Page 3 of Alien Devil's Prey
The moment my skin touched hers, something in my blood stirred—a primitive recognition I didn't have time for. I locked it down.
She struggled against my grip, her body tense and defiant. Small, but not fragile. Wiry strength in her frame, the kind that came from hard work rather than training. When she turned to look at me over her shoulder, I saw hazel eyes that shifted between green and brown in the emergency lighting.
Her pulse hit my palm—steady, not panicked. Her breathing was even, her eyes clear. Unacceptable for a civilian. She was either crazy or dangerously stubborn.
"Let me go," she said, her voice steady despite the circumstances.
I spun her around and pressed her back against the main console, my hand flat against her chest to keep her pinned. She was breathing hard, but her gaze never wavered from mine. No tears. No pleading. Just a sharp intelligence that was already working on the problem of me. My gaze tracked the angle of her jaw, the small scar at her hairline, the way her lips pressed together like she was holding back a retort. Not details I needed for a mission.
Details I noticed anyway.
"You're going to help me access the cargo hold," I said.
"What?" She blinked. "Why would you need my help for that? It's just medical supplies."
"The secured compartment."
Her confusion looked genuine. Of course it was—she was just the pilot. They wouldn't tell her what she was really carrying. To her, this truly was nothing but medical supplies and protein rations.
A loose strand of hair had fallen across her cheek. I hooked it back with one finger, watching her eyes the whole time. Noflinch. No blink. She just stared, like she was measuring me as much as I was measuring her.
"You work for the Conclave," I said instead.
"I work for whoever owns my contract." The words came out flat, bitter. "And if you know my name, you know why I can't exactly choose my employers."
I stepped closer, the hum of the ship's systems thrumming under my boots. "We're going to the cargo hold. Now."
"You can drag me there," she said, voice low, "but I'm not helping you."
Before I could reply, the first impact hit.
The deck shuddered violently under us. Warning sirens howled, red lights pulsing in a frantic heartbeat. My instincts snapped into combat mode—but the ship's own defense grid was silent. This was incoming fire.
Another hit. Closer. The smell of scorched metal and ozone hit my nose.
"Who's shooting at you?" I demanded.
Her face went pale as she glanced at the tactical display. "Those are military-grade interceptors. They have no business being in this sector." A flicker of understanding crossed her face. "They’re after the same thing you are, aren’t they?"
A third explosion rattled the cockpit, and a cascade of sparks rained from an overhead panel. She flinched, but her eyes never left mine. Even now, she was calculating.
And then she moved—not away from me, but toward the console.
TAMSIN
The first impact rocked the cockpit, sending a shower of sparks down from an overloaded relay. Alarms shrieked around us. Through the viewport, I saw them—three military-grade interceptors, sleek and deadly, their hulls gleaming with an authority that had no business being in this sector.
The Vinduthi’s grip on my arm was unrelenting. The ship lurched beneath us, and his other hand slammed against the bulkhead beside my head, building a cage for me with his own body. His focus wasn't on the explosions tearing through the hull. It was on me.
"The cargo hold," he growled, like the ship wasn't shaking apart around us. "Now."
My mind raced. Who were they? Why were they here? Was he the target, or was I? It didn't matter.
Another impact threw us both against the console. Emergency lighting bathed us in intermittent red.
"I don’t know what you’re after, and I don’t care," I said, tilting my chin up with every ounce of defiance I could muster. "And even if I did, I'd rather watch this ship burn in a star than hand it to a thug like you."
But even as I spoke, my hand was moving. Slowly. Carefully. The secondary diagnostic panel was just within reach, hidden behind his left shoulder. The physical trigger for my father’s failsafe. It wasn't a subtle escape protocol. It was a final solution—a way to ensure that if his ship was ever compromised, nothing would survive to tell the tale.
