Page 87 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
I run my fingers through his hair, tasting the copper sheen of sweat from exhaustion and adrenaline. “Promise me something?” I murmur.
He shifts so his lips brush mine, anticipation shimmering in the air. “Anything.”
“That whatever comes—we’re in it together. Not just surviving, but living. No more hiding in bunks, no more night after night of damage control.”
He hesitates, then says, “I promise.” His voice is a vow. “We live. Not just survive.”
The difference is seismic. It reverberates through me like a bell. Because lately, survival has meant bombs, hacks, betrayal, reprisals. Butliving… living means hope. It means risk. It meansusunmasked, unbroken, unafraid.
We rest our faces against each other’s shoulders, breathing in sync. Outside, somewhere deep in Obelus’s ruined corridors, the remains of that vault still hum with undiscovered horrors. Files unattained. DNA samples frozen in vats. Blueprints of minds they tried to control. Every potential echo of evil pulses in the station’s heart.
But here, in our cabin, those dangers fade as the present folds into promise. He shifts his hand until our fingers lace—and I never want to let go.
Finally, exhaustion wins. My eyelids grow heavy with relief rather than dread. I whisper, “Good night,” and he responds with a soft hum, a melody warming the stillness.
The vault’s secrets may linger in the bowels of Obelus like sleeping beasts, our next mission waiting in the shadows. But tonight, we live. Because we choose each other. Our choice is the light they cannot extinguish.
CHAPTER 27
DAYN
Islice through the airlock into the void, the hiss of my helmet sealing behind me like a judge’s gavel. The cold settles around me, a vacuum so absolute only the pulse of my life support keeps me tethered. Out here, the Hades Drift looks deceptively silent—endless black broken by distant stars and the glint of hostile hull plating. A rogue Vortaxian fleet pulses with menace, hostage shuttles trailing behind like dying comets.
I ride the thruster thrums toward our objective—the lead ship hovering just inside the Drift's gravity well. The Hellfighters’ assault team fan out with coordinated precision. Behind us, Josie’s voice over comms is steady, all business. “Three minutes to breach point. Comms grid is hot but shaky—we’re still cutting residual encryption. Stay frosty, Dayn.”
The air in my lungs tastes artificially sweet through the visor. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second and open them on the same wrecked reflection staring back—a predator, yes, but tonight I’m leading a war. My clawed hands flex against the EVA suit. No fear.
I dock the boarding plate with a jarring clang and breach the entry. Inside, corridors glow with emergency sirens, red and purple bending across steam-laced walls. Hostages tremor,pressed against bulkheads while armored Vortaxian guards patrol with suppressors like they’re dead set on silence.
I gesture—precision soldiering born from instinct. The strike team splits: one to disable ship’s engines, another to secure hostages, my own group to neutralize captain and comms array. I pick my shot—fertilizer-engine conduit behind a vent. I squeeze a charge onto the pipe and leap back. The thud of the explosion echoes like thunder.
But sudden pain explodes across my side—fire blooming under the armor. A dull click and my right arm goes limp. I stagger, chest jarred. Comms relay static, then Josie’s voice breaks through.
“Dayn? Dayn! Respond!”
I swallow blood—iron and fear—and shove the ruined arm down to stabilize. “…I’m fine,” I grunt.
A firefight erupts. I drop into cover—no choice—and reload suppressed gauss rifle. I track a guard stepping into the blast ring. One shot knocks him to the deck. The world tilts. Gravity stabs. I breathe through clamped teeth.
“Dayn!” Josie’s voice is frantic. “You’re bleeding out. You’re losing pressure in your suit!”
My vision flickers; sensors blink red. My chest rattles with each shallow breath. I realize I can’t do this. Not tonight.
The EVA door seal hisses behind me as backup rushes in. The corridor blasts with concentrated heavy fire. Behind me, Josie’s voice: “Override protocols. Kick it to tactical priority!”
I flinch. “You can’t?—”
“Watch me.”
She streams commands through comm-link, hammering overrides while my suit cycles diagnostics. A hiss of nitrogen rushes into stabilizers. I feel the suit's pressure spike and hold.
“Status?” I rasp, voice anemic and thick.
“Staying level—but don’t try to get up.” She sounds like she might cry. Every syllable breaks my heart.
I flick my gaze upward to see her outline through the viewport—tethered above, fingers dancing across a maintenance port. Distant explosions rattle. Metallic odor floods my nose through the filter—burn, oil, blood. I clamp my jaw.
I feel her lips against the speaker. “Don’t you dare leave me, assassin!” She screams the words sharp and raw, and I hear the promise behind them.
