Page 10 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
He’s staring at me like he’s just realized he brought a knife to a godfight.
I tilt my head. “Still want round two?”
His mouth opens.
No sound comes out.
He runs.
I could chase him. Could end him easy.
But my eyes find Josie.
She hasn’t run.
She’s watching me with a look I’ve never seen before—equal parts awe, confusion, and something that might be trust. Or insanity. Or worse:curiosity.
“You done?” she asks, voice hoarse.
I nod, breath steady. My shirt clings to my back from the heat of exertion, but my hands don’t tremble. They never do.
“Areyoudone dragging trouble with you?”
She grins. “I haven’t even started.”
I should walk away.
Ishould.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time in what feels like decades, there’s a voice inside me that isn’t whispering about death or escape or isolation.
It’s whisperingstay.
And damned if I don’t want to listen.
CHAPTER 3
JOSIE
My boots hit the grimy corridor outside the bar like they’ve got something to prove, each step echoing with a fury I can’t afford to show—not now, not after that.
The moment I’m clear of the stares, the smells, the stickiness of the fight-laced air still heavy with blood and old beer, I suck in a breath that burns. I’m shaking, not from fear—I haven’t had time for that since the ship arrived—but from the aftershock ofhim. That stranger. That lethal, silent man who caught me like I’d always belonged in his arms.
I don’t even know his last name. I barely caught his first through the roaring in my ears.
Dayn.
Sharp, spare. Like a blade. It suits him.
And I don’t have time for him.
Not now.
Still, my fingers twitch with the phantom memory of landing against his chest. Solid. Warm. His arm had wrapped around my waist like a reflex, not a decision. Like his body wasmadeto catch mine.
I clench my fists and walk faster, weaving through the oily steam that belches from floor vents and breathing in air thattastes like burnt plastic and recycled failure. The mercenary station—whatever fancy name the smugglers use for this backwater scrapyard—feels like it’s alive, thrumming with the barely restrained pulse of violence and loss.
