Page 37 of Wrecked By My Alien Mentor

I splash water on my face, trying to calm down. Okay. New plan. I’ll just have to face the rod and hope for the best. I’ve got to sell it. If I can just keep my cool long enough to get through the scan, maybe I can pull this off.

I open the door and step back into the basement, the hum of the rod louder than ever. Lars looks up, his eyebrows raised. “Better?”

“Better,” I say, forcing a smile. “Let’s do this.”

I step into line, my pulse pounding in my ears. The rod’s next. And so is my doom.

I step up to the table, the weight of the shot glass in my hand grounding me. The whiskey smells sharp, like pine and regret. Lars watches me with that infuriatingly calm smirk, and J’on stands to the side, holding that damn rod like it’s a magic wand.

“I pledge to protect Earth,” I say, my voice steady even as my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest. I down the whiskey in one go, the burn in my throat a welcome distraction.

The rod starts beeping immediately, a high-pitched whine that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. J’on’shead snaps toward me, his stupid sunglasses glinting ominously. “She’s compromised,” he says, his tone flat but dangerous.

Lars blinks, his smirk faltering. “Are you sure it’s not a false reading?”

“Positive,” J’on replies, stepping closer to me.

I don’t hesitate. I fling the whiskey left in the shot glass straight into Lars’s face. He yelps, stumbling back and clawing at his eyes. The shot glass follows, smacking J’on right between the stupid sunglasses. He reels, and I’m already moving, shoving past the stunned attendees.

“Stop her!” Lars shouts, his voice cracking. “She’s one ofthem!”

I bolt for the stairs, my heels slipping on the concrete. The crowd is shouting now, confusion turning to anger. I hit the first step and almost trip, catching myself on the railing. The door to the sweatshop floor is just ahead. I burst through it, the fluorescent lights blinding after the dim basement.

The workers don’t even look up. They’re hunched over sewing machines, faces blank, hands moving mechanically. I skid to a stop in front of a woman stitching sleeves onto what looks like a cheap t-shirt. “Help me! Please!” I pant, but she doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes stay glued to her work, like I’m not even there.

The door slams open behind me, and the mob pours out, faces twisted in fury. I don’t wait. I run deeper into the factory, weaving between rows of machines and racks of clothes. The cacophony of voices rises behind me, a wave of anger crashing in my direction.

“Orion!” I shout, dodging a cart piled high with fabric. My voice echoes off the metal rafters. “If you’re listening, now is areallygood time to come to my rescue!”

No answer. Just the pounding of footsteps and the growing roar of the mob. I spot a staircase leading to a catwalk and makea break for it, my lungs burning. The stairs rattle under my feet, and I hear someone shout, “She’s going up!”

I hit the catwalk and keep running, the metal grates clanging with every step. Below, the mob spreads out, trying to cut me off. I glance over the railing and see a man with a wrench starting up the stairs. Great.

“Come on, Orion,” I mutter under my breath, scanning the factory for an exit. “Don’t make me do all the work here.”

The catwalk ends at a door marked “Maintenance.” I shove it open and find myself in a narrow hallway lined with pipes. The door slams shut behind me, and I lean against it for a moment, catching my breath. Then I hear the handle rattle.

Time to move.

CHAPTER 18

ORION

The streets blur as I race forward, my legs pounding the pavement with enough force to crack it. My heart hammers—not from exertion, but from the thought of Cora in danger. The commotion grows louder, a cacophony of shouts and footsteps. When I turn the corner, there she is, sprinting down the alley with a mob hot on her heels. Her hair is wild, her face flushed with exertion and fear. She’s holding her own, but they’re gaining.

“Cora!” My voice booms like thunder, and her head snaps toward me. Relief floods her features, but there’s no time for niceties. She ducks behind me as I step forward, shielding her with my body. The mob halts, a sea of anger and confusion, their eyes wide at the sight of me—Orion Weller, towering and furious.

“Stay behind me,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. My hands flex, ready to tear through them one by one. I’ve fought worse. I’ve killed worse.

Cora’s fingers grip my arm, her nails digging into my skin like a plea. “Orion, no! They’re just people! They’ve been lied to—manipulated by Lars. They don’t know what they’re doing.”

I glance down at her, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. Her green eyes are wide, pleading, and for a moment, I’m torn. I want to crush these fools. I want to make them pay for daring to chase her. But Cora—she’s looking at me like I’m the one who can fix this instead of escalating it.

“Fine,” I grit out, though it costs me. I turn back to the mob, my voice rising like a storm. “Stop!”

The word leaves my mouth with such force that it seems to ripple through the air. They freeze, stumbling over each other, their momentum broken. A few glance at each other nervously. It’s a temporary hold, but it’s enough.

“You!” I point to a man in the front—mid-forties, hollow eyes, desperation etched into every line of his face. “What’s your grievance?”

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