Page 13 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

CHAPTER 7

REILY

Isit on the edge of my bed, the bathrobe clinging to me like a second skin. Dawn creeps through the window, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges, but sleep is a no-show tonight. My hands are cold, my thoughts louder than any morning birdsong.

"Just broken glass," I mutter, my voice dry and too sharp in the quiet room. My fingers trace the faint marks on my neck, the memory of his grip still there, like a phantom no amount of scrubbing will erase.

"Get a grip, Reily," I hiss, slapping my hands on my thighs. The bathrobe slips off one shoulder, and I yank it back up like it’s betrayed me. "You’re not some damsel. You’re not..." I trail off because the thought of what I might be, what he made me feel, is too much to unpack right now.

The whole thing feels like a trap. If I don’t show up, he’ll come after me. Worse, he’ll go after Mom, the house, everything I’ve barely managed to hold onto. And if Idoshow up? Who knows what he’ll demand.

I groan, pressing my face into my hands. "Why doesthathave to be the thing I can’t stop thinking about?"

"Because you’re an idiot," I snap at myself, standing abruptly. The robe falls open, and I wrap it tighter, as if it can somehow shield me from my own stupidity. "He’s dangerous. He’s... whatever the hell he is. And you’re..."

I stop, pacing the small room. The floorboards creak under my weight, each step echoing my agitation.

"Fine," I say to the empty room, my voice steadier now. "You’ll go. You’ll play nice. And if he tries anything, you’ll..."

I trail off again because the truth is, I don’t know what I’ll do. But the thought of being in that house, of getting close to him again, sends a shiver down my spine—and it’s not all fear.

I yank open my closet door, staring at the handful of clothes that pass for my wardrobe. "What do you even wear to a billionaire’s house when you’re basically his prisoner?"

Jeans and a flannel shirt stare back at me, judgmental in their plainness. "Fantastic," I mutter, grabbing them anyway. "At least I’ll look like myself."

I throw them on the bed and sit back down, running a hand through my messy hair. "You’re not going there forhim," I remind myself, my voice low but firm. "You’re going to figure out how to stop him. Save the town. Save Mom. And if he wants to play games..."

I struggle to contain myself, my fingers tightening on the edge of the mattress.

"Well, let’s see who wins."

The coffee percolates, filling the kitchen with its bitter wake-up call. I grip my phone like it’s a life raft, scrolling through contacts with a sinking feeling in my gut. Every name I call—Seabus, Clem, even that weird girl from the laundromat—either ghosts me or has somecriticalexcuse. Halfway through the list, my thumb hacks a ragged nail into the screen.

Ofcourseit comes down to this.

Boris picks up on the second ring. His voice oozes pure, unfiltered grease."Hey, baby, I knew you couldn’t resist my manly charms for long. My place, or yours?"

The mug in my other hand creaks under my grip. "I need someone to sit for my mom. You’re my last resort. I’ll pay you—withmoney,don’t get ideas—and next time we do a demonstration, you can use a megaphone."

A muffled scuffle erupts on the other end, punctuated by Barfbag’s hyena cackle. When Boris comes back, he’s practically wheezing."Barfbag gets a megaphone, too. And you have to show us your boobies."

The mug slams onto the counter hard enough to send sparks of pain up my wrist. "Yes to the megaphone. And if you mention my boobies again, you’re both going to need dental implants before you hit twenty."

A beat of silence. Then, in deeply theatrical reverence:"We accept your terms, mistress."

I squeeze my eyes shut. Mom’s gonna take one look at these knuckleheads and think I’ve finally lost it. The thought of explaining—No, no, they’re just deeply unfortunate human beings who owe me after the whole ‘roadkill smoothie’ incident last summer—makes my temples throb.

"Just—just be at the house in an hour. And for the love of God, don’t call me ‘mistress’ in front of my mother."

The line goes dead with their laughter still ringing in my ear. I slump against the counter, staring into the black depths of my coffee. "What the hell am I doing?" I mutter.

The coffee doesn’t answer. Smartest conversation I’ve had all morning.

The doorbell rings, and I open it to find Boris and Barfbag standing there, their faces lit up with matching grins that make me instantly regret this decision. Barfbag’s got a Slayer shirt on,the shirt I’m pretty sure he’s worn every day since eighth grade, and Boris is holding a bag of Doritos like it’s a peace offering.

"Hey, Reily," Boris drawls, popping a chip into his mouth. "We’re here to babysit your mom. Cool, huh?"

"Thrilling," I mutter, stepping aside so they can come in. "Just... don’t wreck the place, okay?"

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