Page 85 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I stretch one arm out to cradle her head, stare up at the viewport where stars bleed past in hyperspace—long streaks of light and possibility. It's terrifying, gorgeous. I wonder if I’m still enough of a killer, a weapon forged in darkness. But now… the fear is different. It’s hope.
I bury my face in her hair. "I want to do more than survive," I say so softly I’m not sure she hears. But she shifts until our eyes reconnect in the pale glow. "I want to live it. With you."
Her grin is slow but fierce. "That’s all I ever needed to hear."
I tuck her shoulder to mine, wrap both arms around her like a promise. Outside, the war we stoked still burns, and bigger threats loom—Dowron’s new mission, the rising Vortaxian factions. But in this moment, I’m not just Dayn the assassin. I’m Dayn who loved, who lost, who chose conviction over closure. Dayn who is learning to live.
Josie sighs. "Next time we riot, remind me to pack coffee."
I laugh, the sound gentle in the pressurized hush. "Deal. Now… rest. Big fights tomorrow."
She nods, eyelids fluttering shut. I hold her until she drifts. Then I do the same, the stars outside now not just witnesses but companions. Tonight, I know—I’m not just surviving. I’m beginning to live. And for once, I can’t wait for dawn.
CHAPTER 26
JOSIE
Iwake with the memory of engine hum pounding in my skull, and the soft glow of Obelus Station’s ancient lights filters through the bulkhead window. We’ve docked in total silence—save for the occasional hiss of decompression valves catching atmospheric cycles on their own. Dayn’s arm wraps around me, still warm, breath even. For a beat, we’re suspended in peace. Then the comm chirps with a single tone: official summons.
In the briefing module, walls lined with mottled metal and ghostly murals from a precursor age, the IHC lead researcher slides a datapad toward me. His expression is clinical. “These were unearthed in the lower vaults,” he says. Behind us, files transferred into holo-projectors flicker to life—charts, notes, cross-species gene sequencing, cold data etched by Vortaxian hand. My stomach clenches as the words “Column: Hybrid Compatibility Index” scroll across the panel.
Dayn stands beside me—silent sentinel, chest moist with his presence. I swallow hard. “Show me Kernal’s dossier,” I say, voice level but brittle as ice on glass. The researcher taps through folders. Soon, Colonel Kernal’s face appears above scrawlings:date of deployment, world of origin—Drexar Seven—followed by genetic markers.
“He’s named in the chain of command for the black ops unit,” the scientist says without empathy. “The Vortaxian files suggest they researched numerous species, but identified certain individuals as ‘potential hybrids.’ Shorcu genes were initially dismissed… until Agent DS-491—Dayn’s identifier—shows up.” His voice trails off. He expects me to interpret the rest.
Dayn’s fists clench at his side. “They bred me,” he whispers. “They bred me for you.”
My muscles shift—wave crashing against rock. I draw in a breath as racks of data illuminate his tension lines. “No,” I say, stepping closer and placing my fingers gently on his chest. The Shorcu scales under his image-inducer armor give a faint rumble. I tighten my hold. “They bredhope. Or something like it. But they underestimated what love can do—what we can do—when we’re real.”
His eyes glimmer—anger, betrayal, sorrow. “You think me anything but a monster?” he asks quietly, voice fraying.
“I know what you are,” I answer, low and certain. “You’re more human than they ever gave you credit for.”
He trembles. Just then, the holo-projector shifts to display beams of neon-green cells labeled “DS-491—Mated/Compatible: Homo sapiens F.” The words seem to glow with malice.
My breath hitches. The scientist clears his throat awkwardly. “These files show breeding trials with infants, adult subjects… some dormant, some failed.”
Dayn’s head dips like he’s listening to pain echo inside his chest. “They tried with more humans?”
I nod, feeling bile rise in my throat. “They saw us side by side. They tried to replicate—to control that. But they didn’t count onus, Dayn. We broke them.”
He pushes away, steps back, shaking his head. “I hate them. I hate that I may have been a tool in this.” Blood surges—anger, fear, regret. “I thought I chose you. Maybe I was chosen.”
My pulse pounds in my temples. “We choose each other every day,” I say, urgency threading through my words. “Not because of birthright—not because of their fucked-up science—but because ofus. They tried to make me your bait. They messed with the wrong spark.”
He studies me—hard eyes glossed with conflicting emotions. “So what now?”
I step forward, clasping his hands. “We burn it down.”
He lets out a sharp breath. “Burn everything?”
“Every file. Every archive. Every twisted experiment.” I grin with fierce joy. “Then we leak it to the galaxy. Expose them. Make sure no one can deny what they did. And we build a future onus, not on their sick blueprint.”
He squeezes my hands. “It’s dark,” he murmurs. “But it feels… righteous.”
“That’s why we can’t step back.” I lean up, brushing my lips against his jaw. “You’re not a monster. Not to me. Not to anyone who matters.”
He closes his eyes, taking a moment to center himself. Then he pulls me into a hug that rattles rib plates. His fibers shimmer slightly—the image inducer adjusting, perhaps recalibrating chemically. I press my cheek against his chest, scent of metal and midnight mixing with him.
