Page 26 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

“Be good, Mom,” I mutter under my breath, heading for the car.

Whatever this is, it’s definitely not just about the dam.

The garage door clatters open with a mechanical hum, and I roll the POS inside, the engine coughing its usual death rattle. My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I grab it, the screen lighting up with a text from Guvan—no,Gary. I have to remind myself to think of him that way, even if the alien underneath the disguise is becoming harder to ignore.

Park in the garage this time, and get dressed before you come inside.

Get dressed? My stomach does a little flip. “What’s he got in store for me today?” I mutter, glancing at the rearview mirror like I might find answers in my own reflection. “Oh god, I’m going to end up with a broken heart when this is all over. I just know it.”

I maneuver the car into the garage, the door grinding shut behind me. The dim light filters through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. And there he is, sitting in a leather wing-backed chair like some kind of alien king. His three-piece suit hugs his frame in all the right places, but the hologram is off, and his true form is on full display. Dark red scales catch the light, his ridges sharp and unyielding. And those eyes—those red, piercing eyes—lock onto me the second I step out of the car.

“Get dressed for your day’s duties, Reily,” he commands, exhaling a plume of cigar smoke. The amber glow highlights the planes of his face, making him look even more otherworldly. He nods toward something behind me, and I turn to see the maid uniform, pristine and pressed, hanging in a clear garment bag.

I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. He’s going to watch me change. Of course he is. It’s a power play, one I’m not about to let him win. Not without a fight.

“You know,” I say, crossing my arms, “most employers don’t make their staff strip in the garage. But hey, I guess when you’re a billionaire alien with a god complex, you get to make the rules, right?”

His lips curl into a smirk, the cigar perched between his teeth. “Do you always talk this much, or is it a special talent you’ve decided to showcase today?”

“Only when I’m dealing with overgrown lizards who think they’re the center of the universe.”

“Careful, Reily. Push me too far, and you might find yourself with more duties than you bargained for.”

I grab the garment bag and unzip it, the sound loud in the quiet garage. The uniform is just as ridiculous as I remember—skimpy, tight, and designed to make me feel exposed.

I don’t take my eyes off Guvan as I peel off my tank top, letting it drop to the garage floor. His chair creaks as he shifts forward, the cigar smoke curling around his scaled face like a halo of sin. My nipples harden under his gaze, but I don’t touch them—not yet. I’m in control here, even if he thinks he is.

“Getting comfortable?” I ask, popping the button on my jeans. His eyes flick down, and I swear I hear a low growl rumble in his chest.

“Do I look uncomfortable?” he counters, taking a long drag from the cigar. The tip glows orange, the ember reflecting in his red eyes. “You’re stalling.”

I smirk and shimmy out of my jeans, kicking them aside. My panties are next, and I make a show of sliding them down my thighs, bending over just enough to give him a glimpse of what’s coming. When I straighten up, I catch the way his claws dig into the armrests of the chair.

“Are you sure you don’t want to help?” I tease, reaching for the maid uniform.

“Wait.” His voice is a command, sharp and low.

I freeze mid-reach, arching an eyebrow. “What now, Your Majesty?”

He gestures with the cigar, the ash falling to the floor. “Play with your nipples. Make them hard.”

My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I cross my arms, my cheeks burning. “Is this part of the maid training? Because I don’t remember this in the job description.”

He leans back in his chair, his smirk widening. “Consider it a performance review.”

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, but my hands are already moving, trembling as they brush against my breasts. His eyes darken, his breath hitching as I pinch my nipples, rolling them between my fingers.

“That’s it,” he purrs, his voice like gravel. “Show me.”

I close my eyes, the sensation sending sparks down my spine. “Are you having fun, little spitfire?” he asks, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction.

“Yes,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. Then, in a rush of desperation, I add, “But not as much as if it were you touching me, Master.”

His growl is primal, a sound that vibrates through the garage and makes the tools on the shelves rattle. “Patience.”

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