Page 9 of Tamed by the Alien Warlord

LANZ

T he signal comes through like a pulse straight into my spine.

Location confirmed.

It’s Georgia’s code, piggybacking on a stolen internal frequency. Encrypted, sure, but laced with enough sarcasm in the metadata that it might as well read: Found her. Bring your toys.

I slam a fist into the deck beside the comm panel. The entire bridge vibrates from the force, and every Reaper in earshot roars in answer.

“Hell’s open for business! And business…is…good!” Rix bellows, baring his jagged teeth. “Time to put our boots on some Combine throats!”

The rest of them erupt—howls, stomps, fists banging against their own armored chests. They sound like what they are: death made flesh. No mercy. No hesitation. No clean ends.

Just ruin.

One of the gunners spits onto the deck. “Hope the Earth First dogs left us some meat.”

“I hear their nurses wear silk,” another adds, grinning. “Bet they cry pretty too.”

A third—Arlak, one of the meaner ones—growls, “Who gets first pick of the pleasure stock?”

“Not if you’re slow,” Rix says, slapping a charge pack into his rifle. “Let’s make it a contest.”

I step into the middle of the frenzy and raise one hand.

The room silences instantly.

“My mate is inside that compound.”

The tension spikes.

“You touch her—” I let the words hang. Let them taste the danger in my voice. “—and you won’t see the next raid. Her sister too. You see either of them, you protect them. Everything else… belongs to us.”

Rix nods slowly, eyes glowing with bloodlust. “Understood, Captain.”

Another Reaper laughs. “Five bars say the human’s already knocked some fool cold.”

I don’t even smirk. “Not taking that bet. She’s got Reaper blood.”

That gets a round of approving snarls.

I turn to the controls, triggering launch sequence. Cloaked breaching pods unlock from the ship’s underbelly with a mechanical hiss. One by one, they load, slot, and vanish into the vacuum.

Each contains six Reapers.

Six harbingers of slaughter.

The mission timer ticks down.

My pulse climbs.

“She’s alive,” I mutter to myself. “She’s waiting.”

“Ready to breach on your mark,” Rix calls from the drop hold.

I descend last.

My armor is black as spilled oil, covered in matte plates and spiked shoulders. My bone spurs have been sharpened to needlepoints. My breath fogs the visor from inside, not from fear but from fury.

Because they touched her sister.

Because they touched my mate.

And because I’m going to make sure none of them touch anything again.

“Drop us,” I say.

The breaching pod shakes as we pierce atmosphere. Flames lick the hull. The HUD flickers as we speed through surface scans, ignoring missile locks and static jammers. None of it matters.

The breaching pod impacts like a thrown fist. Doors blast open before we even slow down.

We hit hard.

The Reapers pour out like shadows, no sound but the whir of active camo and the heavy thuds of boots. We storm the facility from three sides—vent shafts, emergency hatches, blast corridors.

Alarms scream.

We’re already inside.

Chaos blooms.

The first wave is surgical—measured, brutal, silent. The second is something else entirely.

We burst into a medical bay mid-surgery.

A patient lies open on the table—no time to judge if they were innocent.

One of my men grabs the doctor mid-scream and tears the scalpels from his hand.

The patient convulses once, then is forgotten.

Two Reapers kick over the instrument tray and drag a whimpering nurse to the floor.

One loops a chain around her neck; the other slaps a Reaper collar on her with a clink of finality.

Another hallway erupts in gunfire. Reapers do not flinch.

They advance, laughing. One is grazed in the arm, grins like a predator, and hurls his plasma axe into the shooter's skull. Gore splashes across the wall. He retrieves the weapon, stepping on the man’s chest as he does, and rips it free with a wet crunch.

A pair of Reapers descend into cryo-storage, smashing their way into hibernation pods. Some of the women inside never even scream. One Reaper slings a limp body over his shoulder and spits: “Property.”

A door slams. Another opens. There’s no sanctuary.

Not when the Reapers have come.

The halls run red with blood. Human guards go down without ceremony. Bones snap like twigs. Doors are blown apart. Screams echo through sterile corridors—cut off by blades or strangled by snarls.

Women scream, too.

Not all in pain.

Some Reapers leash them mid-struggle, slap shock collars onto their necks, and drag them back to the pods. Nurses, techs, anyone not actively fighting is branded as loot.

One tries to hide under a surgical cart.

I don’t even glance.

My path is clear.

Straight to the lower labs.

Straight to her.

My comm crackles. “Holding east wing. Heavy resistance near data vault.”

“Forget the vault,” I growl. “Find the gas lab. You see a human female on a slab— you tell me first. ”

I cut through a door with my blade, molten edges still glowing red. A guard fires at me. Point-blank.

The bolt hits my chest plate.

Doesn’t dent.

I punch his head against the wall until it’s pulp.

I step over his corpse and keep moving.

Blood spatters my faceplate. I don’t wipe it off.

The next hallway is lined with overturned gurneys. One Reaper is binding two panicked scientists with bio-cable. Another is rooting through a locker filled with sedatives, whistling like it’s a shopping trip.

“I said focus. ”

They nod. Scatter.

Rix appears in the next junction, sword dripping. “Captain! Found her signal! She’s close.”

I surge forward, heart in my throat.

She’s here.

Somewhere beyond the next corner.

Beyond the next wall.

And when I get there, whoever’s hurting her sister?—

Won’t live to regret it.