Page 3 of Alien Warrior’s Claim (Nyxari Bondmates #1)

MIRELLE

M y hands shook as I pressed a makeshift bandage against Drake's lacerated shoulder. Blood seeped through the fabric despite my efforts, the ragged wounds from the predator's claws refusing to stop bleeding.

"Hold on," I murmured, reaching for the small medical kit we'd salvaged from the crash. "Just hold on."

Drake's eyes fluttered, her face ashen beneath a sheen of sweat. She'd be dead if not for the aliens—the massive, psychedelic colored warriors who'd appeared from nowhere and slaughtered those six-legged monsters with terrifying efficiency.

I glanced up, scanning the perimeter of our camp where the alien warriors had stationed themselves. Seven feet tall at minimum, their skin ranging from midnight-blue to vibrant emerald and metallic silver, all adorned with golden markings that seemed to pulse with their movements. Their whip-like tails swayed with each step as they patrolled. They kept their weapons ready but not raised—a position that communicated vigilance rather than immediate threat.

One stood apart from the others—taller, with copper-colored hair twisted in elaborate braids. His golden eyes hadn't left me since we'd returned to camp. I couldn't shake the memory of what had happened in that clearing—the strange, electric sensation when his fingers had hovered near my skin, the way my own markings had flared in response to his. Even in danger, my skin crackled with electric energy. Something about me wanted to rub myself on that alien body.

I had duties. I had responsibility. But something about the gaze of that warrior and the closeness of his savage body. It made me want to forget everything and lose myself in the sensations that played out through my being when he was nearby.

"Are they still watching?" Drake whispered, her voice weak.

I nodded, applying a sterile gel to her wounds. "They haven't moved."

Heavy footsteps approached from behind. I didn't need to look up to know it was Hammond. His shadow fell across Drake's prone form, his rifle cradled in his arms with deceptive casualness.

"Report," he demanded, gaze locked on the alien warriors. "What in hell are those things?"

"No idea," I said, securing Drake's bandage. "But they saved us from those predators when they could have just let us die."

Hammond's jaw tightened, fingers flexing around his weapon. "That doesn't mean they're friendly. Could be they just want us alive for their own purposes."

"I'm not suggesting we trust them unconditionally," I replied, striving to keep my voice even. "I'm saying they've shown no hostility despite having every opportunity to harm us."

His eyes narrowed. "You sound awfully trusting, Duvane."

"They could have let those things kill us," I said, refusing to be baited. "Instead, they saved our lives. Maybe we should hear them out before we start making threats."

A tall woman with close-cropped dark hair appeared at Hammond's side. Security Officer Zara Graydon had been quiet during most of this confrontation, her watchful eyes missing nothing.

"Sir, perhaps we should consider gathering more intelligence before determining our approach," she suggested in a carefully neutral tone. "These creatures clearly have superior knowledge of the planet's dangers."

Hammond shot her a look that silenced further comment. I noticed how she unconsciously adjusted her high collar, and for a moment, I thought I glimpsed something beneath the fabric – a faint silvery gleam along her collarbone that she quickly covered.

Hammond surveyed the gathered survivors. Most huddled in frightened clusters, staring at the aliens with mixtures of terror and awe. Others—mostly his security team—had positioned themselves strategically, weapons at the ready.

"We know nothing about those creatures," Hammond said. "For all we know, those predators are their hunting animals, and we're being corralled."

I bit back a sharp retort. Hammond's paranoia wasn't entirely misplaced, even if his militant posturing grated on my nerves. We were strangers on an alien world with no idea of the rules or threats.

Movement at the camp's edge caught my attention. The copper-haired warrior had stepped forward, his golden eyes finding mine with unerring precision. Something tugged inside my chest, a strange pulling sensation that made me want to approach him despite all logic. The same that made my head spin when I thought about him.

That sent jolts of forbidden electricity down my spine until they landed in my belly.

That if left untethered for long enough made me want to find a quiet corner in this hellhole planet that would give me some privacy so I could touch myself.

The marks beneath my skin warmed in response to that thought, and I absently adjusted my jacket sleeve, trying to will away the sensation.

The warrior made a gesture—palm extended, fingers spread wide. Then he tapped his chest twice.

"I think he's trying to communicate," Dr. Elana Kapur said, appearing at my side. The botanist bore similar markings to mine, though hers were concentrated around her wrists rather than spiraling up my arms.

Hammond stepped forward, inserting himself between me and the alien's line of sight. "All communication goes through me," he declared loudly, as if volume could overcome the language barrier.

He performed an exaggerated series of gestures, pointing to himself, then sweeping his arm to encompass our group. The aliens watched with what appeared to be bemused interest, their expressions maddeningly difficult to read on their non-human faces.

The copper-haired leader responded with a fluid gesture of his own, then spoke in a language unlike anything I'd ever heard—deep and resonant, with rolling syllables that seemed to flow into each other. Without a translator, his words were completely unintelligible to us.

