Page 74 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
We kiss lightly—hot breath against the clang of armor suits. It’s a quiet promise in the roar of mayhem.
Later, I fix the security protocols—thread lines through digital locks, reroute authorizations, seal vulnerability exploits.All the while Dayn trains new recruits, his stance precise, authoritative, lethal grace.
I watch him transform before me—from caged assassin to commanding officer of ex-cons and misfits. And I feel… proud. Proud I helped build this. Proud I pulled him through futility into purpose.
When night falls and lights dim low, I curl next to him on a work crate covered with spare armor plates. My head rests on his shoulder. The smell of grease and metal is mingled with his cologne—pepper, rainwood, something fierce. I press a kiss to his neck.
He closes his eyes and murmurs, “We did good, engineer.”
I hum. “We did.”
He slides his arm around me. “Couldn’t have built any of this without you.”
I glance at him. “Couldn’t have done half my insanity without your scary restraint.”
He tightens his hold. “Let you run wild any day.”
I sigh contentedly. “Then I’ll keep running.”
He touches my hair. “Then I’ll keep running with you.”
In the quiet of that metal womb, surrounded by chaos harnessed, I realize I’m home. I belong here—not just with him, but with this ragtag force forged stronger by purpose. Together we rebuild broken things—hearts, armor, hope—and for once, I know this cosmic war may never end, but I’m not just surviving.
I’m thriving.
Through the noise, the crackle of welders, the promise of missions ahead, I sleep nestled at Dayn’s side, clutching purpose and possibility—crafted in steel, fueled by love—and ready for whatever comes next.
I step into the training bay and the air hits me with electric promise—metallic hum, ozone-laced sweat, the tension of bodies teetering on potential. The Hellfighters, mid-brawl orrecalibrating plasma rifles, all pause when they see me entering in grease-streaked coveralls and chipped boots. I'm small in comparison—13-year-old girls could tower beside their exosuits—but my smile fills the room like sunlight.
“Morning, folks,” I call, voice bright. “Magnetic containment array—acting up?”
A seven-foot Odex arms a plasma drill and sneers, “Anti-grav drills, not your concern.”
I jokingly sniff the air. “Can’t hurt to offer supervision.”
He crosses his massive arms, tools jingling off his belt. “Fine, Boss Lady.”
The title lands heavy and warm. I nod, heels clicking as I move to the flickering power core they’ve abandoned—thermal drift, glitching resonance, but still salvageable. I crouch and let my fingers dance across wiring, tuning resonance modulators, applying scavenged flux coils. The low hum steadies, the core lights pulse in rhythm. I step back, clothes smudged with carbon dust, a grin sketched in satisfaction. My audience watches: amused, impressed, tentative.
“Good as new,” I say.
The Odex nods appreciatively. Others murmur. Dayn stands at the edge, the glow from the core reflecting in his eyes—awed, protective, maybe a little worried.
I stroll toward the common area, tray in hand—protein cubes and fermented algae pudding, the base’s staple. I sit at the tool-crate table and dig in, spoon clattering. Dayn stands beside me, arms folded.
“You’ll get us in trouble,” he murmurs around his teeth.
I wiggle my spoon at him. “Apparently I fix more things by noon than these guys do all week.”
He rolls his eyes affectionately. “Just... try not to get us court-martialed.”
I wink and pile on pudding. “No promises.”
Later, I lean over the drafting table, adding a few tweaks to their exosuit code—better stabilization, faster motor response. The recon specialist glances over and smirks. “Boss Lady’s in the code.”
I pat his shoulder. “Keep it up, soldier.”
In one swift motion, I challenge the crew to arm-wrestling. My palm meets glove-stripped hands. First two attempts, I win—easily—sending them into laughter and wide-eyed astonishment. Thin smiles become smirks; smirks become respect. Dayn joins a roundhouse of applause.
