Page 81 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
Kael laughs—low and rough. “Cute.” Then a shimmering force field pops to life behind us. Automated turret arms emerge, scanning, tracking.
Kael steps back. “Glad you brought back-up.” He lapses silent, and I know the trap has sprung.
I pivot, grabbing Josie. I throw her behind me as the turret detonates with deafening clicks and lasers hiss. Sparks flare. The shield flickers. Hot metal sprays across the floor. The air smells of ozone and burning wires. I pop my shield and shove Josie deeper into cover.
“Gatekeeper protocol engaged,” I growl. The turret refuses to shut down. I scramble to the side, draw my blade, scent of scorched air burning in my lungs.
Josie crawls toward me, face pale. “Be careful.”
I nod. “Always.”
Kael watches, arms folded. “Let’s see if the old instincts still work.” He dives behind a console, pulling out twin pistols. I leap forward. My blade hums, swinging low to deflect an energy bolt from the turret. Sparks cascade across my chestplate.
“Dayn—” Josie’s voice cracks. I turn just enough to see her exposed. The turret’s red targeting light snaps onto her.
Adrenaline coils around my spine. I slash upward, catapulting a blade into the turret’s servo. It sputters. I pivot, unsheathing my other vibroblade. I jab the first blade into the turret’s core, twisting. The machine chokes, pulses, then collapses. The shield flickers out.
Kael strafes forward, guns blazing. I hack one mag to scrap metal before he collapses to the deck, circuits dead. He lies still—maybe unconscious. His eyes flicker open, pain registering.
Josie barrels to my side. I crouch near Kael, checking vitals. Shrapnel and edges of blade mark his armor. I press a medgel patch to his neck. He coughs. “You still got it.” He smirks.
I grip her hand. “We still got each other.”
Kael glares at me—could be bloodlust, or respect. “You were the best Shorcu I’ve known,” he says. “You might just be the first one with a cause I actually believe in.” He closes his eyes.
Josie kneels. “We’re taking you home.” She presses her hand to his forehead. “Just rest.”
The ragged hum of the station resumes—ghostly, broken. We gather Kael, return to the shuttle. My arm around Josie as she supports him. I feel her tremble with adrenaline and relief. I brush her hair back. “You okay?”
She blinks. “I was terrified.”
I inhale her scent—vanilla and sweat. “But you faced it.”
She tilts her head. “With you.”
On the shuttle, Kael lays slumped against the wall. Joins breathing in stutters. Josie sits with me as we cross hyperspace. He whispers, “You’re right, Dayn. Past doesn’t define us.” Then he’s asleep.
Josie sighs. “You chose us.”
I wrap my arm around her. “I always will.”
She leans in, pressing her cheek against me. “Not perfect. Just present.”
I kiss her temple. “Swear.”
The shuttle hums like a lullaby, stars streak past. I close my eyes. My future is lit—not by blood and silence—but by flames of love and purpose. And I’m present. Always.
I pull the thin, recycled-air blanket more securely around us, and the low hum of the shuttle’s life-support system fills the cramped bunk compartment like a lullaby. Outside, the gibbous moon of some distant system glows pale and unforgiving through a viewport. The stars shimmer—cold, unblinking witnesses to every step we've taken, every bloody choice made—and tonight they feel different. They feel… hopeful.
Josie rests her head against my chest, her breath warm and even. I can feel the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneathher soft coverall. The scent of her curls—vanilla shampoo mingled with the tang of post-battle sweat—settles around me like an anchor. I hesitate before consummating the moment, forcing myself to stay present here, now, without thinking ahead or backward. We push half-eaten trays to the side—stew clinging to the plating with greasy sincerity, two cups of mint tea still steaming faintly. We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
She traces idle patterns against my arm, her palm moving in time with the soft rhythm of my heartbeat. "Dayn," she murmurs after some time, fingers catching on a scar just above my elbow. The name sounds like home on her lips.
I close my eyes, tilting my head to listen to the whisper of the engines and her breathing. "Mmm?"
She shifts. I feel her warmth tilt ever so slightly, night stands no longer threatening. "I didn’t know it could feel like this." Her voice is low, and I can feel the vulnerability behind her words. Not fear, but cautious wonder. I swallow hard, thinking of the wars we've waged, the bodies stacked in tunnels, the roar of blades and gunfire. And I realize she’s right—this… feeling isn’t survival. It's a beginning.
I thread my fingers through hers. "Nor did I," I confess, keeping my tone soft, earnest—a rarity. I let my thumb circle her knuckles. "But it’s ours."
