Page 63 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I grin. “Yeah.” I flick the switch, and the rotor hums back to life. He squeals as it lifts, buzzing off into the canopy. I watch until the signal fades. Then I feel Josn’s presence behind me.
He encloses me in a hug, warm and solid. I lean into him. Behind us, life bursts—tools drop, kids cliff-jump into streams, bakery smoke drifts, church-bell chimes ring weakly but jubilant. I bury my face in his chest. I can taste earth and sweat and salvation.
He whispers: “We did it.”
I close my eyes. “We did. But there’s more…so much more.”
He nods, pressing a kiss to my temple. “One day at a time.”
I smile, a slow flowering of heart and hope. “Aye.”
We walk back toward the heart of the colony, side by side. With every step our dirt kicks up, another broken dream is absorbed back into the soil, turning it fertile for what comes next. Across the hills, where shadows still linger, our victory pulses. We’ve owned back more than land—we’ve taken the sky.
And right here, Snowblossom is alive again.
The evening air in the half-ruined command shed is thick with lingering heat and the tang of burnt circuitry—plus a sweetness of lavender soap that I’ve worn all day, hoping it reaches him. Outside, laughter and celebration drift faintly across the compound, but here, silence coils around Dayn like a tomb.
I push open the warped metal door and find him standing by the central map table, the image inducer off now—his real form cracking through. He stands tall and still, features heavy with weariness and something like dread. His hands rest on the table’s edge, tapping in silence at our reclaimed world.
My boots click on the cracked concrete floor, and he turns, green eyes meeting mine—haunted, uncertain. I offer him a plate of reclaimed soup and warmed bread. He doesn’t reach for it at first, but I stay, hands folded in front of me like I’m bracing against force. Finally, he takes the bowl with quiet reverence, like it’s something precious.
“Thanks,” he says—voice low, raw.
I lean against the metal console behind me. “How are you holding up?”
He lifts his gaze to the shattered skylight. “Like a soldier awaiting judgment.” His hands tremble as he traces a gouge in the console’s metal.
I step forward, brushing arms with him. “People… they’re scared. But I stand beside you.”
He touches my hand, thumb grazing my palm. “I am grateful.”
I press the plate against his chest. “Eat.” I wait for the first spoonful, measuring every second. He sips, and his shoulders drop—just a little.
Each night I return to him like a tide, offering warmth. I bring clothes to wash, a fire going in the portable heater, a small candle glowing like a star in the ruined shed. After dinner, we sit on crates—soup bowls empty. The candle ripples in his eyes; I feel its pulse in us both.
He asks softly, “Do you regret it?”
I tilt my head. “Regret? Never. But I regret that feast ceremonies mark our victory, when I’d rather be… curious about you.”
He nods, shifting forward. “I feel the same.”
So we move, wordlessly. Every distraction fades as he guides me backward through the rubble. We undress, shells of clothes falling away into dust. Our skin flashes in and out of candlelight—soft flesh and feral muscle. I feel him measure me; I feel the hesitation in his touch—a man slowly learning to trust intimacy again.
He slides me down, folds me into him. The world tilts. My cheek sinks into his chest as he holds me—finger tracing idle constellations on my back. It’s quiet—no pain, no war, no masks. Only skin and breath and what we survived.
We move together, slow as forgiveness, deliberate as prayer. He kisses my hair, and I let tears track my cheek—tears of relief, of love, of fractures finally meeting repair.
In the hush, he mutters against my skin, “We won.”
I reach up, brush his jaw. “Yes.”
He doesn’t let go. “For now.”
Silence folds around us again. I close my eyes. My heart settles. In his arms, I believe that for now is enough—and maybe, the only victory that matters.
Dawn has barely kissed the sky when I hear the first crisp crackle on comm channels. It’s the IHC. Nothing like their earlier warmth—this is clipped, businesslike, distant. My heart thumps as I hover beside Dayn, still draped in those protective arms that have become my sanctuary. He twists the communicator in his hand, jaw clenched.
“This is the IHC Command. We will arrive in two hours. Our mission is retrieval of strategic assets and restoration of colonial governance. Militarized intervention is not authorized. We expect full cooperation. Let colonies self-manage under Vortaxian withdrawal plan. All rogue elements, including unauthorized militia or individuals, will be detained for debriefing.”
