Page 36 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
He catches my stare. My lips curl into a defiant half-smile. “You know,” I say, voice teasingly light, “everything’s better after secrets are spilled.”
He stiffens. Circuit sparks catch his reflected eyes.
So I poke. “Scales in the moonlight, or did I imagine that?”
His hands stop mid-twist. Silence hums louder than the stove.
I hold his gaze. “Look, I might not be a trained assassin with cat reflexes and scar-etched consent issues, but I’m not stupid.”
He exhales. Sparks flicker in his eyes, the ones thataren’tmeant to show.
I pour wine—stolen from the station’s smugglers. The bottle’s chipped, cork’s musty. I raise my glass. “Let’s toast to malfunctions and mechanical unicorns, shall we?”
He doesn’t look amused.
I set a bowl of noodles between us. Steam curls upward. “Eat.”
He huffs—bitter, wounded. He lifts noodles with practiced grace, avoids my eyes.
I chew, savoring soy and oil. “So… hot unicorn,” I repeat, smile widening. “You okay, dragon-boy?”
He chokes on his wine. I jump over to pat him.
“See? I’m here when world-ending myth meets noodle.”
He wipes wine from his chin, chest heaving. “I… am not a unicorn.”
“Big deal. Ponies are overrated.” I slide across. “Talk.”
He stiffens, but hetalks.
“I am Shorcu,” he says. Voice low, reverent, like uttering taboos. “One of their warrior caste. We have four eyes. Sharp scales dense as armor. Claws that cut like blades. Legends? Yes. Soul-eaters. Pariahs.”
I swallow. Noodles go brittle in my throat.
He continues, voice quiet, painfully mortal. “They feared me. I… left. Haunted them. Haunted myself. I wear this face to survive. To hide.”
He’s shaking. Not fear. Grief.
I close the space between us. “You left. You chose to be here, with me.”
His gaze flickers. “I wasn’talloweda choice.”
“So you made one.”
He exhales slowly. “I can’t go back—ever. They’ll hunt me.”
I lift a hand and stroke the image-inducer line. “So, you're a runaway god. Not unicorn, fiery war-prince.”
His corners twitch. “Hot.”
I grin. “Hot outside, hot inside, hot scale-man.”
He laughs—dark, throaty, genuine.
I lean in, voice low. “Thanks for trusting me.”
He reaches, brushes my cheek. “I trust you.”
