Page 83 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
Our night unfurls slowly. No urgency. No alarms blaring. Just the shudder of the ship drifting through dark space, the low hum of life support, and our synchronized heartbeats. I can feel each breath he takes, every shift of muscle and fabric. The covers itch at my ankles, but I don’t care. I never care—unless he’s cold. Then I care.
His fingertips brush over my spine, gentle tracing that sends warmth flooding. “Whatever comes next…” I whisper, lifting my head to find his eyes. He doesn’t resist my gaze—and fuck, that still feels like revelation. I don’t need to add: Leave me, promise, fight or flight. Nothing more is needed. He nods, slow and deliberate. I feel the solemn weight of it, but also the lightness. We’ve anchored this moment, and maybe each other.
“...we face it together,” I finish, words etched into his throat as his breath stills. A plan spoken softly, a vow sealed with our bodies curled together like galaxies entwined.
He tips my chin toward him. “Always.” His voice is a promise. A warning. A sanctuary.
I hum low, leaning into his chest as he draws me close. His arms wrap around me, and I can feel the hard lines of his armor beneath, then the soft cadence of clothes at my hip. In this bubble, I am home. Not repair bay, not battlefield, not mission. Just us.
We kiss again—slower this time, unhurried. The taste of mint tea lingers on my lips; he smiles against me. I tease him, quiet giggles slipping through, and he laughs. It vibrates in his chest, shakes his stance. I cling to that sound.
We speak in broken sentences and sighs, heavy with unsaid truths. I tell him I love him—raw and full-throated, with no caveats. He swallows, voice catching, and I feel it: love is our weapon now, sharper than any blade. “I love you too,” he breathes. “So damn much.”
My hand drifts to his heart, under the armor, feeling the stubborn rhythm that has carried us across warzones and wakeful nights. I whisper, “Then stay.”
He cups my head, mouth lingering on my temple. “Always.”
Think about the missions ahead, I could say. The threat looming like storm clouds on the horizon. But not now. Not tonight. I trace patterns on his chest, memorizing him. The rasp of his chest hair under my fingers. The gentle hum as he exhales. This is not forever—but it is enough for now.
We drift between sleep and consciousness until the lights dim further and the ship’s hum deepens, inviting dreams. We sink into them together.
In the early hush before dawn, I awake to him holding me like I’m the world he’s sworn to protect. I blink, clarity flooding in—tonight we carve sanctuary from chaos. And for the first time in a long time, I believe we can face tomorrow together.
My commpad lights up, jolting me back from peaceful fugue. A message from Dowron. Another mission—bigger threat. Idon’t open it yet. Instead, I lean into Dayn, forehead against his sternum, listening to the pulse of life, danger, home.
He tightens his arms and whispers, “Whatever comes next.”
I whisper back with a soft fierceness, “Together.”
And with that vow between us, I flick open the pad and read the details of what lies ahead.
CHAPTER 25
DAYN
Iwake before the sun—if you can call the dim glow seeping through the shuttle’s viewport a “sun.” It threads through the dusty window like a promise. We’re orbiting Pyrax Theta, a raw, metal-kissed world where corporate drip drills have replaced forests and the air smells of hot iron. Dowron’s voice crackles over the comm, clipped and urgent. “Intelligence confirms Vortaxian ideological cells embedded in the mining corp’s eco-mining units. Your task: expose and dismantle their propaganda pipeline. Sabotage, transmit. Minimal combat.” His words echo in my skull like a cold briefing, but when I look at Josie—curling her fingers into mine—the tension eases. Two thieves leaving before the alarm. We’ve pulled off worse.
I shed my Hellfighter armor for chainmail-jacketed overalls and a battered cap, gray stubble etched into my jaw artificially. Dockworker Dayn—no image inducer, no claws, just scars and grit. Josie, in contrast, blossoms in her role. She wears grease-smudged overalls cinched at her waist and a smirk that scares people into trusting her. “Ready?” I murmur in her ear as we disembark through the shuttle’s hatch, dropped onto the rusted ramp by a gang of yawning guards.
Her voice is a whisper that tastes like honey in a dark alley: “You bet. Now watch me bake brain-warfare into their morning.”
Locals eye us with suspicion, but she carries herself like sun after months of rain. She introduces herself as “Josephine McClintock, freelance systems specialist.” They laugh at her accent—some western colony dialect—and her banana muffins disappear faster than contraband in a tariff-free zone.
I bury myself in paperwork and crane duty, dangling around the unloading docks, eavesdropping. I watch her from distance—her laughter ringing like bells, the way she grips the edge of a console to steady herself, oily hair tucked behind her ear. She’s not performing; she’salive, and the crates of muffins are her secret weapon.
When she winks at me across a cluster of miners and I pretend not to see, I know we’re in sync. Because this isn’t us bending roles—it’s us becoming the people we’re here to save.
Late that second night, we find the server room—narrow corridor of humming racks and flickering LEDs. I guard the door in case the officials patrol. The air tastes of recycled coolant and red tape. Josie grips her datapad, fingers flying across encrypted panels.
“Dayn,” she whispers when I lift my mask, “they’re running Vortaxian identity streams—videos—happy children reciting pro-empire slogans, smiling faces.” Her voice clenches at “children.” “It’s brainwashing.”
I feel it too—the wound in my ribs and gut twisting. “Broadcast?”
“Full-frontal.” Her grin lights the cavern. She never falters. “You ready to give them hell?”
I grin back. “Only if it’s through your high priest sermon.”
She snorts, then heads back to the console. The bleep of her hack is sweet music. I slip on my commmic. “Dowron, we havethe files.” Through me, he hears the broadcast begin—flicker in every screensaver, holo broadcast on every mining rig.
