Page 7 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I see the swing before it happens. He grabs her shoulder and flings her like he’s taking out the trash. She’s airborne, all flailinglimbs and surprised cursing, and the entire bar erupts in noise—cheers, shouts, the shriek of a chair flipping.
I don’t think.
I justmove.
One step from the bar. Half-turn. Arm out.
She lands in my lap like fate planned it, tucked against my chest with the kind of weight that feels inevitable. Her breath whooshes out against my neck and her eyes—those ridiculous, fire-filled brown eyes—lock with mine.
Everything else stops.
The noise. The light. The smell of cheap liquor and sweat and static. All of it vanishes.
It’s just her. Her heat against me, her stare drilling straight through the walls I thought were permanent. I hear the echo of her heartbeat in the hollow chamber where my own should be.
For one suspended second, I forget everything I’ve done.
Her mouth parts. “Uh… hi?”
Her voice is a little dazed, a little breathless, and absurdly charming. There’s blood at the corner of her lip where it split on impact, and she tastes like cinnamon and fury.
“Hello,” I say.
She blinks. Her lashes are long. She smells like ozone and machine grease and something else—warm, human, alive.
“You caught me.”
I nod once. “Seemed rude not to.”
A shadow looms over us—the merc with the cannonball fists, snarling now, fists clenched like he thinks he still owns the room.
“Get your own lap, brute,” Josie mutters without looking at him, fingers curling into the front of my coat.
I stand, shifting her gently aside, and face the merc.
He’s bigger than me. Bulkier. That kind of barroom strength earned from years of being the biggest bully in the pen.
But I don’t fight with mass.
I fight with precision.
“You want to hit someone,” I say softly, “try me.”
He sneers, taking a step closer. “You her keeper now?”
“No,” I say, voice like glass cracking in cold. “But you spilled my drink.”
That’s all it takes.
I move like breath—sharp and vanishing.
My elbow slams into his throat before he even lifts his fist. His eyes bulge, wheeze cut off mid-snarl. I follow it with a knee to his gut and twist behind him, yanking his arm back at a brutal angle until he screams.
The room is watching now.
“I don’t mind noise,” I say into his ear, my voice a quiet growl, “but Ihatestupid.”
With a flick, I send him sprawling face-first into a table. It collapses beneath his weight. The drinkers scatter.
