Page 53 of Taken By the Alien Killer
“Then let’s be late,” CynJyn mutters, flicking toggles. “Tower, this is private ceremonial shuttle C-Three-Fancy requesting approach to East Estate pad.”
Static sighs; a crisp voice replies, “C-Three-Fancy, approach cleared. Welcome home.”
Home tastes like lemon polish and expectation. I secure the harness, check the exterior cams, and count the heartbeats it takes for the estate to resolve—white stone, cypress shadows, the chess tree a dark scribble against the courtyard where heat always lingers. The landing pads shine like silver plates waiting for something bureaucratic to be served on them.
Star’s hand finds mine without asking. Her fingers are cold. I squeeze once, steady.
“Don’t start apologizing,” she says under her breath.
“I wasn’t,” I lie.
She looks at me, green cutting through glass glare. “If you let go now, I’ll understand,” she says, mouth wry. “I’ll hate it, but I’ll understand.”
I open our hands, not because I want to, but because the camera above the hatch is a witness that never forgets. “We’re back in the cage,” I say.
“For now,” she answers, jaw setting. “For now isn’t forever.”
CynJyn snorts. “Remind me to embroider that on a pillow and throw it at Sneed.”
The skids kiss the pad. Engines wind down from a scream to a sigh, then to the hot little ticks of metal remembering how to be quiet. Heat rushes in when the hatch unseals, carrying the salt off the water and the spice off the kitchen and that house-smell: soap, lemon, old book glue. A line of staff waits in their best neutrality. Sneed stands at their head, immaculate as always—collar sharp, slate in hand, eyes that see everything and write it down somewhere safe and weaponized.
“Welcome home, my Lady,” Sneed says, bowing with the exact millimeters of deference prescribed by a century of his own choosing. “Miss CynJyn. Commander.”
“Hi, Sneed,” CynJyn chirps, over-bright. “Love what you’ve done with the place. The smoke alarms? The drama?”
“Miss CynJyn,” he says, tone so smooth it could be poured. “Your continued existence is a marvel.”
Star steps down; the sun throws copper into her hair and fatigue into her shoulders. Sneed’s gaze flickers—wrist scan cataloging bruises, split lip, stride speed—and betrays nothing. “Your parents are relieved,” he says to her. “They will seeyou after medical clears you. The doc waits. Wardrobe is—regrettably—also prepared.”
Star’s mouth tightens. “Of course they are.”
Sneed’s eyes tip to me. “Commander Rayek.”
“Seneschal,” I say.
“You are reinstated,” he says, as if we are discussing the weather. “Ad interim pending a review of recent… initiative. Your transfer request is placed on administrative hold.”
“Understood,” I answer. The word lands like a stone on still water. “Post?”
“Primary detail, Lady Star,” he says. “You know the routes.”
“I do,” I say, and my hands remember the weight of ten thousand doors.
CynJyn claps her palms and feigns a swoon. “Wonderful. I can stop being the world’s shortest, cutest bodyguard.”
“You were the loudest,” Sneed says. “Come. Med first.” He turns, and the household flows like a river that has done this a thousand times and is embarrassed to have to do it again.
Star reaches back, fingers brushing mine, a rebellion so small it only matters to people who count. I let my hand fall to my side. She looks over her shoulder and flashes me something fragile and ferocious. “For now,” she mouths.
“For now,” I return.
The med wing smells like antiseptic optimism. A physician with steady hands and a voice used to calming cattle and nobles alike takes Star’s vitals; scanners purr; a nurse clucks; a tech photographs bruises for a file that will be encrypted and ignored. I stand at the door and am very professional.
“You’re dehydrated,” the physician says.
“I’m hydrated with spite,” Star says.
“Not medically recognized,” the physician says, but a smile sneaks into the corner of her mouth. “Sit. Breathe. We will patch you where you’re patchable.”
