Page 28 of Alien Devil’s Wrath (Vinduthi Stolen Brides #2)

H er skin already burned with fever. Not illness but transformation heat.

The bite mark on her shoulder where I’d claimed her was already changing.

Silver lines spread from it under her skin, branching out in delicate patterns.

They traced along her collarbone, down toward her chest, up her neck toward her jaw.

Each line carried my genetic information, rewriting her, marking her as mine at the cellular level.

Six guards pushed through the gap they’d created in the reinforced door. Energy weapons raised, power cells humming. Behind them I could hear more—boots on metal flooring, shouted orders, someone organizing them properly. This wasn’t panic anymore. This was a real military response.

The savage triumph of finally claiming her, of feeling our bond snap into place, was immediately replaced by ice-cold focus.

She was helpless now. The transformation would take hours, and during that time she couldn’t defend herself.

Everything in me shifted to a single purpose: hold this ground until she woke, or die trying.

I laid her behind Slade’s desk in the corner. Took a moment to arrange her torn clothing to cover her, preserve her dignity even here. The silver patterns were spreading faster now, creating designs that seemed to pulse faintly. Beautiful. Perfect.

The first guard tried to advance while I was settling her. Young, Poraki, his amphibious skin already drying to an unhealthy grey in the office’s climate control. His weapon shook slightly.

Fatal mistake.

I grabbed one of Slade’s display weapons—a plasma blade from the early wars, probably worth a fortune to collectors.

Still functional. The blade hummed to life, casting blue light across the room.

I opened the Poraki’s throat before he could fire.

Green-tinged blood painted Slade’s white walls in a fresh arc.

He dropped, webbed hands trying to hold his throat together, failing.

Gurgling sounds escaped as he drowned in his own blood.

“Take him down! He’s just one Vinduthi!” Someone shouted from the corridor.

Just one. They had no idea what one Vinduthi would do to protect his newly claimed mate.

I kicked Slade’s mahogany desk, sending it sliding across the floor toward the door.

The weight of it—had to be three hundred pounds—caught two guards against the frame.

A Krelaxian screamed as his legs were crushed, mottled brown skin going pale with shock.

A Merrith’s delicate ribs cracked like twigs, organs rupturing from the pressure.

I flipped the desk on its side, creating the first layer of barricade.

More guards in the corridor. I could hear them—at least a dozen, maybe more. Someone competent taking charge. “Get into formation! Th’vek, take point! Martinez, prep the plasma cutter!”

They’d try to be smart about this. I couldn’t let them.

I hauled Slade’s bookshelf against the desk.

Solid mahogany, matching the desk. First editions and signed texts scattered— Keruvian poetry collections, tactical manuals he’d never read, leather-bound histories of wars he’d never fought.

Pages tearing under my boots, centuries of knowledge becoming debris mixed with blood.

His precious collection, accumulated over years, repurposed as fortification.

The filing cabinets went next. Four drawers each, steel construction, heavy enough to stop energy bolts.

Behind them, the air grew thick with the metallic scent of superheated metal from pulse fire, mixed with ozone from damaged electronics.

Sweat ran down my spine despite the climate control—the office temperature rising from all the energy discharge.

“He’s barricading himself in! Get the plasma cutter here now!”

I pulled down his awards from the walls, using the metal frames to reinforce weak points.

The glass from broken frames crunched underfoot, creating a minefield of tiny blades.

His commendations for valor—lies. His medal for the Siege of Torvak—he’d been on leave.

His certificate for excellence in combat leadership—bought with dead soldiers’ blood.

All became scrap metal in my defensive wall.

Everything he’d valued, everything that had made him feel important, repurposed to keep her safe.

Through the growing barrier, I caught glimpses of the corridor.

Emergency lights flickered—main power was failing somewhere above.

The distant sound of Gravewing shrieks echoed through ventilation shafts.

Somewhere, an explosion shook the building, and dust rained from hairline cracks spreading across the ceiling.

The first organized assault came quickly.

“This is Commander Vel!” The voice carried authority—not one of Slade’s regular guards. A Mondian from the scaled throat that gave his voice that distinctive rasp. “Surrender the woman and we’ll make your death quick! That’s the only mercy you’re getting!”

