Page 101 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I laugh through tears, raw with determination. “That’s the riot I signed up for.”
He presses his lips to my temple. “Let enemy lists come. We’ll out-code them, out-fight them, out-love them.”
I tip my chin up. “Let’s show them why we’re worth the risk.”
He smiles—soft, proud, protective. I wonder if Professor Kaltsin will be proud of me too.
We sit side by side, halos of screen light in our eyes, forging a new front: loving loudly in a galaxy that demands silence. And for once, the risk feels like redemption.
I’m in the engine room before dawn, the low hum of the thrusters vibrating through the deck plates and up my spine. Across the holo-display, the IHC’s internal surveillance logs scroll like dirty secrets from a nightmare. Their redacted threat assessments call me “Person of Interest,” “Asset at Risk,” “Potential Emotional Compromise,” but it’s the logs that hit hardest: footage of our nights together, the way Dayn’s shirt rides up when he leans over the console, the way I laugh with my head thrown back in his arms. They spied on us intimately—every touch, every whispered word, every unspoken “I love you.” The weight in my gut grows heavier with each frame.
It’s personal.
I tap the console with a growl. “They want proof of compromise? They’re getting a vendetta.” My fingers dance across the interface—crafting a virus to hijack their monitor feeds. I write it so the IHC’s own system replays Dayn shirtless while chopping vegetables, slicing peppers with casual grace, unaware of all eyes. The caption loops:“Emotionally compromised? Let’s see how compromised they think I am now.”I load the payload, heart pounding with defiance.
Dayn oozes in behind me, a shadow in the glow. His chest rumbles under my fingers as I finish the final keystroke. “Let them eat this,” I say softly. He closes his eyes, tension and pride flickering across his face.
“Damn brilliant,” he whispers. “They’ll know we’re watching.”
Three hours later, the message goes viral on secured comms. Dowron storms in, virtual rage radiating off him in waves. He doesn’t reprimand me. He doesn’t need to. His silence says it clearly—I’ve crossed a line. Garrus, on the other hand, is already printing T-shirts with that exact screenshot—Dayn in an apron, determined eyes, green peppers falling like weapons from his blade.“Chop like a Hellfighter”it reads. The cabin vibrates with laughter. I can practically taste the irony and adrenaline.
But when night falls, I find myself back in the engine bay, armed with raw fury. We’re patched into a stale corridor, broken fans echoing like distant alarms. I slap my palm against the steel wall, the clang resonating in my hand. “They watched us,” I seethe. “Watched us.” Each word hits me—mic drop of betrayal. “You’re—our nights—our love—they took it as threat intelligence.”
Dayn’s arms close around me, steady and strong. “They’re afraid,” he says gently. “But that doesn’t mean we are.”
I yank free, turning to face him. My voice is brittle as glass. “They tested us. Tested my loyalty. My love. They call me compromised for loving you, Dayn.What does that make them?”
He steps forward, and I feel the heat from his chest wash over me. He brushes dust from my shoulder. “They’re afraid of freedom,” he replies. “Of not being able to control what they can’t understand. But we?—”
“They can’t break us. Not us,” I finish, voice hoarse with conviction. The hum of the ship thrums beneath our feet, like the blood in my veins; alive, insistent, unstoppable.
He captures my jaw with gentle fingers, and it’s like he’s anchoring my soul. “Then show them what unbreakable looks like. With me. Always.”
I press into him, finding strength in the feel of his armor, the solidity of his stance, the certainty in that growled vow. “Always.”
Our fourteenth time together happens in tight quarters—no fanfare, no stolen sheets—just the engine bay and us and firestorm desire. He pins me against the console, massive hands hot against my back, fingers splaying across my sides. I wrap my arms around his neck, teeth grazing the dot of skin beneath his ear.
We move against each other hard, rough with rage and defiance. My legs hook around his hips, nails snagging armor plates; each twist, each ache, is catharsis. Dayn’s body is taut and responsive, a weapon honed by emotional fury. I can taste the metal tang of sweat, smell the oil breath of the engine room. Every press of his pelvis against me is a claim:I’m yours. We’re here. We’re human. We’ll not be broken.
He thrusts slow and deliberate, letting tension break with each stroke, each gasp. It’s not just passion—it’s unyielding, it’s boundary-shattering, it’s our silent roar at a galaxy that tried to spy on our love. We move together until we shudder and fall, him catching me as I collapse across his chest, breathing ragged, voice lost.
I press my cheek to his sternum, body still humming. I catch my breath and then mutter, throat thick, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
He smiles, a low and rough thing that cracks the world’s shape. He kisses my temple. “Not before I take everyone else first.”
I laugh in my exhaustion. Laughter and tears, unresolved chords. I press up to kiss him—taste of fire and revolt and sacred promise. “Fuck the lists,” I whisper. “Fuck the spies.”
He pulls me tight. “Fuck the galaxy,” he says, voice soft but resolute. “We keep living. We keep loving.”
I lift my head. We look at each other in the waves of low light, the quiet hum of machinery our lullaby. We don’t speak—but for once, we don’t need to. In that moment, we are both the rebellion and the heart it protects.
The engine bay fades from threat to sanctuary. And I know: whatever they log, whatever they fear, our love isn’t compromise. It’s power. And no one can watch that without feeling the quake.
CHAPTER 33
DAYN
I’m standing too upright, shoulders stiff in a suit that feels like it was strapped on to suffocate me. Around me, Alliance Day celebrations drone on—smug bureaucrats praising themselves, holographic banners shimmering in the artificial sunlight. I glance down at Josie; her gown is elegant and deadly, as twisted as a coiled spring. She claims it’s got hidden pockets for tools and weapons. I believe her. She’s looking at me with both amusement and mild pity.
