Page 17 of Loved By the Alien King
“And put them where?” he hissed.
I shot him a look that dissolved that question into thin air. Of all the times to fight alongside someone woefully unprepared for battle.
I peered out over the crates. The Killian’s arrows flew, one right after the other, dropping officers to their knees with howls of pain.
Still more came. Time to move.
“Ready?”
“Not really,” Pete answered in a shaky voice.
We lunged out from behind our cover anyway. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I dodged and weaved, slicing my machete at anyone who came too close.
A group of them rushed me, guns drawn, and I high-kicked and swung my weapon around to disarm them. They stumbled back, stunned, hurt, and then immediately charged again.
I could never get over the sheer tenacity of humans. Impressive stuff.
Since I didn’t want to kill them, I found myself in hand-to-hand combat. Punching, swiping, roundhouse kicks, plus the occasional love tap with my machete.
Meanwhile, Pete gathered up all their dropped guns and stashed them in a burlap sack that he threw over his shoulder Santa-style. Then he loaded one gun in his slingshot and let it fly. The poor bastard it hit was rearing back with his large fist, which was aimed directly at my face. When the gun struck his temple, he dropped like a thousand-pound weight.
Through the new round of chaos closing in on us, Pete caught my eye. “Yeah, I’m saving your face too. You’re the star of the show.”
I nodded once, obviously not used to such tactics in brutal wartime battles. “Thanks…I guess.”
Then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was a long wooden pole leaning against the wall, a distraction and a weapon that could take care of a lot of officers at once.
“Pete,” I said, pointing at the wall. “You’ve just been upgraded to pole duty.”
“Oh yeah, I see where you’re going with this.” He grabbed it and swung it around like a caveman with a club, crashing several to the floor.
Mid-kick to scatter their dropped weapons into the mountain of glass in the center of the room, a gun pointed and clicked at the center of my forehead.
The man who held the gun on me was none other than Captain Mike, Nera’s ex-husband, and one smug son of a bitch with his vindictive smile that practically glowed.
“You certainly know how to put on a good show,” he said.
Next to me, angling the pole in front of me as if for protection, Pete scoffed. “Yeah, that’s why I’m still filming.”
He jerked his chin to the phone in his pants pocket, the camera part peeking out.
“Tell your friends to put down their weapons,” Captain Mike ordered.
Two men stepped up behind him, weapons drawn.
“You tell yours to do the same first,” the Killian demanded, from behind me and to my right.
The two armed men behind Mike didn’t obey. Nobody moved.
I didn’t dare tear my gaze away from Mike to check, but it seemed like the six of us were the only ones left standing. Groans and whispers sounded throughout the room, and the occasional cascade of glass down the mountain in the center when someone tried to move quietly.
No dying screams, so that was a plus.
That left three against three. For now, at least.
Mike narrowed his eyes, his glare penetrating to the back of my skull as though to read my next several thoughts.
A picture of Nera filled my mind, her smile, sunlight dappling her glowing skin, the way her nose wrinkled when she was irritated, her beautiful and big and scarred heart, me inside her and bringing her to ecstasy over and over again.
