Page 18 of Grumpy Alien Bodyguard

“A reception?” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. “You’re inviting the man who might’ve tried to have her killed to a party?”

Quinn steps between Serenity and me, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “Varnok, stop it. This is political, not personal.”

“It’s personal now,” I snap, my claws flexing.

“Then keep it to yourself,” Quinn fires back, her tone icy. “I don’t need you making this harder than it already is.”

Serenity watches us like we’re some kind of entertainment. “I assure you, Mr. Bruw will be on his best behavior. And if he’s not, well, we’ll deal with it.”

I clench my fists, my scales shimmering with barely contained rage. “I’d love to deal with it.”

Quinn grabs my arm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small. “You’re not dealing with anything. You’re here to protect me, not start a war. Understood?”

I glance down at her, her blue eyes blazing with determination. She’s got a fire in her, I’ll give her that.

“Fine,” I grumble. “But if he so much as looks at you wrong…”

She releases my arm, smoothing out her jacket. “I’ll handle it. Now, can we get to the shuttle without any more… commentary?”

I don’t answer, just follow her toward the shuttle, my gaze scanning the perimeter. Those starfighters might look fancy, but they’re not stopping me if Kallus tries something.

As we board, I catch Serenity’s eye. She gives me a knowing look, like she’s already two steps ahead. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust any of them.

But Quinn does, and for some reason, that makes it even worse.

The shuttle glides through Christmasville's skyline, weaving between holographic displays of snowflakes and prancing reindeer. I keep my trap shut, focusing instead on scanning every face, every corner, every shadow. Old habits die hard.

Armstrong Peacekeepers line our route—a mishmash of former Alliance and Coalition troops standing shoulder to shoulder. I catch sight of their weapons—top-grade plasma rifles with enhanced targeting systems. Not bad. Some of them even have the stance of veterans, alert without being twitchy.

"Impressed?" Quinn asks, noticing my appraisal.

I grunt. "They'll do. Kallus would be stupid to try anything with this much firepower around."

"That's... almost a compliment."

"Don't get used to it."

The shuttle touches down at Superior Gardens, a horseshoe-shaped monstrosity of a hotel that screams "more money than sense." We disembark into a lobby that could swallow a small starship, all gleaming marble and floating light sculptures.

I lean closer to Quinn, keeping my voice low. "Kallus probably didn't expect you to survive Reku's crew. He won't have a backup plan ready."

She nods slightly, her expression unchanged. "Then we have a small window of advantage."

"Exactly. But don't think for a second he won't come up with something new. These corporate types always have contingencies for their contingencies."

"Then it's a good thing I have you, isn't it?" There's a hint of teasing in her voice that makes my scales warm.

The Prime Minister guides us through the lobby toward a grand reception hall. The doors slide open to reveal a scene that's trying way too hard to be elegant—a string quartet of mixed species sawing away at Vivaldi, waiters gliding between clusters of well-dressed dignitaries, and enough food to feed a small army laid out on gleaming tables.

"Subtle," I mutter.

Quinn elbows me. "Be nice."

My eyes immediately lock onto two figures standing at opposite ends of the room—Kallus Bruw and Speaker Zantress. If looks could kill, the entire room would be a smoking crater from the glares they're shooting at each other.

Kallus stands tall and imposing, his light red scales catching the light as he gestures dramatically to a group of admirers. He's dressed in what I assume is the height of galactic fashion—all sharp angles and metallic accents that probably cost more than Sweet Charity.

Zantress, by contrast, looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. The female grolgath's dour expression is fixed in a permanent scowl as she nods curtly to anyone who approaches.

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