Alien Devil’s Temptation (Vinduthi Stolen Brides #4)

Brevan

The Valyria spaceport smelled like money. Not the sharp tang of fresh credits changing hands, but the layered scent of wealth that had been processed, filtered, and perfumed until it barely resembled its origins. Imported flowers. Synthesized ocean breeze.

All the coaxing scents of a very expensive lie.

I stepped off the shuttle ramp, and the crowd shifted.

A Nazok family bustled past, and their smallest kit dropped a worn stuffed gra’lx. The toy skittered to a stop at my feet. I paused, bending to retrieve it. The father froze, his pointed ears flattening, his hand flying to a concealed sidearm.

I held up the toy. “He’ll miss this.” I smiled, trying to look harmless, and offered it to the child.

The Nazok child, wide-eyed, snatched the toy back.

The father’s shoulders relaxed. He gave a short, surprised nod and hustled his family toward the commercial terminals.

The Fanaith couple near the concourse didn’t move away, but their sleek gray skin paled—a sign of intense curiosity.

An Orlian merchant, whom I’d outbid at an auction six months prior, raised his glass to me from across the concourse.

I raised a hand in acknowledgment. They didn’t fear me.

They saw me as a new, unpredictable player.

“Credentials.” The security officer was Krelaxian, which explained why he hadn’t bolted.

Thick brown leathery hide, arms like cargo lifters, and a species reputation for being too stupid to know when they were outmatched.

He held out a scanner without quite meeting my eyes.

“Weapons declaration. Import permits. Biometric scan.”

“Of course.” I pulled my data slate from my jacket. Brevan Korven’s documents loaded smoothly. Reclusive investor. New money. Impeccable financials. Everything perfectly forged, which meant it had cost me three weeks of Varrick’s time and enough credits to buy a small moon.

“My compliments to your port authority, by the way,” I said pleasantly. “So much faster than that bureaucratic nightmare on Cygnus-X. A pleasure to deal with true professionals.”

The Krelaxian guard, unused to compliments from anyone, let alone a Vinduthi, puffed up slightly. His scanner beeped as it processed my permits. His expression flickered.

“A license for a pulse rifle? That’s at least six treaty violations...”

I laughed, a warm, charming sound. “It’s art, my friend. A rare, antique—but functional—piece for my collection. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork involved in legally transporting art these days. That’s the real crime.”

Flustered, the guard stamped the permit. His hands shook, but it was nervous energy, not terror. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Korven.” He practically shoved my slate back at me.

I collected my slate and moved deeper into the terminal. The foot traffic stayed carefully distant. It would have been fascinating if I hadn’t seen it a thousand times before. Power, like fear, had patterns.

The encrypted comm in my pocket vibrated. Once. Pause. Twice.

I diverted toward the luxury lounges, the kind where privacy cost more than honesty and the staff knew better than to remember faces. The greeter was Valdorian, tall and pale with silver hair twisted into elaborate knots. She studied me for a moment before speaking.

“Welcome to the Tiprevi Lounge, honored guest.” She managed to sound sincere. “Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m expecting a business associate.” I let my gaze sweep the visible seating areas. Low lighting. Sound dampeners built into every booth. “Private booth. Send up your best Aldoran brandy.”

“Of course.” She gave a slight nod. “Right this way.”

She led me to a booth in the back corner where the dampeners were strongest. I slid onto the bench and waited until she’d retreated before pulling out my comm.

The screen showed a simple text message: Audio only. Secure.

I tapped the acknowledgment and held the device to my ear. Three seconds later, Kallum’s voice crackled through. “You’re live. Room’s clean.”

“Status?”

“Target’s at the reception venue. Security sweep completed an hour ago. You’re clear to proceed once you’re ready.”

“And the item?”

“Right where our scans indicated. Private office, moved only for special occasions.” Kallum paused. “Tarsus has been paranoid since the Parallax bombing. He’s doubled his personal guard rotation.”

“Good. Paranoid people make mistakes.” The server disappeared around a corner. “Any complications I should know about?”

“The usual palace intrigue. Guest list is exclusive. You’ll need to make the right impression. Tarsus values theatrics.”

“Then he’s in for a performance.” I ended the connection and slipped the comm back into my pocket.

The Valdorian server arrived with the brandy. She placed the tray on the table without comment, collected her tip with a shallow bow, and disappeared so quickly she might have teleported.

I poured a glass. The brandy tasted of burnt sugar, with a bitter, expensive finish. I sipped it anyway and let my mind work through the variables.

Senator Tarsus. Conclave member. One of the bastards who’d helped murder the Sovereign. The intelligence said he’d used his political connections to legitimize the theft of countless artifacts after the coup.

And one Regalia.

This would be the fourth. One more after this, and we could burn the Conclave to ash.

I finished my brandy and checked the time. The reception would start in two hours, which gave me time to settle into my suite, change into something that screamed ‘dangerous but civilized,’ and review everything I knew about Valdorian social hierarchy.

First impressions mattered. And I planned to make one that Tarsus would remember right up until the moment I destroyed him.

The arrival reception occupied the observation deck of the main spaceport terminal.

Floor-to-ceiling transparisteel overlooked Valyria’s manufactured ocean, all engineered turquoise water and perfect beaches.