"That's helpful," Hammond muttered, frustration evident.

I stepped around him, ignoring his glare. With deliberate movements, I pointed to myself. "," I said, then gestured to our camp. "Human."

The alien leader tilted his head, watching me with those unsettling golden eyes. He repeated my name, the syllables altered by his foreign tongue, then tapped his own chest. "Lazrin." His hand swept to encompass his warriors. "Nyxari."

"Lazrin," I repeated, tasting the strange name. "Nyxari." The rightness of the words washed through me, strange and certain.

We'd managed the most basic form of introduction—names only, with no way to communicate anything complex. It was a start, but barely. We were far from actual understanding.

The moment broke as Hammond stepped between us again. "That's enough, Duvane. Fall back with the others."

"I was making progress," I protested.

"You were making yourself a target," he hissed, lowering his voice. "We establish terms through strength, not by sending women to bat their eyes at them."

Heat rushed to my face. "I was attempting basic communication, not flirting."

"I don't care what you call it. I'm in command here, and I'm ordering you to rejoin the other survivors."

Fuming, I returned to the medical area where Drake and the other injured waited. As I knelt to check bandages, murmurs and arguments rippled through the gathered survivors.

"...saved our lives..." "...could be sizing us up for dinner..." "...Hammond's going to get us all killed..." "...better armed than we are..."

The camp was splitting before my eyes—those willing to consider the Nyxari as potential allies versus those rallying behind Hammond's aggressive caution. Both sides had valid points, but the fragmentation of our already tenuous situation sent a chill down my spine.

"They're not human," I heard someone whisper. "Look at them—those markings, those teeth. They're predators."

"So were those six-legged things," another countered. "And these guys killed them to save us."

I finished tending the wounded and moved to organize our meager supplies, keeping my head down as I counted ration packs and catalogued medical implements. Anything to distract from the heated debate surrounding me—and from the alien leader who still watched from the perimeter.

"What do you think?" Dr. Kapur asked quietly, helping me sort bandages. "About them?"

I hesitated, conscious of listening ears. "I think we need to be cautious but not hostile. We don't know this planet. We don't know its dangers. They clearly do."

"And the markings?" she whispered, glancing around before carefully pulling back her sleeve just enough to reveal the silvery patterns that had appeared during the crash. She quickly covered them again. "Did you notice theirs? Similar but different."

I had. The golden lines decorating their skin bore an uncanny resemblance to our own silvery markings, though theirs seemed to be on the surface rather than beneath it.

"Could be coincidence," I said, though I didn't believe it. Not after the way my marks had reacted to Lazrin's proximity. I adjusted my jacket sleeve, ensuring the patterns remained hidden. "We should keep ours covered. The last thing we need is more fear in camp."

"You're right," she agreed, voice dropping lower. "Rivera and I have been using bandages to hide the more visible ones. But ..." She caught my eye. "Something happened out there in the clearing, didn't it? Between you and their leader?"

I glanced around to ensure we weren't overheard. "His markings... reacted to mine. Started glowing brighter. And mine responded." I swallowed hard, remembering the terrifying sensation. "I thought I was sick, radiation-poisoned maybe. But now... I don't know what to think."

Elana's eyes widened. "That's fascinating. Do you think?—"

"I think we have enough to worry about without adding alien light shows to the list," I cut her off, more sharply than intended. "And we certainly shouldn't be drawing attention to ourselves. Not with Hammond already watching us."

As darkness fell, Hammond established a guard rotation and ordered fires built around the camp's perimeter. The Nyxari had withdrawn to the forest edge but remained visible in the flickering light—sentinels watching our every move.

I finished my inventory and approached Hammond with the dismal figures. "A month of rations left if we stretch them. Medical supplies even less. We need to find sustainable food sources fast."

Hammond barely glanced at my datapad. "We'll send out more foraging parties tomorrow. Armed this time."

"After what happened today?" I gestured toward Drake, now sleeping fitfully under sedation. "Those predators nearly killed us."

"And next time we'll be better prepared," he countered. “We need to feed several hundred people and that requires constant gathering.”

I bit my tongue. There was no arguing with him when he set his mind to something. Instead, I retreated to my makeshift shelter, a lean-to constructed from debris and emergency survival blankets.

Through a gap in my shelter's side, I could see Lazrin's distinctive figure standing motionless in the moonlight. The markings beneath my skin warmed at the sight of him, responding to his presence even at this distance. What was happening to me? Whatever connection existed between us transcended language, transcended species. It terrified me as much as it intrigued me.

Sleep eluded me. I lay listening to the night sounds of an alien world, my fingers absently tracing the strange patterns that had appeared during the crash. Outside, Hammond's silhouette passed by my shelter, pausing briefly as if considering something. Then he moved on, his shadow stretching long and dark across the makeshift camp—a division forming that had nothing to do with species and everything to do with power.

And beyond him, always watching, the copper-haired warrior whose presence inexplicably pulled at something deep within me.