Page 11 of Taken By the Alien Killer
No, he looks through me. Past me. Like I’m not even here.
And Sneed, that absolute bastard, makes sure to hover just enough to keep Rayek physically removed. When I pivot for anexcuse to catch his eye, Sneed steers me subtly away with some trivial question about protocol or menu options, playing the dutiful servant with eerie precision. Every time I move, Sneed’s already anticipating it. Blocking it. A polite saboteur.
By the time the formalities wind down and we’re all escorted back inside to tour the estate, I’ve got a smile locked on my face so tight my cheeks ache. Kaspian walks beside me, a courteous arm hovering near my lower back, but never touching. Respectful. Distant. He asks questions about the estate gardens, the architectural history of the west wing, my opinions on spaceport expansion. I answer like a proper noblewoman, playing the role I was born into.
All the while, Rayek trails behind with the other guards, stone-faced, unreadable. Not once does he look my way.
Later, when the crowd disperses and I finally manage to shake off the pressure of the official welcome, I escape into the atrium behind the solarium. The stained glass ceiling bathes everything in soft hues of violet and amber, and the air smells like warm moss and old sun.
CynJyn is already there, legs draped over the back of a curved marble bench, crunching a stim snack with exaggerated slowness.
“Told you he wouldn’t have horns,” she says without looking up.
I flop down beside her, the layers of my gown hissing against the stone. “He made me laugh.”
CynJyn raises an eyebrow. “Oh no.”
“Yeah. He made a joke. I laughed. That’s... problematic.”
She tosses the empty stim wrapper into a nearby pot like she’s flicking off an annoyance. “So, what’s the verdict? Gonna marry him and live out the dream? Throw wine parties in the winter palace? Watch your kids duel for inheritance?”
I rub my face with both hands. “He’s fine. Like, good fine. Polished and nice. Not a monster. That’s the problem.”
CynJyn leans back, letting her head fall dramatically over the edge of the bench. “Ugh, that’s the worst. Nothing kills rebellion like decency.”
We sit in silence for a moment, listening to the distant clink of silverware being polished and the faint humming of service droids prepping for the feast.
Then she asks it, quiet and direct.
“Do you love him?”
I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t know.
But because I do.
And he’s not the one I love.
The garden looks like a dream of someone iced in silver. Lanterns hang from the cypresses in long chains, casting soft halos over the gravel paths and the white stone balustrades. A quartet plays on a raised dais—strings that sound like rain across glass.
The air is thick with night-blooming spiceflower and the buttery smell of warm pastries. It’s pretty in that suffocating way pretty can be, the kind that makes your chest feel tight because nothing this polished can possibly be real.
“Lady Star,” Kaspian says, offering his hand. His sleeve is cut sharp enough to slice fruit; the midnight-blue fabric glints with those faint silver threads again, like he’s wearing a constellation. “May I?”
“Guess that depends,” I say, placing my fingers in his palm. His skin is cool, carefully perfumed. “Are you any good?”
“Terrible,” he admits with a crooked smile. “But I’m very confident about it.”
I huff a laugh, because damn it, he keeps catching me off guard. He leads me onto the dance oval—a circle of pale stonepolished so smooth I can see the lanternlight rippling across it like water. Guests part without a word; it’s a well-oiled machine, the noble choreography of getting out of the way for the heirs. Somewhere, Sneed hums in satisfaction. I can hear it even when I can’t see him.
Kaspian sets his right hand at my waist with precise decorum, not a fraction lower. Safe. Respectful. Expected. Our fingers lace at shoulder height, and we start to turn. The quartet slides into a low, sighing waltz. Under the music, I catch the clink of cut crystal, a waiter’s soft apology, a burst of laughter that sounds a shade too bright.
“You grew up with courts like this?” I ask, keeping my voice dry to brace the tremor.
“Tragically,” he says. “And you?”
“Born into one. Drafted into another.” I tip my chin toward the cluster of dignitaries near the fountain, where Mom laughs at something Father says, her hand on his arm. “Felt like I never had a quiet thought unless I stole it after midnight.”
