Page 8 of Wrecked By My Alien Mentor

"And yet," Pyke leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, "you didn’t say yes when I asked if you wanted to let her go. Why is that?"

I pause, my jaw tightening. "Because she’s sharp. Quick. She caught a coding error in a spreadsheet that had been overlooked for weeks. If she can focus, if she can learn to act without hesitation, she might actually be useful."

"Useful," Pyke repeats, drawing out the word like he’s tasting it for the first time. "Is that all?"

"I don’t need her to be anything else," I snap.

The room falls silent for a moment, the hum of the base’s systems the only sound. Pyke leans back again, his grin softening into something more contemplative.

"Three weeks, Oriyn. Give her time. You’re not an easy man to impress—or to please—but she’s not a cadet at Brakkus. She’s a human, and she’s in over her head. Cut her some slack."

I don’t respond. Instead, I turn on my heel and head for the door, the hologram flickering briefly as I step into the brightlylit corridor. Pyke’s laughter follows me, a low rumble that grates against the edges of my focus.

Useful. That’s all she needs to be. Anything more is a distraction.

The shuttle hums beneath me as I approach St. Louis, the cloaking device shifting the exterior to mimic a sleek, black helicopter. The city skyline looms in the distance, Orion Plaza cutting through the clouds like a blade. My hands tighten on the controls. I’ve done this a thousand times, but this time feels different. Cora’s waiting.

The helipad glimmers as I descend, the faint shimmer of the cloaking field dissolving as the shuttle—now a helicopter—touches down. The rotors slow, and I kill the engine, the silence sudden and heavy. I step out, the image inducer making me look like Orion Weller, the human mogul, not Oriyn, the Vakutan warrior. The disguise feels heavier today.

She’s there. Cora stands by the door to the office suite, a cup of coffee in one hand, a tablet tucked under her arm. Her brown hair catches the sunlight, and she smiles when she sees me. It’s genuine, warm—something I’m not used to. My chest tightens.

"Mr. Weller," she says, her voice steady despite the flicker of nerves in her eyes. "Welcome back. I brought you coffee—black, no sugar. Just the way you like it."

I take the cup, our fingers brushing. Her skin is soft, and I have to force my hand not to linger. "Thank you, Ms. Daniels. You’re efficient as always."

She shrugs, the movement casual, but there’s pride in it. "I try. How was your meeting?"

"Productive." I take a sip of the coffee, the bitterness grounding me. "And here? Any fires to put out?"

She falls into step beside me as I stride toward the office, her shorter legs working double-time to keep up. "Nothing major. I caught a discrepancy in the quarterly report—something theaccounting team missed. I flagged it and sent it back for correction. Should be handled by end of day."

I pause, turning to look at her. Her green eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I forget what I’m supposed to say. She’s sharp, observant, and she doesn’t back down. It’s infuriating and intoxicating all at once.

"Good work," I say finally, the words coming out gruffer than I intend. "That kind of attention to detail is exactly what I expect from you."

Her cheeks flush, and she looks down, but there’s a small smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, sir."

I open the door to the office, letting her step in first. The room is all glass and steel, the city sprawled out below us. She sets her tablet on the desk and turns to me, her hands clasped in front of her like she’s bracing for something.

"Is there anything else you need from me today?" she asks.

I want to tell her. I want to tell her there’s a hundred things I need from her, none of which have to do with spreadsheets or quarterly reports. But I don’t. I can’t.

The hum of the computer fills the room as Cora stands beside me, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating as she struggles to click on the tiny icon that’s been giving her trouble. I can feel the tension radiating off her, sharp and electric.

“Here,” she mutters, leaning closer to the screen. “If I just… angle it right…”

Her efforts are futile, and her sigh of frustration is sharp enough to cut glass. Then, without warning, she drops onto my knee, her weight settling against me as she reaches for the mouse. My breath catches in my throat, my pulse roaring in my ears like a starship engine. Her perfectly formed, curvaceous bottom presses against my thigh, and I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms. The image inducer hides the waymy scales ripple with tension, but it can’t mask the way my body reacts to her closeness.

“There,” she says, her voice triumphant as the icon finally clicks. “All done, Sir.”

She stands up, her movement casual, like she didn’t just turn my world upside down with the simple act of sitting on my knee. My jaw tightens as I force myself to look away, to focus on the screen instead of the way her hips sway as she steps back.

“Punch out for the day,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.

She blinks, her green eyes widening in surprise. “It’s… early. We usually work late.”

“It’s a thank you,” I say, standing abruptly to put some distance between us. My chair scrapes against the floor, the sound grating . “For your hard work.”

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