Page 78 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
She tilts her head, nudging me. “Yours, too.”
A stray street vendor offers hand massages with sweet moss oils. She pulls me in. My armor clinks. I slump into the chair. Her hands ease tension in my neck. She whispers, “Better?”
I close my eyes. “Bless you.”
Our senses swirl—jostling crowds, flavors, noises. Beats of my heart sync with hers. That’s when I realize: I don’t want to hide. Not with her.
By the end of the night, we stand on a balcony overlooking a waterfall of holo-lights. The bass pounding below feels like drums of war—but we hold hands above it. She leans against me. “See?” she murmurs. “Pleasure doesn’t kill you.”
I rest my chin on her head, closing my eyes. The heat of her body against mine and the drums below remind me—life is more than missions. It’s moments like this.
The Drift is loud, messy, unpredictable—but right now, in the pulse of lights and love, I understand why these moments matter. And I step forward with her, ready for every wild beat to come.
I pull her closer, inhale her laugh, and swear to protect more than victories: this life we scaffold, side by side, in chaos and clarity.
CHAPTER 22
JOSIE
Ihear the distress call crackle through the Hellfighters’ comm grid just as I’m soaking in the last of the pleasure at The Drift. The message is urgent—a splinter faction of Vortaxians is laying siege to a League world named?Drellis. My chest twists. I thought we’d ended the threat when we killed Kernal. Instead, the beast has sprouted new heads. I catch Dayn’s eye across the hangar: resolve hardening in his gaze.
We gather in the briefing room, monitors flickering with live feed of burning villages and fleeing civilians. The splinter Vortaxians move with brutal precision, their ideology an echo of Kernal’s zealotry. I press my palm to the cold metal table and say, “We didn’t kill the beast. We just broke off a head.” Dayn rises beside me, voice steady. “Then we finish it. Together.”
When launch orders come, I strap into a drop pod alongside Dayn and half the squad. The descent is violent; AC alarms wail as we slam into the forest floor. I stagger out of the hatch—everything is chaos: gunfire, staccato screams, tracer rounds cutting through the smoke and undergrowth. Dayn dives into suppressive fire while I scan for an opening.
I spot it: an old mining drone, rusted but operable, near a collapsed supply crate. Without thinking, I leap toward it, crawlinside, and ignite its ancient engines. Sparks rain, dust clouds kick up—but the drone roars to life. I grip the controls and push forward into the heart of battle: a demolition beast among soldiers. Tracer rounds ping off its hull as it barrels through lines of enemy fire, swinging mechanical arms like wrecking balls.
Dayn’s team seizes the opportunity, surging behind the drone. I guide it in wide arcs—clearing paths, smashing barricades, scattering cultist forces. The carnage is biblical; bodies, smoke, the drone’s grinding steel. A merc’s shout reaches me: “That’s the Sexy Engineer Massacre!” The phrase sticks, a badge of unexpected glory.
When the last cultist flees, I shut down the drone and climb out, knees buckling. Dayn catches me, gripping my arm. “That was insane—and incredible,” he says. I laugh—the sound shaky, reverent. “Damage control.” We toss the control module to a squadmate; it’s war craftsmanship, not celebration.
In the aftermath, survivors stumble out—village families clutching ration packs, children blinking at survivors. A single trembling kid approaches me, and I kneel, offering a refurbished helper-drone as a comforting toy. Tears sharpen my voice. Dayn stands behind me quietly, an unyielding shield.
Back on the ship, corridor hums with sterile quiet. We reach our cabin and shed gear—exhausted bodies, war-weary hearts. He studies my face. “Are you okay?” his voice low, concerned. I settle on the bunk. “It worked. But it’s another monster. And I keep thinking: how many more heads?”
He lies beside me, voice soft but unwavering. “We’ll end them together—no matter how many.” I close my eyes against the afterimages of fire and smoke. “Together.” He holds me close. “No more lone wolves.”
Outside, stars pulse through the viewport—cold, distant, endless. In that moment, sealed in each other’s arms, I believe it. Our purpose isn’t just survival—it’s the fight to shape a worldwhere we can belong. Where we don’t just stop monsters—we build something permanent in their wake.
I drift to sleep with Dayn’s breath steady against my hair, the pulse of unity stronger than any echo of war.
He pulls me fully into his lap, and I straddle him instinctively, legs wrapping around his waist. His lips find mine again—no finesse, just heat and teeth. He kisses like he’s still bleeding, like he needs to confirm I'm real beneath his hands before the next shell drops.
“I thought I lost you,” he growls, voice rough, the rasp of his breath brushing the curve of my jaw. “You ran into that blast zone like you didn’t fucking care?—”
“Ihadto?—”
“No, Josie.” He presses his forehead to mine. All three of his eyes burn into me, the third on his brow shimmering faint crimson. “Youdon’tget to be a martyr. Notyou.You’re all I?—”
I shut him up with my mouth. Tongue first. Then teeth. He groans into me, claws tightening at my waist. He lifts me again—effortless, strong—and turns us, laying me back over the slanted hull of a shattered exo-chassis. The metal is scorched and still hot, but his scaled body shields me from it. His hand rips at my coveralls, impatient. Fabric tears. I gasp, bare skin meeting humid air.
“You’re burning,” he whispers, dragging his mouth from my lips down my throat, across the curve of my breast. “You’realwaysburning.”
He sucks a nipple between his lips, tongue lapping it wet. I arch up into him, fingers tangling in the dark, bristled hair at the base of his neck. His scales are hot under my palms, metallic and alive.
“Dayn—fuck—don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping. Not ever.”
