Page 2 of Badass Alien Boss

“The authorities deemed the attack a random act of violence,” Korsan had told her. “They don’t seem too interested in solving it, and I won’t feel comfortable until the thugs are caught. Ruyn is physically disabled. He’s an easy target now.”

It might have seemed ludicrous to hire a five-foot-nothing, pixie-haired human female as a bodyguard for a six-foot-plusformer badass soldier, except brains counted as much, if not more, than brawn. Security was 99 percent prevention. If a client encountered a physical threat while under your protection, you’d failed at your job.

The problem with men, she had observed, was their default inclination to settle disputes with a fight. They seemed to suffer from a delusion of invincibility, causing them to take foolish risks. She had termed the condition, “masculine-stupid.”

Nothing in Ruyn’s dossier indicated he was masculine-stupid, but she’d know more after they interacted. And since the law enforcement investigation had stalled, Korsan hoped she could bring a set of fresh eyes to the case and see something the Luturnan police had missed.

Her GAL Friday contract committed her to six months, with an option to extend another six if needed. Hopefully, by then, he wouldn’t need a bodyguard anymore, but if he did, it would have to be somebody else.

This was a short-term gig, nothing more. In six months, a year max, she’d return to Earth.

Chapter Two

Either Korsan had become a mind reader, or the human had warned him of the visit because his brother emerged from his office just as Ruyn got there. “Before you say anything—” Korsan said.

“I do not need a nursemaid.”

“She’s not a nursemaid.”

“Project manager, personal assistant, slap on whatever euphemism you like, I don’t need someone to wipe my ass—”

“Come in. Sit down. We’ll talk about it.” Korsan eyed his assistant who tried to look as if he couldn’t hear a word.

Ruyn followed him into the office. After the charge over here, his leg was killing him. Stifling a wince, he eased into a seat. Sitting, getting up, standing, walking—it all hurt. He hated the hovering concern, the pitying glances. The concessions to his injuries. Hated even more that he needed the concessions.

Not long ago, he’d been strong, robust, a force to be reckoned with. A warrior. He’d gone on numerous ground combat missions during his two decades in the space force and received many medals of valor, all without a single serious injury.

He’d come home on a mandatory respite furlough all soldiers were required to take. That was when his life took a bad turn.

He’d been asked for a favor—speak at a charity event for delinquent youth. Korsan Enterprises was one of the corporate donors of the charity. As a rambunctious adolescent, Ruyn had had a few skirmishes with the law. Korsan had said a decorated soldier with his background might be relatable to troubled and troublesome boys.

How could he refuse? The speech had gone well, his young audience had been rapt, and the event organizers were effusive in their appreciation and praise. Then he’d left the charity venue. Taking a shortcut home, he’d been ambushed by four maskedmales. With his military training, he could have fought off two, maybe three. With four, he never had a chance.

Doctors had had to rebuild shattered bone. Now, he couldn’t walk without dragging his left leg, which achedallthe time and hurt like amotherphukkerwhen it got cold or he stood too long, walked too far, or sat too long—too long defined as more than a few minutes. They said pain and mobility would improve over time, but as he’d always limp, the injury ended his military career. His body was a phukking mess—and so was his face, which had been slashed.

“Ihave an assistant,” Korsan pointed out.

“You need one. You work here. You own the company.”

“You work here, too.”

“Temporarily. Until I find something better—no offense.”

After being released from the hospital, with his military career DOA, he had to do something or lose his mind. His job options were limited; employment opportunities did not align with his skill set. An infantry soldier killed people. Not many civilian jobs called for that. No legal ones, anyway.

His brother had offered him a position with his company, “until you get back on your feet,” pun no doubt subconsciously intended. He’d taken it because it beat staring at four walls all day.

In hindsight, he should have stared at the walls. He did not need fraternal pity or guilt to remind him of how far he’d fallen.

“It’s not your fault,” he said for the umpteenth time.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to—”

“It’s not your fault. Now shut the phuk up about it and stop coddling me. If I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

“Really?”

No.“The nursemaid tells me—”