Page 9 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
Her.
Josie.
It’s absurd. Irrational. Unfair.
I don’t even know what system I’m in.
And yet... the moment she locked eyes with me, the galaxy shifted. Everything else faded, and this clarity—sharp and terrifying—cut through my indifference like a blade.
My fingers twitch at my side.
I force myself to breathe.
And then the idiot returns.
With friends.
The first merc staggers into view again, flanked now by three more, all armored and trying to look like they weren’t just drinking themselves unconscious ten minutes ago. One of them has a shockbaton, the others brandish blasters still set to stun. Morons. Their leader’s face is a mottled mess of swelling flesh and humiliation. He points at me like I’m a rabid dog he’s finally gotten permission to put down.
“Kill him,” he spits.
Josie, bless her recklessness, doesn’t flinch. “You sure about that, baldy? You want a rematch already? I thought you liked your teeth.”
He snarls, but I’ve stopped listening.
Because my pulse is humming.
I stand.
It’s not graceful this time—it’sintentional.My movements are deliberate now, slow and terrifying. I roll my shoulders, let the image inducer flicker for just a second—enough to show a flash of somethingnot human.A hint of what lies beneath.
They hesitate.
I don’t.
The first comes at me like a linebacker, roaring like noise will do what muscle can’t. I sidestep, hook my arm under his, and twist. The crack of his elbow shattering is drowned by thethwipof my hidden blade slicing into his armpit, severing arteries clean. Blood founts in an elegant arc. He drops without sound, just a bubbling gasp and then stillness.
The baton wielder stutters, raising his weapon. Too slow.
I close the distance and jab two fingers into his eye socket. There’s a wetpopas his soft, squishy orb collapses under pressure, and he screams, dropping the baton. I spin, knife flashing, and jam the blade upward beneath his chin. It punches through the soft palate and into his frontal lobe.
His legs twitch.
The crowd is screaming now. Chairs topple. Drinks shatter. But I’m locked in.
The third tries to shoot.
Tries.
I twist behind a metal support column just as his blast discharges, scarring the wall with heat. Before he can adjust, I drop low and sweep his legs. He hits the floor with a grunt, and I stomp on his windpipe with enough force to crush it into pudding.
That’s three.
I turn back to the big one.
The original problem.
He’s not moving. Not anymore.
