Page 73 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“Holy hell,” he breathes. “You're a force of nature.”
I flash him a grin. “Just fixing what’s broken.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Try not to break the chain of command while you’re at it.”
My gaze skims across a squad of armored Hellfighters drilling side-by-side—some in fluent Saurian, others in guttural Futarian. I tap a heavy-duty welder to my hip. “Protocol is a guideline, not a prison.”
As promised chaos unfolds around me, I wander deeper into their base: supply bay, comms hub, weapons locker—half the place screams “needs attention.” A handful of misfits—ex-cons with haunted eyes—watch me work. At one point I hurdle a security barrier just to replace a crooked sensor turret. A few alarms chirp, but I shut them off with a flourish before anyone notices.
Later, Dayn catches me in the mess hall—center of this organized lunacy. My hands are stained with grease and solder. I lift a tray filled with protein cubes and fermented algae pudding, face bright as a sun flare.
“Hope you’re hungry,” I say. “We’ll need fuel.”
He watches me scoop pudding into a bowl. “I am. You just busted three security protocols before breakfast.”
I pop a cube into my mouth, chew thoughtfully. “Define security.”
He arches an eyebrow, half-amused. “The kind that keeps you out. From armor lockers. By the way, someone screwed up and keys don’t fit now.”
I laugh, sauce flecking my cheek. “Ah. Never seen armor plates I couldn’t open.” I dab at the mess. “Give me twenty minutes, I’ll fix that too.”
He sighs. “Just—try not to get us court-martialed.”
I wink. “Worth it.”
He leans in, voice soft, low. “You realize they’ll break you before they bend for you.”
I meet his gaze head-on. “They’ll try. But I don’t break.”
He runs a hand along the armor at his belt. “So I’ve noticed.”
He knows. He’s still adjusting to how fiercely I move through this world—urgent, unapologetic, brilliant. He stands at the edge of this storm and watches me turn the gears.
Later, we're walking between workshop bays. Hum of welders, clank of armor. A Hellfighter sergeant stops us.
“Permission to do some actual work, Corporal? Or do you just wanna keep causing malfunctions?”
I grin murderously. “Depends. Think your exosuits could use a quick overhaul?”
He snorts. “They’re upgradable, but the acclimation protocols are… lengthy.”
I touch the plating. “I’ll make them better in hours.”
The sergeant steps back. “Fine. Don’t break the system.”
I wink. “No promises.”
Once he’s gone, I lean against Dayn, amused. I catch his eye. “See? They’re already scared of me.”
He rests his thumb where my belt meets my hip. “Not scared.”
“Aw,” I tease. “You love it.”
He smiles slightly, voice rumbling. “Terrified. But—mostly in awe.”
I tilt my head. “Good compliment?”
He steps close, voice husky. “The best.”