I put three energy bolts through the desk at chest height. The mahogany splintered but held, filling the air with the scent of burnt wood. Someone screamed—not Vel, but close enough to make him reconsider negotiations.

“Fuck! He’s got Thol’s rifle! Fall back!”

They tried the plasma cutter next. The metal of the filing cabinet began to glow cherry-red, paint bubbling and peeling, releasing toxic fumes that made my eyes water.

Black smoke curled toward the ceiling. I waited, watching the spot.

The moment the cutter tip broke through, creating a hole, I drove the plasma blade through the opening.

The blade met resistance—armor, probably—then pushed through to something softer.

The cutter went out. So did the screaming.

Hour six.

“Masks! Gas him out!”

Canisters rolled under the barricade, hissing as they released their contents.

The air turned yellow-green, acidic and choking.

Each breath burned like swallowing glass.

My metabolism would handle it better than theirs, but it still ate at my lung tissue with every inhale.

My eyes streamed tears that mixed with sweat and blood.

I kicked the canisters back through gaps in the barricade, then grabbed one of Slade’s shirts from his closet—he had a whole wardrobe here, the vain bastard.

Silk, from the feel. Probably cost more than most guards made in a month.

Tore it into strips. One went over my nose and mouth.

The other I dipped in water from his executive bathroom, then returned to lay it gently over Bronwen’s face.

She didn’t stir, too deep in the transformation to notice, but I couldn’t risk the gas affecting the process.

Flash grenades came next. Even with my eyes closed, the light seared through my eyelids like needles. My ears rang from the percussion, a high whine that wouldn’t stop. But I’d memorized the barricade’s layout, knew every gap, every weak point, every angle of attack.

When the first guard—a Nerath from the sound of his four-handed scrambling—tried to squeeze through a gap they’d created, I was waiting.

The plasma blade took his head at the shoulders.

The body blocked the gap while his squadmates tried to pull him free, cursing and gagging at the metallic reek of arterial blood.

“Holy fuck! He decapitated Morrison!”

“Pull back! Regroup!”

They did, giving me time to reinforce. I shoved a filing cabinet into the gap, wedging it tight. The metal groaned but held.

Hour twelve.

The shadows were lengthening outside, afternoon moving toward evening. My healing was slowing, and my left shoulder was definitely dislocated now. I felt it grinding with every movement. Three ribs broken, maybe four, and blood loss was making me dizzy.

During the lull, I noticed the safe behind Slade’s largest award, his combat excellence commendation. Typical Slade, hiding real treasures behind fake honors. I used the severed Nerath’s hand, knowing Slade would have keyed the senior staff for emergency access. The biometric lock clicked open.

The Regalia sat inside, exactly as I’d hoped, along with credit chips, documents marked with Conclave seals, and data drives that probably contained enough blackmail to destroy half the organization.

Shield generator master codes too, though they were useless without Slade’s biometric confirmation.

I secured the Regalia in my vest. We’d come for this, and now we had it.

Whatever else happened, the mission was complete.

Above us, something heavy crashed through a floor, followed by screams. Not combat, but terror. Pure animal fear. The Gravewings had found a way deeper into the building.

My power cells ran low quickly, as energy weapons drained fast in sustained combat. Twenty shots left, then ten, then the cell died with a depressing whine.

I switched to blades. Slade’s letter opener, an ornate thing with his initials in gold filigree, went into an eye socket when an Orlian peered through a gap.

The wet pop was satisfying. A shard of broken glass from his award case opened a Lyrikan’s throat, his silver blood spraying in patterns that looked almost artistic.

When those were lost or broken in bodies, I used my hands.

Hour fifteen.

By now, my healing had stopped. Wounds stayed open, weeping blood that made the floor treacherous. I could barely stand between assaults. But still they came, and still I held.

I checked on Bronwen between waves. The transformation was progressing well.

The silver patterns now covered her entire shoulder and were spreading down her arm, across her chest, creating designs unique to our bond.

Under the skin, I could see them pulsing faintly with each heartbeat.

Her breathing was deep and even, her skin still fever-hot but not dangerously so.

The bruises on her throat were already fading, her healing beginning to work.

“Almost there,” I told her, touching her face with bloodied fingers, leaving red smears on her cheek. “Just a few more hours. Then we hunt together.”