Page 43 of Tamed By the Alien Warlord
He turns and meets my eyes. Nothing else matters in that moment—no battles, no labs, no past horrors. It’s just us.
“I nearly lost you,” he says quietly, voice rough around the edges. “I?—”
“Shh.” I press a fingertip to his lips. “You didn’t. You came back. To me.”
He gazes at me, something softened and fierce alike in his storm-gray eyes. “Georgia… Georgia Lancaster,” he breathes my full name like a benediction, “you are my mate, my anchor, my whole damn galaxy. You’re my… everything.”
My chest tightens. “And you’re mine, Lanz Reaper of the Badlands,” I whisper. “Every scar. Every roar. Every stolen kiss. I belong to you, and I’m proud of it.”
He smiles—a small, tremulous smile—and releases a breath I hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He lifts my hand to his cheek and kisses it gently. Then his lips find mine, slow and certain and alive.
I’ve loved adrenaline. Loved headlines rougher than any tempest. But this—this is my real luxury. The feel of him: solid, warm, broken and fierce. His good arm wraps around my waist; I rest my head on his shoulder and wrap my arms around his neck.
“I’m happy,” I murmur. “To be your property. Your Reaper property.” I glance up, hoping to catch the teasing edge I still crave. “But only if we still get to broadcast their crimes to the entire galaxy.”
His mouth curls again—and not with grim humor. It’s something soft and amused. He brushes a thumb across my cheek. “Expose them together. Reaper warrior and human journalist. Side by side.”
I press a soft kiss to his chest, right over where his heart beats. “Makes for a hell of a headline.”
That night,our cabin becomes our private universe.
Candled in the dim glow of the orbiting planet below, Lanz kneels beside me on the plush rug spread across cold alloy floor plates. He studies me like I’m sacred. Like I’m his offering and his altar both.
He reaches up, brushing a knuckle along my jaw. “You’re still wearing too much.”
I shiver. The softness in his voice is deceptive—because there’s a promise underneath it. One of chains. Of surrender.
“Yes,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Fix that.”
He rises to his full, terrifying height—seven feet of coiled muscle, black skin shimmering like polished obsidian, whitebone spurs jutting from his arms, shoulders, jaw. He’s monstrous and magnificent. And he’smine.
In his hand is a length of chain—alien-forged, lightweight but unbreakable. He threads it through loops in the ceiling, tugging it down and clicking it to a collar already wrapped around my throat.
Then he takes my hands—tenderly, reverently—and raises them above my head. He locks them there, wrists manacled, arms stretched taut. The cold chain bites into my skin. My breath catches.
He kneels again and fastens more restraints—this time around my thighs. The metal spreads my legs open wide and locks them in place. I’m exposed. Utterly helpless.His.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear.
“You belong to me now, Georgia. Say it.”
I nod, trembling. “I belong to you.”
A low growl rolls from his chest—a sound of satisfaction, of approval. Then he stands and lifts a piece of dark fabric.
The blindfold.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He covers my eyes, and the world vanishes.
Only sensation remains.
The first touch of his lips is featherlight—barely a breath—trailing down my collarbone, over the swell of my breast. My nipples harden as he kisses around them, never directly. Teasing. Denying. Worshipping.
“I want to memorize you with my mouth,” he murmurs.
