Page 15 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

He pauses mid-swing, his shoulders stiffening. Slowly, he turns, those red eyes zeroing in on me. They travel down my body, lingering on my chest so long I can practically feel the weight of his gaze. When they finally meet mine, there’s a heat there that makes my skin prickle.

"Your uniform’s inside," he growls, voice low and gravelly. "Get dressed and then report to me for your first assignment."

I nod, my throat suddenly dry. At least he got me a uniform. I won’t have to ruin my own clothes doing whatever menial labor he’s got planned.

Inside the cabin, the mess hits me like a punch to the gut. Furniture overturned, a shattered vase on the floor, and a coffee table that looks like it’s been hit by a sledgehammer. This isn’t just messy—this is rage, pure and unfiltered.

"What the hell happened here?" I mutter, stepping over a pile of broken glass.

I find the door propped open with a handwritten sign that readsSTAFF. Inside, there’s a small dressing room with a vanity and a bathroom attached. A garment bag hangs on the wall, and I unzip it with a mix of curiosity and dread.

No. No, no, no.

The maid uniform stares back at me, a nightmare in black and white. The bodice is so tight it looks like it’s been painted on, with a neckline that plunges indecently low. The skirt is a joke—short enough that I’ll be mooning the wildlife if I bend over.

"Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks," I mutter, pulling it out of the bag.

Spoiler: it’s worse. The lace edges scratch at my skin, and the skirt barely covers my ass. I tug at the hem, but it’s hopeless. There’s no way I’m wearing a bra with this thing—my girls are on full display, and the thought of Gary seeing me like this makes my face burn.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and immediately look away. "What the hell does he have in store for me?" I whisper, my reflection staring back with wide, horrified eyes.

I square my shoulders as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my hair a tangled mess from tugging at the damn uniform. But there’s no time for fixing it. I’ve got a job to do—even if that job involves this nightmare of a costume.

"Suck it up, Ray-Ray," I say, pointing a finger at my reflection. "You’re not doing this for you. You’re doing it for the good of Coldwater. And if that means prancing around in this ridiculous outfit, so be it."

I grab my phone and head back into the living room, which looks like a tornado hit it. The overturned furniture, the shattered vase, the coffee table split in two—it’s all evidence of someone’s rage, and I’m betting it’s Gary’s. Perfect. If I’m going to take him down, I’ll need leverage. I snap photo after photo, making sure to capture every detail. The broken glass, the splintered wood, the chaos that screamsunhinged.

After a moment, I open my messages and start typing."Susan, need a favor. Got some dirt on Gary Irons. Check these out."I attach the photos, my thumb hovering over the send button. Then I pause, glancing down at the uniform. A slow grin spreads across my face.

I angle the phone downward, snapping a selfie that shows the full extent of this ridiculous outfit. The plunging neckline, the too-short skirt, the lace that itches like hell. I attach it to the message and add a caption:"This is what he wants his female employees to wear."

Satisfied, I hit send and tuck the phone back into my pocket. Susan’s a bulldog when it comes to stories like this. If anyone can use this to stop Gary, it’s her.

I head outside, the cool air hitting my skin as I round the corner to where Gary’s still chopping wood. The rhythmicthwackof the ax is almost hypnotic, but I clear my throat loudly, signaling my presence. He doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t.

Finally, he slams the ax blade into the chopping block with a one-armed swing that makes my stomach do a weird little flip. The sheer strength in that movement—it’s unnerving. And, okay, maybe a little impressive.

"That really shouldn’t be as hot as it is,"I think, even as I keep my expression stubborn and defiant.

Gary turns, his chest glistening with sweat, his eyes narrowing as they land on me. Then they widen, his jaw tightening as he takes in the uniform.

"What are you wearing?" he demands, his voice low and gravelly.

I straighten my spine, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "My uniform,Master," I say with exaggerated politeness, adding a fake English accent for good measure. "The one you left out for me."

Gary’s eye twitches, and for a second, I think he might actually explode. Instead, he pulls a phone out of his pocket, his fingers gripping it so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half. "I’m going to kill you, Jareth," he mutters, his voice dark. "You are a dead man.Dead."

It hits me then—the realization that this uniform isn’t what Gary ordered. Jareth must’ve pulled a fast one on him. The thought is so absurd, so wildly out of left field, that I can’t help it. I start laughing.

It starts as a snort, then builds into full-blown, uncontrollable laughter. I double over, clutching my stomach, tears streaming down my face.

“Genius billionaire?” I choke out between gasps of laughter, my sides aching as I try to catch my breath. “You can’t even tell the difference between a proper work uniform and something you get from Spirit Halloween.”

I glance down at myself, the absurdity of the situation hitting me all over again. The lace digs into my skin, the skirt barely covering my dignity. I’m a walking punchline.

“Or maybe Victoria’s Secret is more appropriate?” I mutter, unable to stop myself. “This is a lot to go through for some broken glass?—”

His hand slams over my mouth and nose before I can finish, cutting off my air and muffling my words. His skin feels wrong—too rough, almost scaly, like I’m being smothered by a reptile. My eyes widen as I stare up at him, the laughter dying in my throat.

---