Page 45 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
The room smells of antiseptic and distant screams. The Vortaxian officer—Captain S’kar—leans over a desk, recalibrating a torture device. His belt clinks with restraints andinstruments of cruelty. He doesn’t hear me enter. I wait, seeing the jagged lines of his brittle arrogance.
He stands, smooth scales shimmering beneath his uniform as he turns. Those eyes—predator and judge. I step forward; he stiffens—thinks he can intimidate me with a glare. His wrist twitches. His blade is half-drawn.
I smile. “You question them?” My voice is low Shorcu octave, thick with promise. "You think you’re Vortaxian mercy?”
His lips curl. “I follow orders.”
Orders spat at my spine like daggers. I step closer. “Tell me.” A final breath. “Tell mewho gave them.”
He sneers. “This planet was a distraction. Your people are expendable for peace. My orders are clear.”
I shift. A whisper in my throat. “Then youwillbe expendable.”
In one fluid motion, he brandishes his blade—and I respond the way I was trained. Claws flash. I bat aside his weapon; metal spits. My first strike is near-silent. A clawed sweep across his forearm. The Vortaxian staggers backward, flesh splitting like wet cloth. He drops his weapon.
His eyes widen—fear of a predatory myth come alive. He takes a step back and I follow. He trips toward the display rack affixed to the wall—cages of knotted trophies, scalps of native fauna. He gasps—foul recognition.
“I fought wars,” I murmur. “But this? You turned brutality into theater.”
He chokes. I wrap a wrist around his throat—not violent, ritualistic. I pull him forward, leash-quiet. Step by step until we stand before the rack.
I let his weight pull him forward. His uniform hangs between display beams. His injuries darken. I don’t speak. The silence is the message.
When the colonists find him in the morning—strung up, powerless, shivering—they will know what grief unmasked can do. We are not your toy soldiers. We are wolves. We are the fang in their empire.
I turn and walk away. My claws retract without a thought. I feel the rush—ancient satisfaction, lethal and cold. But also—I feel a hollow. The cost is deeper than flesh.
Behind me, somewhere in the night, a soft whisper: “Dayn?”
I trace it until I find her. Josie stands in the corridor’s dim hum, eyes bright with questions before she sees him—sees blood and cruelty in one breath. Her face pales.
I step into her open arms. She trembles—not with regret, but with raw fear. I don't retreat. I press my wounds against her.
“She deserved that,” I whisper. My voice barely human.
She searches my eyes. “Youdidit.”
I press a kiss to her forehead. “I did.”
She doesn’t recoil. She holds me as vultures wheel above. I taste guilt in her sorrow, pride in her grip—and the bond trembles between us.
I let shadow swallow us as I whisper, “We grow claws for this fight. For them.”
She nods, voice broken but fierce: “I know.”
I walk into the workshop at dawn, boots heavy with the weight of the previous night’s hunt. The air is crisp, metallic with dew and dust. My armor still smells like old blood and ambition—iron and regret fused together. I don’t speak. I don’t meet Josie’s eyes.
But she sees me. And that’s more dangerous than any battlefield.
She’s at the holo-table, sunlight streaming in over her shoulder, illuminating the curve of her cheek, the concern in her posture. She doesn’t ask where I’ve been. She just watches — quiet, patient.
I drop my pack and let every tool clatter, the room rattling like my heart. She flinches, but steps forward.
“Dayn,” she says softly. And I know I’m busted.
Silence stretches. The humming of welding torches becomes unbearable white noise.
I swallow, voice low: “They found him. Vortaxian officer… strung up.”
