Page 11 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
The blood in my body boils.
Jalshagar.
I know it before my mind can even process the word. Before the old rites rise from the ashes of memory. Before logic has a chance to argue.
This is her.
The one fate carved out of the chaos.
Mine.
And from the way she stumbles mid-step, the way her pupils dilate and her lips part just slightly as if she’s forgotten how to breathe?—
She feels it too.
She walks toward me like the floor itself is unfamiliar terrain, and for a heartbeat, I wonder if her legs will give out. They don’t. She’s steadier than she looks. Or maybe she’s just used to walking through storms.
Every instinct in me howls.
Take her. Now. She’s yours. She’s waiting. She’s ready. Mark her. Mate her. Bind her.
But this isn’t the Badlands. I’m not crouched in ash under the heat of a double moon, tracking a prey mate through the wilds. I’m in a building made of polished steel and synthesizedelegance, surrounded by simpering CEOs and highborn half-liars sipping hundred-credit cocktails and pretending they don’t smell the beast in the room.
They’d wet themselves if I made a move.
And worse—shemight run.
So I stay seated.
That single act of restraint feels like lifting a starship with my bare hands.
She stops beside the table. Her breath catches audibly, just once. Her eyes flick over me, then back up—fast, like a snap reflex. I feel the tremor in her through the air. No scent scrubber in the galaxy could mask it.
Fear. Confusion. Excitement.
All braided together like threads waiting to be knotted.
She opens her mouth, but I beat her to it. Smooth. Warm. Controlled.
“Your gorgeous eyes shine like a celestial Furnace.”
Her mouth closes. Her lashes flicker. And for the first time, her lips curve—just a little. It’s not a smile. Not quite. More like a twitch of acknowledgment.
She sits across from me without a word.
I reach across the table, take her hand.
She lets me.
Her skin is warm. Soft like silk spun from Helion caterworms. Delicate in appearance, but the slight tension in her fingers tells me everything I need to know—she’s not used to giving ground. Not used to being touched by someone like me.
Good.
“I’m Grau,” I say, thumb gliding across the back of her hand. “And you… are somethingveryspecial.”
She doesn’t yank away. Doesn’t protest. Doesn’t even stutter. But her pupils are wide now, her cheeks flushed with a heatthat’s not from embarrassment. Her voice, when it finally comes, is cool and polite.
“Yara Greenfield.”
