Page 3 of Tamed by the Alien Warlord

GEORGIA

B eing collared sucks.

But being ignored? That’s worse.

Lanz hasn't come back, not since the moment he shoved me to the floor like a bad idea and stormed off. And now I’m left pacing this absurdly clean brig, watching the Reaper pirates through the thick-glass wall.

They don’t notice me. Or, if they do, they don’t care.

Pirate etiquette is primitive but simple. Whoever hits hardest, rules. Disputes end in punches, body slams, or plasma standoffs. No one bothers with verbal sparring unless it ends in blood.

I watch one fight break out over a ration bar. The winner doesn’t gloat. Just takes his prize, snarls once, and leaves his opponent groaning on the floor. And no one interferes. The hierarchy is clear: if you’re strong, you get what you want. If you’re weak, you're lucky to keep your boots.

It should horrify me. And it does, on a surface level. But also… something about it is honest.

No one talks about challenging Lanz. That part is very clear. They defer to him like he’s a force of nature. Not out of fear— at least not just that—but reverence. Like he’s more than a man. Like he’s the storm they all ride in on.

So naturally, my idiot heart keeps wanting to know what it feels like to be touched by lightning.

Footsteps echo down the hall. I recognize the gait—long, deliberate, powerful. I steel myself, spine snapping straight. When he enters, I’m already standing. Waiting. Arms crossed over my chest like armor.

Lanz fills the doorway, every inch of him etched with the kind of lethal grace that should not be allowed in one body. “You behave better when you’re bored,” he says, voice low and mocking.

“Must be your company,” I fire back. “So uplifting.”

His gaze drags over me like a scanner. I can’t tell if he’s checking for weapons or just enjoying the view.

Probably both.

“You still talking?” he says.

I smirk. “You keep showing up. Must be something here you want.”

He steps inside, lets the door seal behind him. The energy shifts immediately. Denser. Thicker. Like the air is considering catching fire.

“I’ve got terms,” I say before I can overthink it. “I help you expose the Helios Combine. You help me find my sister.”

He cocks his head. “You think I need your help?”

“You need someone who can get the message out. Unfiltered. Unedited. And you know it.” I take a step forward. The collar shifts against my throat, heavy and real. “I’m not stupid. You want the Combine embarrassed. Discredited. And I can do that. On every feed in the Core.”

He doesn’t speak. Just watches.

“I get you your propaganda victory,” I press on, “and you get me to Jasmine. Alive, preferably.”

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re in a position to bargain?”

I lift my chin. “I think you’ve been watching me sleep.”

He freezes.

Bullseye.

“There’s a small sensor in the corner of the cell,” I say, jerking my chin toward it. “Infrared flickered when the feed cut. I know someone’s been checking it manually. And given how your crew avoids eye contact, I’m betting that someone is you.”

Still nothing.

But the heat in the air? Palpable now.

I smile. “So yeah, I’m holding all the cards. Or at least some of them.”

He steps in closer. I don’t move. I won’t move. Even though everything in me is starting to hum like I’ve swallowed lightning.

“You want to find your sister,” he says.

I nod.

“You want to take down the Combine.”

“Damn right.”

“And you want to do it… with me.”

The way he says that last part—mocking, rough, amused—makes something twist inside me.

“I don’t exactly have a line of volunteers, do I?” I shoot back.

There’s a long silence. Then he reaches into his belt, pulls out a fresh pair of manacles.

My mouth goes dry.

He closes the distance with a single stride. “You want help? You do it my way.”

The manacles click around my wrists before I can argue. His fingers brush my skin—hot, calloused, firm.

“You son of a?—”

He leashes the collar. Tugs gently.

I stumble forward, heat flaring through me. I hate how quickly my body reacts. I hate how my thighs clench, how my mouth goes dry.

He smiles darkly. “Let’s go, Human.”

“Where?” I manage to croak.

“My quarters.”

I freeze. “That’s not—wait, what?!”

He tugs again, harder this time. My pulse spikes.

“Do I get a safe word?” I mutter as I try to keep pace.

“No,” he growls. “But I’ll let you scream it anyway.”

I swear softly as the door hisses open. He drags me down the hall past curious stares and knowing smirks. Every Reaper we pass gives us space. No one speaks. No one even looks directly at me.

The collar works.

And I hate that I feel... protected by it.

By him.

When we reach his quarters, the door slides open on a space too large, too clean, too shadowed for someone like him. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t hesitate. Just drags me in.

And I realize?—

I’m in deep now.

Way deeper than I ever meant to go.