Page 1 of Tamed By the Alien Warlord
CHAPTER 1
GEORGIA
“Hand over the holonet feed—or I’ll shred it myself.”
The second the words leave his mouth, I know I’m screwed.
And not in the fun, forget-your-name, someone-get-the-silk-handcuffs way. No. I’m screwed like a blown engine on a joyride through the Badlands—burning, billowing, and entirely out of control.
A shadow blocks my light. Towering. Armor-slick. Weapon-laden. The Reaper pirate who just boarded my transport shuttle doesn't need to raise his voice; his growl grinds down the metal nerves in my spine like an orbital sander on overdrive. Still, I keep my recorder tight in my grip. Like hell I’m letting this bastard delete my footage.
“Easy,” I say, raising my hands slowly, one still holding the holonet feed controller. “This is an independent news feed. I’ve got rights. Civilian protections under the?—”
“Under what?” he interrupts. His voice is all gravel and lightning. “Galactic Council law?”
I swallow. “Yes?”
He steps closer.
“Then let me introduce myself properly. I’m Captain Lanz of The Ravager. We don’t give a karnok’s ass about the Galactic Council out here.”
He smells like leather, ozone, and testosterone poisoning. I hate how my knees feel just a little like soup. His armor is scarred black with jagged edges and spiked ridges, the kind Reapers wear not just for war, but for fun. And his eyes? Crimson. Glowing. Like some unholy hybrid of devil and disaster.
Worse still—my body likes it. I hate that I like it. But my pulse pounds in my neck, my skin heats, and every survival instinct I have seems to be screaming: yes, this one.
I straighten my spine. “Well, I’m Georgia Lancaster. GNH Field Reporter, Level Two Clearance, and—hey!”
Too late. He yanks the recorder out of my hand like it’s made of paper. I lunge, instinct overriding common sense, grabbing for it. I may be five-foot-six and built like a librarian with gym anxiety, but by god I am committed.
“Give. That. Back!”
“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, tossing it to one of his crew. The smaller one—by Reaper standards, which means he’s merely massive, not skyscraper-level—snatches it and starts scanning it.
I turn on him, finger jabbing. “That’s journalistic property. You can’t just?—”
He cuts me off again, this time by grabbing my wrist and yanking me forward. It’s not rough—not quite—but it’s firm. Like he knows I’ll bolt if he lets go. Which is accurate.
“You’re coming with me.”
“I am not. I’m—hey! I’m here covering a story!” I dig my heels in, which makes zero difference. “My sister is missing, and she was last seen on a Combine site near?—”
“Your sister ain’t here,” he snaps. “And if she was smart, she got out weeks ago.”
The Reaper crew chuckles darkly as he drags me toward the hatch. I twist, wrenching around to face him. “I have rights! This is abduction! You’re violating, like, six interstellar codes right now!”
He actually laughs. A low, wicked sound that curls under my skin and makes everything worse in a very confusing, very inconvenient way.
“Human,” he says, “you talk too much.”
And with that, he stops me mid-stride. With one practiced motion, he spins me, shoves me against the wall, and cold metal clamps around my wrists. Manacles. Smooth, firm, tight.
“What the hell!” I shout, twisting. “You can’t?—”
Then comes the collar. It’s thick, black, and when the leash clicks into place, I nearly choke on outrage... and something far more dangerous.
My thighs clench. My pulse slams. My entire nervous system buzzes. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing. But I can’t stop the heat blooming in my stomach, the way my traitor body arches ever so slightly into the touch.
The Reapers are watching. Laughing. I want to scream, to claw, to bite—and also to fall on my knees and beg.
