Page 21 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“Good to know.”
I glance down at the table, watching the slow rotation of the planetary model. Drexar Seven, my home, floats like a promise in the hollow dark. Still occupied. Still afraid.
But maybe not for long.
Dayn reaches across the table, one fingertip dragging across the digital landscape until it settles over the blinking dot that marks Snowblossom. His hand is massive, scarred, and trembling just slightly.
“You miss it?” he asks.
I don’t have to think. “Like I miss oxygen.”
He’s quiet for a beat.
Then he says, “Let’s take it back.”
And for the first time in days, I believe we might actuallywin.
We don’t talk about the moment in the bar.
Not the look we shared, not the way his arms locked around me like I was something to shield and not something to use. We don’t talk about the breath I caught in my throat when his voice wrapped around “I’ll help” like it was a vow made in blood.
And we sure as hell don’t talk about the way our eyes keep finding each other when we think the other isn’t paying attention.
Instead, we work.
At least, that’s what I tell myself it is. Grinding through logistics and contingency planning is safe. Numbers don’t judge. Vectors don’t need emotional clarity. You can route a sublight corridor a thousand different ways and none of them demand you explain why your pulse hitches when a certain assassin brushes too close.
He doesn’t say much—never does. Dayn’s presence is quiet in the way of massive storms seen from orbit: still, until it’s not. Every time he moves, it’s with the fluid certainty of a predator who’s never once doubted his strength. And that should be intimidating. Itis, a little. But it’s the way he movesaroundme that undoes me. Like he’s careful not to break me, and terrified he might.
Which is stupid. I’m not fragile. I’m just… fractured.
There’s a difference.
“You always hum when you’re working?” he asks suddenly, voice deep and low, not unkind.
I blink. “What?”
He gestures with one of those impossibly precise fingers. “You’ve been humming the same three notes for the past ten minutes.”
I hadn’t noticed. I blush. “It’s from a kids’ holo-vid. My youngest brother used to scream until I sang him to sleep with it.”
Dayn’s mouth quirks. “Effective conditioning.”
“Yeah, well. You try getting twelve kids into sleep pods with one sonic toothbrush and see how your sanity holds up.”
His chuckle is dry but not mocking. It slides under my skin like velvet on old bruises.
And just like that, we go quiet again.
The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s weighted. Intentional. Like neither of us trusts what might slip out if we keep talking.
I’m used to being the smartest person in the room. I’m used to holding everything together by sheer force of will and caffeine. But Dayn doesn’tneedmy brilliance. He doesn’t need saving. If anything, he’s the one holding the edge of the universe still long enough for me to draw breath.
And that’s… off-balance. Terrifying.
Exhilarating.
I catch him watching me, once. Not ogling, not leering. Justwatching, like I’m a data stream he hasn’t quite cracked the code for. His gaze is intense but oddly gentle, like he’s cataloging the shape of my soul through microexpressions.
