Page 32 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
He doesn’t pull away. He just shifts, the metal plate beneath my ear pressing gently, grounding me.
“Why does that matter?” It’s not a question. It’s a promise.
His lips brush my hairline, and his words are a breath: “Because you still chose me.”
The heat behind my eyes burns—fierce and soft all at once. I roll onto my back, cradle his face in my palm. The image inducer skims his brow, but everything else is bone and flesh beneath. I trace the line of his jaw, wondering what star forged the creature beneath the mask, and if he’s cursed to carry old wounds in places I can’t reach.
“What do they call you?” I ask softly, voice like a prayer no one ever taught me to say.
He stills. His eyes—those deep, fathomless things—flick to mine through the filter. I feel the weight of fantastic danger there, but also something gentler.
“Dayn.”
I swallow.
“It suits you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t say anything.
I trail my fingers along his neck. “I’m not letting you go.”
He smiles. Not broad, but in the curve of his lips—something like hope. “Good.”
A silence settles then—quiet but alive, like dawn stirring beneath rubble. There’s fear in it, too. Because this moment? It’s fragile. Fleeting. Because the promise of what’s next carries every risk we’ve faced—and millions we can't foresee. Because there’s a galaxy that wants me weak, and one that wants him weaponized and disposable.
And theywillcome for us.
But right now, he’s here. And I’m here. That’s enough.
Together.
I slip a hand against his chest under the mask, feeling the slow, steady pulse of a heart I’ve rebuilt from trust and shared battlecry. My thumb brushes a scar that doesn’t belong to me. I swallow.
“You’re mine,” I say. Not a question.
He closes his eyes. “Yes.”
Then he tightens around me—strong, true, fierce.
And in the cold wreckage of our workshop, among blueprints and broken tools, we become home for each other.
And nothing will ever be the same.
CHAPTER 8
DAYN
Iwake to the weight of her—Josie, tangled against my chest, the warmth of her breath across my collarbone, her heartbeat steady beside mine. The workshop’s shadows stretch long across the floor, cells of darkness sharpened by the first silver fingers of dawn. My arm aches; the undertow of unreality is heavy. This... feels like crossing a line that exists only in memory until it’s gone.
I close my eyes, pulling her closer. Her hair is a midnight halo, warm and softly perfumed, and I grip the curve of her back with a possessive hush. All instinct wants to freeze this dawn still. But nothing stays still. Not in war. Not in matters of the heart.
I shift, pressing a fingertip to the holo-switch on the table. A soft glow flares, revealing layers of data screens: sensor-grid maps overlaid with target coordinates, timers counting down to the strike. I inhale the electric hiss, the delicate hum of power cells, and feel the tactical side of me reclaim the dawn.
My voice is quiet when I speak. “Target’s live in fifteen minutes.”
She stirs, lashes fluttering like broken birds. “Already?” she whispers, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
“Seconds,” I say, eyes on the screens.
