Page 27 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“Yeah,” I whisper, voice a scratch of amusement. “They noticed.”
She brushes potato mush from her sore cheeks. “We’re officially terrorists now.”
“You’re the general.”
“You keep the shadow.”
We share a look through the tarp netting, faces inches apart in the stale, hot air beneath the makeshift hideout.
That look…
It’s no longer just camaraderie.
It’s something else.
Something like orbit.
Gravity, pulling.
I feel it deep in my chest—the weight of her next breath, the faint tremor in her voice when she laughs. The warmth of her, ofus, like a fire lit too close to cold metal.
She clears her throat, breath ragged, eyes bright with mischief and something deeper. “We gonna get out of here?”
I grin, the knife-edge tension eased by laughter. “Yeah.”
I tug the tarp edge, making sure we’re hidden as the guards shuffle past, boots thumping, voices fading.
Once they're gone, I help her wipe off the worst of the starch. Our hands brush, and something flares behind my ribs.
She doesn’t pull away.
I don’t let her.
For a lingering moment, it’s just us—rebel generals hiding under a tarp, plotting revolution with mashed potatoes and stolen laughter.
And I know I can’t un-see that pull. I wouldn’t if I tried.
CHAPTER 7
JOSIE
There’s a sound that hits different when it’s supposed to inspire loyalty but lands like a wet fart in the middle of a funeral.
That’s the sound of a Vortaxian ceremonial bassoon.
And right now, it’s honking out a tune so mangled it might actually qualify as war crimes under the Conclave’s auditory rights treaty.
“Is that… is that theInterstellar Anthem?” I squint down from the rooftop, shading my eyes against Drexar Seven’s too-bright morning glare. “Sounds like it’s being strangled by a rabid octopus.”
Next to me, Dayn doesn't laugh out loud—he’s far too broody for that—but his lips twitch. That alone feels like a small miracle.
“Think that guy’s playing it on purpose?” I nudge him with my elbow.
“Hard to say.” His voice is as gravelly as always, but there’s warmth under it today, something less stone, more ember. “He tripped over that child on beat three. The kid may’ve improved the rhythm.”
I snort, muffling it behind my hand. Below us, the great parade of “Unity and Prosperity Under Vortaxian Rule” shufflesby like a nightmare stitched together from every bad holodrama and mandatory work celebration I’ve ever been forced to attend.
Purple and gold banners flap weakly in the wind, one half-ripped and tangled around a light post. The marching band consists of twelve beleaguered souls—three of them children, one playing a drum so half-heartedly I feel it in my soul. A Vortaxian announcer booms cheerful propaganda from a levitating platform, his accent so thick I’m ninety percent sure he called us “honored pebbles of future compliance.”
