Page 30 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
“I didn’t come here to play corporate games, little star.” He leans in, just enough that I catch the edge of his scent again—spice and leather and heat. “I came here foryou.If that means keeping our connection behind closed doors for now, fine. As long as it’s notgonebehind them too.”
“It’s not gone,” I whisper.
His eyes darken. “Good.”
He brushes a knuckle down my cheek. Not claws. Not spurs. Just skin. Gentle.
I shiver anyway.
“Because I don’t share,” he says softly.
I nod. “Neither do I.”
There’s a long pause.
Then he leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead—tender, claiming,real—before stepping back.
“I’ll let you get to work,” he says. “But I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s not a question.
And I don’t argue.
Because I want that too.
CHAPTER 7
GRAU
Idid not come to this rough and tumble establishment to fight. I came for information and maybe to prove a point..
But of course the tavern still smells like trouble just waiting to explode.
The place is half-lit, half-screaming, and fully chaotic — the kind of joint where the air tastes like burnt synth-meat, spilled liquor, and the sharp tang of tension that lingers like a second skin. Smoke coils from cracked circuits overhead, and the low murmur of danger hums beneath every laugh and clink of glass.
The tavern’s patrons are eager to see violence. Theybreatheit like oxygen.
I walk in and all of them freeze.
Not because I’m here.
But because I’mnotdoing what they expect.
They expect violence.
A Reaper in a tavern means trouble. Always.
But I’m here to celebrate.
I let the door slide shut behind me. The hinges squeal like a wounded animal, and—predictably—the nearest thugs turn their heads, eyes narrowing like they’ve just smelled blood in the air.
“Grau,” one of them murmurs. “Trouble walks in.”
I ignore him.
Barrel-aged wood and cracked holo-ads greet me. The lighting flickers — weird pulsations that make shadows dance like they’re alive. And the smell… it’s sweeter than the brood pits of Lost Breach Station: roasted roots, iron-bitter bloodwine, burned ozone, and the lingering musk of alien spices no chef in civilized space should ever touch.
I take it in like it’s home.
