Page 4 of Tamed By the Alien Warlord
CHAPTER 2
LANZ
Even collared, barefoot, and freshly bathed in the low light of the cell, she still manages to glare like I’m the one who’s been inconveniencing her. She's sprawled on the cot, one leg bouncing restlessly, defiance written in every line of her body.
“Well,” she says, eyes flicking down to the bulge beneath my belt before crawling back up with deliberate slowness, “is this the part where you force yourself on me?”
I grin. A slow, razor-edged thing. “I won’t have to force you, Human. You’ll be begging me for it soon enough.”
Her hand moves fast—too fast for her own good. It cracks against the side of my jaw with a satisfying smack, but all it does is slice open the pad of her palm on one of the bone spurs jutting from my cheekplate.
She hisses. “Shit!”
I catch her wrist before she can pull it back, and for a moment, neither of us breathes. Then, slowly, deliberately, I bring her bleeding palm to my mouth.
Her skin tastes like salt, copper, and something maddeningly sweet.
“Delicious,” I murmur, dragging my tongue along the wound. She shivers, tries to hide it, fails miserably. “I can’t wait to see how the rest of you tastes.”
She jerks her hand back, eyes wide. I laugh and turn to leave.
But of course she tries to follow. Stupid, stubborn Human.
The second she crosses the threshold, I spin, slam her back against the bulkhead, my hand wrapped tight around her throat. Not choking. Just... reminding her who’s in charge.
Her eyes widen. Her breath catches. Her body arches just enough to brush against mine, and every nerve I’ve got lights up like a Reaper war beacon.
“Do I have to tie you up?” I growl.
“Maybe,” she whispers, her voice gone breathless, her struggles shifting in tone—less fight, more friction.
Her hips roll. My cock stiffens. I hate how good her body feels against mine.
Snarling, I release her, shove her to the floor harder than necessary, and storm out of the cell without another word.
Back on the bridge, I try to focus.
But I can’t.
The image of her—collared, gasping, lips parted—burns behind my eyes like fire through dry air.
My knuckles whiten as I grip the chair. Her scent is on me now. On my hand. In my lungs.
I drop into the seat and call up the feed. There she is, muttering curses and nursing her pride, rubbing her throat, examining the still-wet blood smear on her palm.
I should ignore it. I can’t.
Every inch of her is noise and fury and flashing teeth. And every second she’s here, I feel less like a warlord and more like a beast in a cage.
I assign guards. Just in case. I open her comms. Just to listen.
“…stupid lizard-faced bastard,” she’s muttering. “Jasmine, if you got yourself killed after all this, I’m gonna reincarnate just to haunt your ass.”
That name again.
I frown.
“Jasmine,” I say aloud. “Why does that name itch?”
