Page 9 of Claimed By the Vykan
Light from the bioluminescent ceiling drifted across the figure’s skin and revealed an opalescent sheen, too surreal and luminous to be any kind of cosmetic trick. Straight black hair fell over narrow shoulders like a dark waterfall, the strands catching the glow and shifting with a muted shimmer that felt strangely alive. When the face came fully into view, the fine-boned symmetry appeared almost too precise, and the eyes—large, wholly black, smooth as obsidian—reflected the room’s glow in flawless curves that made Morgan’s stomach tighten.
Her mind stalled under the weight of it. She opened her mouth, breath stuck in her throat, unable to speak.
The figure stepped into the room with a fluid, gliding grace that made ordinary movement seem clumsy by comparison. Her clothing—if it could be called clothing—shifted slightly with each step. Layers of deep blue and silver fabric fell in flowing lines, both structured and weightless, as though woven from a material that obeyed its own rules. Morgan had never seen anything remotely like it, not in any culture, not in any art form, not even in speculative fiction.
Somewhere in the details—the angle of the head, the litheness of the body, the quiet poise—Morgan sensed femininity.
I think she’s a woman.
The thought came without explanation.
The alien lifted her hand. Resting in her palm was a smooth, perfectly flat silver stone, glowing faintly from within.
“Morgan Halden,” she said.
The voice that spoke Morgan’s name was low and melodic, shaped by an accent she had never encountered. A heartbeat later, a second voice layered over it—identical in tone but rendered in fluent English—emerged from the stone. The effect was disorienting.
Morgan staggered back a step, the shock finally unlocking her voice. “How—what—who are you? How do you know my name?” Her hands trembled, and she pressed them against her sides in an attempt to steady herself. Her heartbeat felt thunderous, almost painful.
None of this could be real. She clung to the idea with growing desperation.
You’re dreaming. You’re still on the balcony. You passed out. You’ll wake up any moment now.
The reassurance barely held.
Her senses insisted otherwise. The floor beneath her feet was warm and utterly solid. The air brushed her skin in a waythat felt precise, almost calibrated. A subtle vibration hummed through the walls, giving the entire room a presence that was impossible to dismiss as imagination. Her pulse thudded against her ribs. Her throat felt tight. Everything was vivid, immediate, painfully real.
The alien’s expression remained serene, unchanging.
“We know you,” the layered voice said. “You wanted escape. My Marak has given you the opportunity.”
Morgan blinked as confusion and disbelief intertwined.Marak?The tone in which the alien spoke the word carried unmistakable reverence, as if naming someone of extraordinary importance.What is that? Who?
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “What does that mean?”
The alien remained silent. Instead, she inclined her head in a slow, deliberate bow that sent a faint prickle down Morgan’s spine.
“You will see,” the translated voice said. “He has summoned you. Come.”
Morgan’s thoughts raced, colliding and reforming in uneven waves. A part of her wanted to demand answers, to cling to questions as if they were lifelines. Another part understood with startling clarity that nothing she said would change the reality around her. The seamless walls, the shifting light, the sense of a living structure holding her made resistance feel futile. These beings had taken her from her home without leaving a trace. No one had seen. No one had intervened. They moved through the world in ways she could not comprehend.
Yet she hadn’t been hurt or restrained. Someone had placed her in a soft bed beneath a sheet that felt like liquid silk. Someone had ensured she was comfortable.
Against all logic, that detail anchored her.
She drew in a careful breath and tried to steady her voice. “All right,” she said, adding the faintest thread of wry humour because the alternative was panic. “Take me to your leader.”
The alien stepped aside, creating a clear path through the doorway.
Morgan followed her into the unknown.
CHAPTER 7
The alien woman handed her a pair of slippers before they left the room—soft, silken things that conformed instantly to the shape of her feet. The fabric felt almost weightless, smoother than any material she knew, cool at first touch and then warming against her skin as though it had its own pulse. Morgan swallowed hard, unsure whether to be grateful for the gesture or unnerved by the quiet efficiency with which it was offered.
They stepped into the corridor, and a soft gasp escaped her. If the room had been strange, this was something else entirely. The walls curved in sweeping arcs, seamless and smooth, glowing faintly from within. Lines of bioluminescent light flowed through the structure like veins, drifting in slow, undulating currents that reminded her of deep ocean footage—silent, luminous, alive. The air was warm and clean, carrying none of the sterile scent she associated with modern architecture. Instead, it held a faint mineral note, something like polished stone after rain.
Morgan hesitated, glancing back at the doorway as it sealed behind them with a soft whisper. She tried to understand the nature of the place she was in, but there were no clues—nosignage, no panels, no seams or hinges. Every surface appeared grown rather than built, shaped by principles she couldn’t begin to decipher.
