Page 10 of Tamed By the Alien Warlord
“I’ll be where the truth is. With or without your permission.”
I growl. “You’re bait. Distraction. Liability.”
“And yet here I am.” She flashes a grin that shouldn’t make my pulse jump. “Besides… you’re already distracted.”
She’s not wrong.
Damn her.
“Fine,” I say at last. “But you follow my lead. You stay behind cover. You donotremove the collar.”
She touches it absentmindedly, like it’s become part of her. “Wasn’t planning to.”
I wonder if she knows what it means now. What it says to every Reaper who looks at her. That she’s taken. Claimed. Protected.
Mine.
When we board the drop ship, she straps in across from me. Her foot taps restlessly, her eyes scanning the faces of my crew. Some sneer. Some ignore her. None speak. The collar does the talking for her.
As we breach Kura Nine’s upper atmosphere, I lock my gear down tight. Her drone clicks softly behind her shoulder. I know she’s terrified. But she hides it with practiced arrogance.
Our boots hit dirt under a barrage of plasma fire. The Combine’s idea of a “light guard” involves full-body armor and repeaters mounted on turrets. Half my squad scatters under cover. I signal for a flanking maneuver, my second spearhead diving toward the side access port.
Georgia stays low, exactly where I told her—crouched behind a crushed lift cart, drone hovering, filming everything.
And then one of them spots her.
Helios soldier—tall, mean-eyed, too smart for his own good—breaks formation and bolts for her with a shock baton in one hand and a pistol in the other.
She freezes. A second too long.
And I’m already running.
The shot fires.
I leap.
Pain is fire and thunder all at once as the bolt slams into my ribs, throwing me sideways into the scorched ground. The shock baton grazes my shoulder, but I don't care. My body takes the brunt.
She’s unharmed.
I can’t breathe.
Her hands are on me in seconds. “You stupid, lizard-blooded idiot—what the hell was that?!”
My lungs wheeze, then catch. “You’re welcome.”
She glares, tears and fury burning behind her eyes. “I didn’t ask you to do that!”
“Didn’t need to.” I stagger upright, bone plates already knitting, muscles reforming. “You’re mine.”
She makes a choked sound—anger, frustration, something else she doesn't want to name. “That’s not how humans work.”
“Then adjust your programming.”
We move again, and my rage burns brighter with every step. I carve through the Combine soldiers like a reaper from the dark, my blade singing a song of vengeance. My warriors rally, voices rising, their losses avenged in every death dealt.
By the end, we’ve lost nine. A third of our force.
