. The handwriting is sharp, deliberate, and entirelyhis.

"Spitfire. Remove all of your clothing and put on your uniform prior to entry. Master intends to discipline you."

A shiver runs down my spine, and I glance to the side where the maid uniform is hanging, waiting for me. My hands tremble as I start peeling off my clothes, folding them neatly and setting them on the porch railing. The cool mountain air brushesagainst my bare skin, raising goosebumps, but I don’t feel the cold. My heart’s racing too hard for that.

I slip into the uniform, the fabric hugging me in all the right (and wrong) places. The bodice pushes my breasts up, the plunging neckline leaving little to the imagination. The skirt barely covers what it needs to, and I can’t help but adjust it, even though I know it’s pointless. This outfit isn’t meant for modesty. It’s meant forhim.

I pause, smoothing the skirt one last time before I step inside. The cabin is quiet, the only sound the soft creak of the floorboards under my feet.

Guvan stands in the center of the room, his back to me, and my breath catches. He’s wearing a finely tailored Armani suit, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders and tapered waist. In one hand, he holds a bundle of silk rope, slapping it against his open palm in a slow, rhythmic motion.

"Come here," he commands, his voice low and firm.

I swallow hard and walk toward him, my heels clicking softly against the floor. I put on my best pout, tilting my head to the side as I stop in front of him. "What did I do to displease my Master?"

"Nothing," he says, his red eyes locking onto mine. "But I feel the need to remind you who’s in charge."

His words send a rush of warmth through me, and I lower my gaze, feigning submission. "Whatever my Master thinks is best."

He steps behind me, his large hands gripping my shoulders and turning me to face away from him. He pulls my arms behind my back, and I feel the cool silk of the rope as he starts to bind me. His movements are methodical, each loop of the rope tightening around my wrists, then winding up my arms and around my torso.

Every turn of the rope, every cinch of a knot, makes me feel more helpless, more exposed. My breath hitches as the ropes diginto my skin, and I can feel myself falling into that golden glow of subspace. I arch my back, pressing my ass against the growing bulge in his pants.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through me. "You won’t succeed in distracting me, Spitfire."

"I wouldn’t dream of it," I murmur, my voice trembling.

He continues his work, using more ropes to create an elaborate harness that crisscrosses over my torso. He ties one leg folded up, my ankle secured to my thigh, leaving me balanced precariously on one foot. The ropes are tight, unyielding, and I feel completely at his mercy.

"How do you feel?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Like I want you to touch me," I gasp, squirming helplessly in my bonds.

"You like it?" His fingers brush against my inner thigh, and I jerk in response.

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