Page 115 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
A familiar voice answers, low and amused. “Three times.”
“And?”
“They learned.”
I finally look up.
Grau stands just inside the threshold, coat discarded, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed in a way that would make security sweat if they weren’t suddenly pretending not to see him. No one dared announce him. No one dared question him. He doesn’t belong here—and yet he does, in a way that defies titles and protocols.
He belongs tome.
“Close the door,” I say.
He does.
The room shifts the moment it seals, like the air recognizes him and rearranges itself accordingly. I watch him take in the space—the desk, the view, the faint chaos of paperwork that marks a woman actually working, not posing.
“You look…” he searches for the word, then smirks. “Dangerous.”
I arch a brow. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms loosely. “You didn’t need to come.”
“No,” he agrees. “I wanted to.”
There it is.
That distinction.
I gesture to the chair opposite my desk. “Sit.”
He hesitates for half a second—testing, maybe, or acknowledging something new between us—then obeys. The sight of it sends a strange, steady thrill through me. Not dominance. Not control.
Choice.
“I had a meeting with Strategic,” I say. “They’re nervous.”
“They should be.”
“They asked if I feel safe.”
His jaw tightens. “And?”
“I told them yes.” I hold his gaze. “Because I do.”
The tension in his shoulders eases, just a fraction. He exhales through his nose. “You don’t need me hovering.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
The truth of it sits clean and sharp between us. I don’t need him to shield me from shadows anymore. I don’t need a knife at my back or a ghost in the hallways.
I need something else.
“But,” I add, standing now, circling the desk slowly, “I want you here.”
His eyes track me. Heat flickers there, tempered now by something like respect.
