Page 9 of Taken By the Alien Killer
But I don’t feel any of it the way I should.
It’s not enough.
It’s not her.
The barracks are still. The kind of still that makes silence feel like a living thing, draped across my chest, too heavy toshove off. I lie on my back, staring up at the metal slats of the ceiling like they might part and offer answers. They don’t. They never do. There’s just the hum of the base’s generators buried somewhere in the rock beneath Chamberland, the low buzz of artificial light pulsing behind my eyelids every time I blink, and the sour taste of blood I haven’t bothered to clean off my tongue.
I should be asleep. I should be healing. But my body refuses. My ribs ache with each breath, and the cracked skin on my knuckles throbs like the echo of a forgotten war drum. Still, that pain feels almost sacred. It’s the only thing reminding me I’m still alive. The rest of me feels buried. Left behind in that ring. Or maybe in the courtyard before that, when she said it like she didn’t even realize she was saying it.
Kaspian’s coming.
I don’t even know what I expected. She's royalty. I’m her guard. It was never a question of if—only when. But it still landed like a blade to the gut. I didn’t see it coming, and worse, I didn’t even react. I just let the words sit there. Let them take root. Let them choke me quietly while she smiled like the sun didn’t just go out.
My hand slides across the nightstand, finds the shape I know better than my own scars. The bishop. Not even a piece that gets much attention. Not a queen or a knight. But when she gave it to me, she said it reminded her of me—straight-laced, quiet, stubborn, always a few moves behind because I was “too noble to cheat.” I told her she was full of shit and took it anyway. I've kept it ever since.
I close my fingers around it, let the sharp wooden ridges dig into my palm. It’s just a joke. A gift. Something meaningless.
But it’s her. It smells faintly of the oils she uses—something with ginger and Akuran blossom. The scent clings to it, no matter how long I’ve had it. I don’t know if that’s memory or madness.
I squeeze harder. My claws press out, threatening to crack the wood, but I hold. Just barely.
She belongs to someone else. She always has. I’ve known that since the day they brought me here and told me to keep her safe. She was barely eleven then, a spark of wildfire in riding boots, demanding I let her climb the stable walls just to see if she could. I’ve been her shadow ever since, watching her grow, watching her turn from girl to woman, watching the lines between duty and desire get blurred so badly I can't remember where they used to be.
I am not supposed to want her.
Not her laugh or her clever mouth. Not her ridiculous temper or the way she smirks when she thinks she’s two steps ahead on the board. I’m supposed to guard her, nothing more. She’s meant to be his.
But the part of me that still dreams—traitorous and aching—can’t let it go. Not anymore.
I sit up slowly, every muscle in my back complaining, and lean forward until my elbows dig into my thighs. The room is cold, but I welcome it. It keeps me grounded. My breath fogs slightly in the air. I press the chess piece against my forehead and stay like that, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
Honor is what’s kept me alive. It’s what’s made me useful. It's why they didn’t put me down when I went feral after the war. But I’m starting to wonder if it’s not just a virtue—it might be a cage. One I’ve built myself. One I’ve locked from the inside.
I could have stopped fighting. Could have walked away from tonight before the officials had to drag me off. But I didn’t. Because I wanted something to hurt more than this. Because I wanted to lose myself so completely that the sound of her voice would finally stop echoing in my skull.
Instead, I made things worse. Got myself banned. Stripped of the only place I could breathe without her in the room.
Now all I have is this. These walls. These ghosts. This one stupid chess piece in my hand.
And the sick, slow realization that no matter how hard I fight, I can't protect her from the life she's walking into. I can kill Reapers. I can rip an Odex in half. But I can’t stop a wedding. I can’t make her choose me.
I lie back down again, still gripping the bishop, and stare up at the ceiling until my eyes blur. The light above flickers once. Then holds.
I close my eyes, and try not to dream of red hair and green eyes and a smile that doesn’t belong to me.
CHAPTER 3
STAR
The house smells like too many flowers. Some overenthusiastic decorator has stuffed every hall with Akuran lilies and crisp sunbloom stalks, their scents mingling into a cloying perfume that clings to the back of my throat like syrup. I try not to gag as I pass yet another arrangement teetering in a crystal vase. Wynona’s doing, no doubt. Or maybe Sneed’s. His shadow has been slinking behind me all morning, reminding me in that smug whisper-voice of his how “important first impressions are.”
Like I don’t already know that.
My mother flutters in and out of the room like a heat-drunk hummingbird, ordering servants about with the energy of a woman half her age and twice as terrifying. She’s got her hair done up in Earth-style curls today, emerald velvet sweeping the floors behind her like she’s on her way to a ball and not a political exchange of heirs. Every time she opens her mouth, it’s about “the Feldspar boy” or “duty to Chamberland”.
I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile on cue. Say “Yes, Mother” so many times my tongue starts to feel fake in my mouth. But all I can think about is how my boots squeak on the polished floor, and how I’d rather be ankle-deep in mud with CynJyn shootingat soda cans than dressed up like some porcelain doll waiting for the package to arrive.
Speaking of—CynJyn’s voice cuts through the madness like a fresh breeze.
