Page 102 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“Blade suits you,” she murmurs in my ear, her breath scented with jasmine and defiance.
I shift, muscles rebelling against mangel-black fabric. “I feel like I swallowed a full gear assembly,” I confess, voice low.
She tilts her head, eyes sparkling in the ambient glow. “You clean up nice, wolf.”
I can’t help the slow smile.
We’re escorted toward the stage by a reformed Vortaxian diplomat—slim, self-satisfied, dripping with insincere kindness. He’s been credited with brokering peace on Snowblossom. I want to punch him. Josie grips my wrist, her fingers tight as plague.
He smiles, extension of robotic charm. “Without Vortaxian wisdom, this peace would not exist. We stand united—humans and Vortaxians alike—thanks to my efforts.”
My pulse pounds. Josie’s jaw tightens. She leans close. “Wanna borrow my shoe?” she whispers, nodding at his smug grin. “Just for orientation purposes.”
I conceal a snort.
Our smiles remain practiced as we move through the crowd. Serving drones glide overhead, plating gleaming. I scan the room for threats—a drone with a suspicious panel, or a loose wire. My instincts hum.
That’s when the air shakes. A loudpop, followed by whistling confetti and shredded documents raining from above—fake Alliance papers, exposed corruption, images of bureaucrats trading favors with Vortaxians. Chaos unfolds as guests scramble.
Josie catches my arm mid-step. “Pinch someone?” she teases.
I grip her hand. “No dress-shoe carnage tonight.”
She chuckles.
A faux peace envoy from the Vortaxians tries to regain control, but the drone rejects his authority, twisting in mid-air, then spiraling into a low explosion—not enough to kill, but enough to shame. Holograms flicker across the ceiling, stark and accusing.
Security rushes in. The diplomats sputter. Dowron, standing off to the side, flicks his holo-tablet at me, eyes narrowing. I shrug, head dipping to Josie. The smirk between us conveys everything: we did this. He suspects—calls off any direct inquiry.
Moments later, we’re out in the corridor, suits rumpled, adrenaline singing through our veins.
Josie bursts into laughter, leaning against me so hard I nearly stumble. “Give me a moment. I need to laugh until my lungs hurt.”
She reaches for me, tangles her fingers in my tie and pulls me close. Her gown blooms against the corridor lights, fighting elegance with rebellion.
Our breath is jagged when we finally meet eyes, and I brush my thumb over her cheek. “Let’s get out of here.”
We makeit to our quarters—doors slide closed behind us—and I’m no longer Dayn, diplomat by façade. I’m Dayn, chaos in motion, inspired by that detonation. Josie unzips my jacket while I tug at her straps.
We sink to the floor, still half-dressed, laughing salty laughter against the backdrop of a distant alarm.
She kisses the groove beneath my jaw. “Next time, I’m blowing up their dessert.”
I grin, lips brushing her collarbone. “Next time, I’ll wear nothing but a smile.”
Her fingers tremble with anticipation as she reaches for the cuff of my shirt. “Promise?”
I smile and capture her mouth with hunger and irony. “Promise.”
Our fifteenth time together explodes in hard touches, quick breaths, firelight urgency. Razor-sharp and electric, we’re tangled across uniforms and dreams, a storm birthed from our shared anarchy. I taste salt and jasmine, adrenaline and desire.
When we finish, both of us breathless and bold, Josie presses her forehead to mine. “Sabotage instead of lullabies?”
“Yes,” I growl softly, voice thick. “You.”
She smiles wickedly. “Then bed me, assassin outlaw.”
I lean in for the promise of one more kiss, the world still reverberating outside. And in that closeness, I know: no suit, no ceremony, no corruption can undo what we’ve built. Together, we are a celebration—and we’ll keep exploding that truth everywhere we go.