The sunset looked painted in the sky, because it probably had been done by micro-drones.

Every detail on this planet came with a price tag.

I’d changed into formal wear. Black jacket cut to accommodate my build, silver threading that caught the light just enough to draw attention to the gold tracery marking my skin. No visible weapons, which was a polite fiction everyone pretended to believe.

The room quieted when I entered. Conversations stuttered. Glasses paused halfway to lips.

“Mr. Korven.” The voice came from my left, smooth and polished. “Welcome to Valyria.”

I turned and found myself facing Senator Tarsus for the first time.

Valdorian, as the intelligence had indicated.

Tall, easily matching my height. Pale skin with an almost translucent quality, like high-grade parchment.

Silver hair swept back from a face that managed to look both distinguished and predatory.

His eyes were amber, the color-shifting irises characteristic of his species currently showing interest and calculation.

Good instincts. Terrible luck.

“Senator.” I inclined my head just enough to suggest respect without submission. “Your planet’s reputation doesn’t do it justice. I’ve seen a dozen resort worlds, and none of them quite capture this level of curated perfection.”

“We pride ourselves on attention to detail.” His shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I understand you’re interested in establishing operations here?”

“Interested in investments,” I corrected. “Valyria has a remarkable art market. I’m always looking to expand my collection.”

“Ah. A collector. How delightful. Most of your kind prefer more direct forms of wealth.”

Your kind. The words hung there, polite and poisonous.

I let them slide off without comment. “I’ve found that beauty has value beyond the immediate. Some things appreciate in ways that violence never can.”

“Spoken like a true connoisseur.” He gestured toward the bar, where his security detail watched our interaction.

A Mondian with orange scales, never took his eyes off the crowd.

He was flanked by two Nerath, their four arms crossed in a clear ‘don’t try it’ posture.

A Krelaxian with custom armor stayed two steps behind Tarsus, his hand never straying from his sidearm.

“Let me introduce you to a few associates,” Tarsus said. “There’s an auction later this month, very exclusive. I think you’d find the offerings interesting.”

“I’d be honored.” I followed him across the room, aware of every species giving us a wide berth.

Tarsus made introductions, his voice smooth, movements polished from decades of manipulating social hierarchies. An Orlian art dealer. Two Fanaith traders specializing in Thal’reth artifacts. A Lyrikan who owned half the gallery space in the commercial district.

I was charming. Interested. Just dangerous enough to make them nervous, just civilized enough to make them think they could profit from the relationship.

All the while, I watched Tarsus. The careful distance he maintained. The security detail that never quite relaxed.

He knew what Vinduthi were. Apex predators. Warriors. Criminals who kept their word but showed no mercy to those who broke theirs.

He just didn’t know I was one of the six people in the galaxy who wanted him dead more than anything.

Not yet.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Tarsus said after the third round of introductions. “My personal curator. She has a remarkable eye for authenticity. I never make a significant purchase without her assessment.”

“I’d be delighted.” I kept my voice level, but my pulse kicked up a fraction. Finally. The second target of my plan. “Authentication is crucial in this market. Too many forgeries flooding the high-end trade.”

“Precisely.” He gestured toward the far end of the room, where a cluster of species had gathered near a display of what looked like Thal’reth pottery. “I like to have her eyes on anything interesting. Let me introduce you.”

We moved through the crowd. The security detail followed at a discrete distance, still watching, still ready.

And there, standing in front of a glass case containing fragments of ancient Thal’reth ceramics, was a human female.

My first thought was clinical assessment.

Mid-twenties. Average height for her species, which made her tiny compared to most of the room.

Dark hair pulled back in a style that suggested function over fashion.

Simple dress in deep blue, expensive fabric but modest cut.

And at her throat, a collar that looked like jewelry until you noticed the biometric lock at the clasp.

Tarsus’s mark of ownership.

My second thought was that she looked bored.

Not nervous. Not intimidated by the room full of dangerous species in formal wear. Just bored, like she’d seen this performance a thousand times and knew how it ended.

At her feet sat a security construct. Sleek black synthetic fur, small data-ports studded along its spine, eyes that glowed with a faint analytical light as they tracked every movement in the room.

Those eyes locked onto me the moment Tarsus and I approached.

The cat’s pupils narrowed to slits. Its lips pulled back, revealing small, perfectly maintained fangs. A low, electronic growl started deep in its chest, barely audible but unmistakably hostile.

“Flinx,” the human said without looking down. Her voice carried a dry, exhausted patience. “Inside behavior.”

The cat sat. The growl continued.

“Carys,” Tarsus said, his tone shifting to something that made my jaw tighten. Not quite command, but close. Pure ownership. “This is Brevan Korven. He’s expressed interest in our auction.”

She turned. Her eyes met mine.

Brown. Plain brown, nothing remarkable about the color. But sharp. Analytical. The kind of gaze that didn’t assess whether you were dangerous, but what kind of dangerous you were and whether you were worth the trouble.

“Mr. Korven.” She inclined her head. Polite. Professional. Completely unimpressed. “Welcome to Valyria. What brings you to our little paradise?”

The cat hissed.

I smiled.

This was going to be interesting.