Page 23 of Tamed By the Alien Warlord
I don’t even smirk. “Not taking that bet. She’s got Reaper blood.”
That gets a round of approving snarls.
I turn to the controls, triggering launch sequence. Cloaked breaching pods unlock from the ship’s underbelly with a mechanical hiss. One by one, they load, slot, and vanish into the vacuum.
Each contains six Reapers.
Six harbingers of slaughter.
The mission timer ticks down.
My pulse climbs.
“She’s alive,” I mutter to myself. “She’s waiting.”
“Ready to breach on your mark,” Rix calls from the drop hold.
I descend last.
My armor is black as spilled oil, covered in matte plates and spiked shoulders. My bone spurs have been sharpened toneedlepoints. My breath fogs the visor from inside, not from fear but from fury.
Because they touched her sister.
Because they touchedmy mate.
And because I’m going to make sure none of them touch anything again.
“Drop us,” I say.
The breaching pod shakes as we pierce atmosphere. Flames lick the hull. The HUD flickers as we speed through surface scans, ignoring missile locks and static jammers. None of it matters.
The breaching pod impacts like a thrown fist. Doors blast open before we even slow down.
We hit hard.
The Reapers pour out like shadows, no sound but the whir of active camo and the heavy thuds of boots. We storm the facility from three sides—vent shafts, emergency hatches, blast corridors.
Alarms scream.
We’re already inside.
Chaos blooms.
The first wave is surgical—measured, brutal, silent. The second is something else entirely.
We burst into a medical bay mid-surgery. A patient lies open on the table—no time to judge if they were innocent. One of my men grabs the doctor mid-scream and tears the scalpels from his hand. The patient convulses once, then is forgotten. Two Reapers kick over the instrument tray and drag a whimpering nurse to the floor. One loops a chain around her neck; the other slaps a Reaper collar on her with a clink of finality.
Another hallway erupts in gunfire. Reapers do not flinch. They advance, laughing. One is grazed in the arm, grins like a predator, and hurls his plasma axe into the shooter's skull. Goresplashes across the wall. He retrieves the weapon, stepping on the man’s chest as he does, and rips it free with a wet crunch.
A pair of Reapers descend into cryo-storage, smashing their way into hibernation pods. Some of the women inside never even scream. One Reaper slings a limp body over his shoulder and spits: “Property.”
A door slams. Another opens. There’s no sanctuary.
Not when the Reapers have come.
The halls run red with blood. Human guards go down without ceremony. Bones snap like twigs. Doors are blown apart. Screams echo through sterile corridors—cut off by blades or strangled by snarls.
Women scream, too.
