Page 89 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I’m awake before the shuttle even completes its orbital burn, night settling like spilled ink through the viewport. The med bay’s glow dims, and the cabin air feels softer now—safe. I nudge Josie gently. “Hey.”
She blinks at me, tangled in blankets with hair plastered to her forehead. “Huh?”
“Come here,” I murmur, patting my thigh. She swings her legs onto the bunk and leans in, curious. I extend my palm—cradled within is a small, misshapen bolt, charred and warped, still warm.
She frowns. “What is that?” I hold it out: jagged, imperfect, with oxidation flecks glistening like stars trapped in steel.
“Remember the pump you fixed on Snowblossom? The one that threatened to flood half the colony?” I trace the bolt’s edges. “This is from that water reclamation pump—the last piece we salvaged before Kernal’s attack. It's seen more—than you—or I.”
She takes it gingerly, fingertips brushing the rough metal. “You kept it?” Her voice softens, wonder threading through it.
I swallow. “It survived the Vortaxians, the sabotage, our rescue. It’s… small, busted—and yet, it held. Like us.”
She lets the bolt rest in her open palm, eyes trained on it. “That’s… poetic, Dayn.” She raises her gaze. “Kind of.”
I shift beside her, pressing my knee against the bunk, half-lounging, half-offering. I reach into my pocket and produce a compact heirloom generator ring—sleek metal band etched with Shorcu runes. She leans forward, the bolt startling in contrast to the smooth curve of the ring.
I slide my hand toward her. “I want you to make something with it. With me. We’ll build a life stronger than steel. You’re broken only to the world’s eyes—but to me, you’re perfect.”
Light bends across her face—moonlight and relief. She stares at the ring, then back at me, and laughs softly, incredulous.
“You’re proposing with plumbing?” Her eyes water with laughter and emotion.
I nod, eyes locked on hers. “It’s our origin story. Honest as dirt and rust. We come from fixing broken things. Wearebroken things.”
She bursts out laughing, then sobers, pressing the bolt and ring together in her palm. “You’re lucky I like broken things.” Then she kisses me hard—urgent, blazing, filled with every war, every triumph, every fragile promise we’ve made.
When she breaks away, her eyes shine. “Yes,” she breathes. “A thousand times yes.”
I slip the ring onto her finger, the metal cool against her warmed skin. I kiss her knuckles and the back of her hand, then cup her face. “I love you, Josie McClintock. Engineer of broken bolts…and my heart.”
She lays her head back on my chest. “Don’t let me fixyou,” she teases. “I’m not responsible for your serial killer habits.”
I laugh, low and steady. “Deal.” I bury my face in her hair, inhale her scent—grease, sweat, hope.
Outside the shuttle, stars streak past as if cheering. And beneath the battered lighting of our small cabin, two people who started with broken pieces form this moment: tender, fierce, unbreakably theirs.
CHAPTER 28
JOSIE
I’m standing in the hangar bay before dawn, harsh floodlights painting every edge in high contrast, the clang of ship plating as real as my heartbeat. The engines of the Hellfighter’s flagship rumble in the background, but it’s the softness of Dayn’s hand in mine that grounds me. There’s no official paperwork. No judge in a robe. Just us, an honored fire team forming a rough semicircle, and a handful of witnesses who’ve weathered wars with hearts scarred and hopeful.
I’m wearing my favorite utility belt—pouches still cracked with solder and oil stains—and a dress I welded from composite fabric back on Snowblossom. It’s practical, yet something about the shimmer of the weave makes me feel luminous. Dayn stands opposite me in his combat armor, every scar molded into the plating, each dent a mark of survival. He looks more vulnerable than any paper ring could prove.
Dowron leans against the wall, arms crossed. He smirks at us, muttering loud enough for us to hear, “I give it three years before one of them detonates something on accident.”
I elbow Dayn and grin. Garrus clears his throat loudly and raises a fluted glass. “All right, everyone—this is quasi-official, so I get to officiate. I propose a toast: here’s to Josie and Dayn,mad, brilliant, combustible—or, as I prefer, un-fuck-up-able. Do not, under any circumstances, make babies right now. We cannot handlemoreof you.”
Laughs ripple through the team. I blink back tears I didn’t know were building, laughing too: “Noted, Garrus.”
Dayn tightens his grip on my hand. He pulls a ring out of his gauntlet—a band forged from salvaged starship plating, its edges are sleek, jagged in places, and etched with Shorcu runes I'd helped him translate. He slips it onto my finger, and the fit is perfect.
“When I proposed, it was with a bolt fromourpump,” he says quietly, voice rich and reverent. “This is because we don’t rely on fancy things to define us. We rely on love and lunacy. And you.”
My chest squeezes so tight I have to swallow. “You’re the best mistake I’ve ever made,” I tell him, voice crackling.
He grins like he’s high on hope and gunpowder. “And you’re the reason I’m still more man than weapon.”
