Page 35 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I step toward her, gently guiding a stray streak of paint from her cheek with a fingertip. She looks at me, paint flecked across my hand and cheek, and smiles.
“Perfect,” she says. My heart flares in my chest, loud and stubborn.
Her voice drops. “We’ve got movement east. Patrols are lighter there.”
I nod. “Grid is still down. They’ll patch it today—but we bought ourselves hours. Let’s make ’em count.”
She considers, lips curling. “Engineers want to sabotage the supply carts next. No real violence, just... inconveniences.”
I frown thoughtfully. “I like that.”
Her eyes light. “You do?”
“Disruption without bloodshed.”
She crosses her arms. “You’re getting soft.”
I laugh and lean in. “Only if you think soft is a bad thing.”
She rolls her eyes. I love her even when she rolls them.
The camp grows louder—whispers, laughter, the clatter of pots in what passes for a kitchen. Josie’s laugh echoes across the yard, bright and fight-worthy. A dozen heads snap, people pause. They smile. Theybelieve.
A Vortaxian drone hums overhead. I shift instinctively, scanning—alert, ready.
She watches me. “You tense?”
“Always.”
Her hand brushes mine. “I’ll be your calm.”
I meet her eye. “And you mine.” My words taste like night-burned iron and fragile hope.
Even in this flicker of dawn, I can feel the noose tightening. Colonel Kernal isn’t blind. He’s planning. I smell it—like ozone before lightning.
I step behind Josie, let her stand forward. I stay back, cover her, guard her. I’ll do anything to keep that laugh alive.
Because if she falls, everything falls.
She turns, sees me, and winks.
In that moment, I don’t feel like a killer.
I feel like something else.
Something worth fighting for.
CHAPTER 9
JOSIE
Ihate secrets.
They’re the grease that clogs trust’s gears, the silence that turns questions into suspicion. I’ve always been an open book—even if the pages are dog-eared and scribbled in coffee stains. So when I catch that flicker—just for a heartbeat—of somethingnot humanunder Dayn’s image inducer, I don’t recoil. Hell, I get curious.
It’s in the workshop during late-night repairs. Noodles simmer, greasy and fragrant, the makeshift stove rattles with each bubble. Dayn’s hovering over a relay junction; I glance up and see it: iridescent scales along his neck, four eyes—two human, two alien—tightening on the circuit's core before the inducer flicks back.
My pulse jacks. I blink. Damn—did I seetoo much?
