Page 4 of My Big Fat Fake Alien

The bartender’s words hit me like a jab to the ribs.She punched out early.Raven’s gone, and the taste of her still lingers on my lips, a ghost of something I can’t quite pin down. Duty wars with instinct—find Giscard or find her. The club hums around me, bass thumping, bodies swaying, but my focus narrows to a single, relentless thought:She’s in danger.

I’m halfway to the elevator when a voice stops me, smooth and greasy as oil. “Mr. Stevens. Leaving so soon?”

Giscard. Of course.

I turn, forcing a practiced smile. “Even billionaires need their beauty sleep, Lalonde.”

He stands there, pristine in a tailored suit, his pale face unreadable. “Surely not. The night’s just beginning. I’d hate for you to miss the real entertainment.” His eyes flicker, something reptilian in their stillness.

“Another time.” My jaw tightens. Every second I waste here feels like a noose tightening.

He steps closer, his presence oppressive. “You seem... distracted. Something on your mind, perhaps?”

I meet his gaze, my voice ice. “Personal matters. Nothing that concerns you.”

He smiles, thin and sharp. “Everything concerns me. Especially in my club.”

The elevator doors slide open, and I step in without another word. His eyes follow me, cold and calculating, until the doors seal shut.

The descent feels agonizingly slow. My pulse hammers, a low drumbeat in my ears.She’s in danger.The thought won’t let go, a primal pull I can’t ignore. The doors open, and I’m out, scanning the street. Neon lights blur as I move, my long strides eating up the pavement.

Her voice cuts through the night. "Let go of me!"

A pack of suits circles Raven like wolves, their leader's meaty hand yanking her purse strap. "Hey darling, I'm trying to be nice. If you don't stop being a cold bitch, I'm going to be not so nice."

Red bleeds into my vision. My feet eat the pavement in three strides. The human's face registers shock as my fist connects with his jaw - pulled at the last microsecond from lethal to merely devastating. He crumples like wet paper.

"Holy shit!" One of his cronies launches a wild haymaker.

Their fists bounce off my concealed scales, tearing threads in my Armani. Five against one - pathetic odds. For them.

"Get him!"

The pack swarms, all flailing limbs and drunken rage. I let them wear themselves out for exactly three seconds before launching them all back with a sweep of my arms. Bodies scatter across concrete.

One tries crawling away. Another rushes me with a broken bottle. A third fumbles for his phone. The fourth just stands there, pants darkening.

I take my time. The bottle wielder gets his arm twisted until something snaps. The crawler receives a precise kick to the ribs. The phone fumbler tastes pavement.

The last one breaks into a sprint. My hand finds an orange safety cone. Perfect. The cone spins through the air like a missile, catching him between the shoulder blades. He face-plants with a satisfying thud.

Five unconscious suits litter the sidewalk. My suit is ruined. Worth it.

I’m at her side in an instant, my instincts screaming to check for injuries. She’s holding her torn outfit together with both hands, her knuckles white, her shoulders hunched. The bruises on her heart are worse than anything those bastards could’ve done to her skin.

“Here.” I shrug out of my blazer, draping it over her shoulders. It swallows her, hanging down to mid-thigh like a trench coat. She looks smaller in it, vulnerable in a way that makes my jaw clench.

“Are you all right?” My voice is calm, but it takes effort. I want to go back and finish what I started with those men.

She nods, her eyes flicking to the ground. “It’s my fault. I should’ve taken a cab. I was being cheap.”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. I temper it, softening my tone. “It’s not your fault. The only ones responsible are the ones who tried to hurt you.”

She glances up at me, her dark eyes wide, searching. There’s something there—fear, maybe, or the ghost of it. She’s not used to kindness from men like me. That realization sticks in my chest like a blade.

“Let me call you a ride,” I say, pulling out my phone. She doesn’t argue, just nods again, her shoulders slumping like she’s carrying the weight of the world. Her expression makes my chest ache. She looks like someone who’s been kicked too many times and expects the next blow.

The car arrives quickly, sleek and black, blending into the night. She hesitates before sliding into the back seat, clutching my blazer around her like armor.

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