Page 6 of Wrecked By My Alien Mentor

I hand the cab driver a crumpled twenty and step out onto the curb, craning my neck to take in the full height of Orion Plaza. The building looms over me like a steel-and-glass monolith, its mirrored surface reflecting the faint pink streaks ofdawn. My stomach twists, but I square my shoulders and stride toward the entrance.

The lobby is a cathedral of modern design—three stories of gleaming marble and glass, with a massive chandelier hanging like a frozen waterfall. The reception desk sits in the center, a sleek, circular island manned by a woman with a perfectly coiffed bun and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Cora Daniels,” I say, my voice steady despite the knot in my chest. “I have an appointment with Mr. Weller.”

She taps at her keyboard, her nails clicking like tiny hammers. “Elevator to the top floor. He’s expecting you.”

The elevator ride feels like it takes forever, the numbers ticking up with agonizing slowness. When the doors finally slide open, I step into a dimly lit office that smells faintly of leather and something metallic. The space is vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. But my attention is immediately drawn to the man sitting at the desk, his face illuminated by the cold glow of his computer screen.

Orion Weller.

His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unyielding, like he’s already dissecting me. I freeze in the doorway, my hand still gripping the strap of my bag.

“Do you speak?” His voice is deep, resonant, and carries an edge that makes my spine stiffen.

I flinch, my mouth dry. “Y-yes?”

“Are you asking me a question, Ms. Cora Daniels?” The way he says my name—slow, deliberate—makes it sound like a challenge.

“No,” I blurt out, my voice firmer this time. I straighten my posture, refusing to let him see how much he’s rattling me.

He rises from his chair, and I swear the room feels smaller as he steps out from behind the desk. The shadows cling to him like a second skin, but as he moves into the light, his featuresbecome clear. He’s massive—broad shoulders, towering height, and a presence that feels like a physical weight. His black hair is slicked back, and his purple eyes bore into me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

“First lesson,” he growls, his voice low and commanding. “You will address me as Mr. Weller or Sir when you speak to me. This includes when you respond to a question. Is that clear?”

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Weller," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My voice sounds foreign, like it belongs to someone else—someone who doesn’t mind being talked down to. My cheeks burn, but it’s not just from humiliation. There’s something else, something hot and electric that coils low in my stomach. I hate it. I hate him. And yet, I can’t look away.

Orion grunts, a sound that’s more dismissal than acknowledgment. He steps closer, his presence looming over me like a storm cloud. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of leather and something sharp, like ozone, filling my lungs. He starts to circle me, his boots clicking against the polished floor. Each step feels deliberate, calculated, like he’s mapping out my weaknesses.

I stand frozen, my hands clenched at my sides. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. His gaze sweeps over me, and I feel it like a physical touch—heavy, invasive, and impossible to ignore. My skin prickles, and I have to fight the urge to fidget. I’ve never felt so exposed, so… small.

"Mr. Robbie Dalton speaks highly of your qualifications, Ms. Daniels," he says, his voice low and smooth, like velvet wrapped around steel. "He says that you possess a keen mind, flexibility of thought and perception, and creatively applied ambitions that made you a standout at University."

"Thank you, Sir," I reply automatically, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Don’t thank me," he snaps, and I flinch, my gaze dropping to the floor. His tone is like a whip, sharp and cutting, and it leaves a sting that lingers. My stomach churns, a mix of anxiety and something else I can’t quite name. The thought of displeasing him makes my chest tighten, and I hate how much it bothers me. "Thank him. Or perhaps, you should offer no thanks, because he has placed you here. In the palm of my hand."

His words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. I swallow hard, my throat dry. My mind races, trying to find a way to regain some control, but all I can focus on is the way he’s looking at me—like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved.

I force myself to meet his gaze, my chin lifting in defiance. "And what are you going to do with me, Sir?" The question comes out bolder than I feel, and I can’t tell if it’s bravery or stupidity.

His knuckles graze my cheek, rough and deliberate, and I flinch at the touch—not because it’s harsh, but because it’s electric. My heart slams against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm that drowns out all rational thought. He’s close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne, something dark and earthy, like a storm rolling in.

“Sir,” I manage to whisper, but the word feels inadequate, like a pitiful attempt to claw back some control. Control I don’t have. Control I’m not sure I even want.

His hand cups my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. Those purple eyes bore into me, and I can’t look away. I don’t want to. There’s something hypnotic about the way he studies me, like he’s peeling back every layer of my carefully constructed facade.

“Now that I have you,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, “what am I to do with you?”

The question hangs in the air, thick and heavy, and I feel my face flush. My skin burns where his fingers touch,and I’m painfully aware of every inch of space between us. His dominance should terrify me—hell, it does terrify me—but there’s a thrill in it too, a forbidden heat that coils in my stomach and spreads like wildfire.

“Sir,” I start again, but my voice wavers, betraying the storm of emotions churning inside me. Anger at his arrogance. Humiliation at how easily he’s reduced me to this trembling mess. And something else—something I don’t want to name but can’t ignore. Attraction. Raw, unrelenting attraction.

His lips curve into a faint smirk, as if he can see straight through me.

“You’re full of potential, Ms. Daniels,” he says, his tone almost taunting. “But potential is worthless without discipline. Without direction.”

He releases my chin and steps back, his gaze lingering on me as if he’s assessing a piece of art. I take a shaky breath, my mind racing. He’s testing me. Pushing me. But for what?

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