Page 11 of Billionaire Alien Boss Daddy

I shiver, the aftershocks still rippling through me as I stare at the mess on the floor. My legs feel like jelly, and my mind is a whirlwind of confusion and arousal. I grab a handful of paper napkins from the desk and kneel down, dabbing at the puddle I’ve left behind. The tape over my mouth is still in place, and I don’t touch it. I don’t want to. There’s something thrilling about the idea of Simon being the one to remove it, about him having that control over me. It’s a thought that sends another shiver down my spine.

But I can’t let myself get lost in this. I have a mission. Silas is counting on me, and I’m not about to let him down. I finish cleaning up as best I can, tossing the damp napkins into the trash. My hands are trembling, but I force myself to focus. I need to find something—anything—that proves Simon is behind the corporate espionage.

I move to his desk, my heels clicking softly against the floor. The first few folders I open are filled with mundane business documents—contracts, financial reports, nothing out of the ordinary. But then I find a folder labeledVeritas. My heart skips a beat. This has to be it. I open it, and my stomach drops. The page is filled with symbols and characters I don’t recognize. It’s not any language I’ve ever seen. My mind races. Is this some kind of code? Is Simon involved in something bigger than corporate espionage? Could he be… a terrorist?

I pull out my phone and snap a quick picture of the page. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it. I need to get out of here. I need to think. But before I can move, I hear a noise from the private bathroom. My breath catches in my throat. Simon’s still in there. I should leave. I should run. But curiosity gets the better of me. I creep toward the bathroom door, my heart pounding in my chest.

I push the door open just a crack, enough to see inside. My eyes widen, and my breath catches. Simon is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his pants around his ankles, his hand moving furiously over his cock. But that’s not what makes my heart stop. It’s the fact that he doesn’t look human anymore. His skin is covered in deep indigo scales, and his eyes—his eyes are a burning crimson. He’s beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.

His eyes snap open, locking onto mine. I freeze, my body going rigid. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then his lips curl into a snarl, and I know I’m in trouble.

CHAPTER5

SHOMUN

Iyank my trousers up, the fabric scraping against my scales. My heart pounds, not from fear but from the sheer stupidity of the moment. Centuries of training, of subterfuge, and I let an untested human catch me like this—pants down, image inducer off, and my damn cock still half-hard.

Claire’s standing there, her green eyes wide, mouth still covered with that strip of tape I’d used to silence her earlier. I move before she can react, my hand snapping out to grab her by the throat. Her pulse thrums against my palm, rapid but steady. She doesn’t struggle.

“Why are you spying on me?” My voice rumbles low, a growl that would’ve sent most men running.

She tries to speak, but the tape muffles her words into unintelligible nonsense. Irritation flares—I’m the idiot here, not her. I rip the tape off, my claws catching just enough to make her wince.

“I wasn’t spying,” she gasps, her voice trembling. “I just—I heard something, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Bullshit. Her eyes dart to the scales on my arm, the faint ridges of my face. She’s lying, but not entirely. I release her throat, and her hand drifts up to rub the spot where I held her.

Her fingers brush my arm then, light but deliberate. She traces the pattern of my scales, her touch soft enough to make my skin ripple in response.

“They’re real,” she breathes, her voice a mix of awe and fear. Her hand lingers, and I don’t stop her.

Her gaze lifts to mine, and for the first time, I see no fear in her eyes. Just curiosity.

“You’re real. But…what are you?”

She says it like she’s piecing together a puzzle, one she didn’t even know she was solving.

Claire stands there, her eyes locked on mine, her breath shallow but steady. The air between us feels thick, charged with something I can’t quite name. Her fingers linger on my arm, tracing the edges of my scales like she’s trying to memorize them. I should stop her. Veritas protocol demands it. But I don’t.

“What I am takes time to explain,” I finally say, my voice low and controlled. The image inducer hums faintly as it reestablishes my human disguise, the hologram settling over my scales like a second skin. Simon Karr stares back at her, graying hair and all, but the tension doesn’t dissipate.

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing with the motion, and pulls her hand away like she’s been burned. “I guess,” she says slowly, her words careful, measured, “it doesn’t matter as much what you are as who you are.”

I growl, the sound rumbling deep in my chest. “Do not speak in riddles, human,” I snap, my patience fraying. “What are you asking of me?”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens, like she’s seeing me for the first time—really seeing me. For a moment, I wonder if she’s as good at reading people as I thought she was during the interview. Or if she’s just reckless enough to push me.

“I want to know if you have, you know,” she starts, then hesitates, her cheeks flushing the faintest shade of pink. She swallows again, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Bad intentions.”

Her words hang in the air, and for a second, I’m thrown. My mind spirals into dangerous territory, imagining all the ways I could havebad intentionswith her. The kind that would make her blush even harder if she knew what I was thinking. I force the thoughts down, locking them away. This isn’t the time.

“I am not here to hurt humanity,” I say firmly, my voice steady even as my pulse quickens. “In fact, I’m here to help.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes narrow slightly, and she crosses her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture that doesn’t quite match the curiosity in her gaze. “Help with what, exactly?”

I exhale sharply, my patience thinning. “That’s classified.”

“Classified?” she repeats, her tone laced with skepticism. “You’re a walking, talking classified document, and you’re expecting me to just take your word for it?”

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