Page 35 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

Reily’s eyes widen, and she clutches the vial like it’s made of gold. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you.”

Jareth shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t mention it. Just don’t let it go to your head, Irons.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “It sort of makes us even.”

Reily hops into her POS, waving as she speeds off to deliver the cure.

Jareth turns to me, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “So, got any beer?”

I glance at him, then at the cabin. “Yeah. Come on, let’s crack a few.”

He follows me inside, and I feel like maybe, just maybe, things are falling into place.

I lean back in the armchair, the fire crackling in the hearth, and take a long swig of beer. The taste is bitter, earthy, and it reminds me of the cheap swill we used to drink on Vakuta during the war. Jareth sits cross-legged on the rug, his own bottle resting on his knee.

“Remember the Battle of Krixus Ridge?” he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “When you charged that Grolgath artillery line with nothing but a plasma glaive and a death wish?”

I grunt, tipping the bottle toward him. “And you were supposed to cover me, but you were too busy arguing with Command about whether the cloaking tech on your ship was faulty.”

Jareth laughs, the sound light and sharp. “Itwasfaulty. You nearly got turned into a smear on that ridge.”

“But I didn’t.” I take another drink, the memory of the fight still fresh in my mind. The smell of burning fuel, the roar of plasma cannons, the way my glaive had sung as it sliced through the enemy. “We won that day.”

“Barely.” Jareth rolls his eyes, but there’s a glint of respect in his gaze. “You’re a maniac, Guvan. Always have been.”

I shrug, not disagreeing. “It worked, didn’t it?”

The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. We fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from years of shared history. After a moment, Jareth breaks it.

“So,” he says, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “Reily Dawson. You’re serious about her, aren’t you?”

I stiffen, my grip tightening on the bottle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, big guy. You’re not exactly subtle.” Jareth gestures at the cabin. “You’ve got her photo on your compad, which, by the way, I saw when you handed it to me earlier. You’ve been smiling more in the last two weeks than in the last two centuries. And don’t even get me started on the way you look at her.”

I glare at him, but there’s no heat in it. “She’s… different.”

“Different?” He snorts. “Guvan, I think she might be your jalshagar.”

The word hits me like a punch to the chest. My jalshagar. My soulmate. It’s a concept I’ve never given much thought to, not since the war. Not since I became what I am—a weapon, a soldier, a monster. But now, sitting here with Jareth’s words hanging in the air, it feels… right.

“Maybe,” I admit, my voice low.

Jareth just nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the universe. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

I clear my throat, desperate to change the subject. “Speaking of Grolgath…”

“Ah, here we go.” Jareth leans back, crossing his arms. “What’s on your mind?”

“Is there a way to force them into their true forms? Something that works over a wide area? If I can expose Cold Slither as Grolgath, I can act against them openly.”

Jareth frowns, tapping his chin. “Chemical agents can do it, but you’d have to get close. Like,reallyclose. A wide-area solution…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing in thought. “I’ll have to look into it. I might be able to rig something up, but it’ll take time.”

“Do it,” I say, leaning forward. “I need options.”

“I’ll see what I can cook up.” He raises his bottle in a mock toast. “For you, big guy, anything.”

I chuckle, clinking my bottle against his. “Thanks, Jareth.”

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