Alien War Daddy’s Got Rizz

Chapter 1

GRAU

The building thinks it’s safe.

That’s always how it goes.

Helios Combine architecture has a certain smugness to it—sleek angles, seamless glass, lighting calibrated to flatter anyone rich enough to be inside.

Everything hums softly, like it’s proud of how expensive it is.

Security systems tucked behind walls that cost more than most ships.

Locks designed by people who’ve never had something take from them.

I come in through the side anyway.

Not the front. Never the front. I climb the outer skin of the tower two levels above the street, claws sinking into a maintenance seam with a quiet crack.

Bone spurs bite, anchor, release. The night air smells like rain that never quite falls and hot circuitry working overtime.

Below me, traffic slides along in orderly ribbons, unaware.

The window gives when I press my palm to it and hum—low, not a song, just enough vibration to confuse the glass’s sense of itself. It unlatches like it’s embarrassed to resist. I slip inside and pull it closed behind me.

No alarms.

I bare my teeth. “Good.”

The office is dark except for the glow bleeding under one door at the far end. Carpet muffles my steps, thick and indulgent. Art lines the walls—abstract shapes pretending to mean something profound. I ignore it. Art doesn’t scream when you grab it.

The light comes from Molly Jaiden’s office.

She’s supposed to be gone. That’s what my intel says. Late nights, sure, but not this late. The Coalition levy lit a fire under her months ago. People like her tend to start running when that happens.

I push the door open with two fingers.

She’s inside.

That’s… unexpected.

Molly sits at her desk, shoulders hunched, holo panels floating around her like anxious birds.

Her fingers move fast, tapping, swiping, rearranging data.

Her hair is twisted up in a style that means she’s stressed but still trying to look professional about it.

The place smells like citrus perfume layered over old fear and burned recaf.

She doesn’t notice me at first.

I take a moment. Not out of mercy. Out of habit. You learn a lot about someone in the second before they realize they’re not alone.

Then my shadow hits her desk.

She freezes.

Slowly—too slowly—she turns her head.

Her eyes land on me and go wide. Her mouth opens. Panic flashes across her face, sharp and bright, the way it always does when people finally understand the math of the situation they’re in.

“Don’t—” she starts.

I let my shoulder spurs flex.

Just a little.

The words die in her throat.

“Evening, Molly,” I say, conversational. “You’re working late.”

Her gaze flicks to my hands. My claws. My teeth. She swallows hard. I can hear it. Hear her pulse trip, then race.

“You’re… you’re early,” she says.

That’s not what she means. What she means is please don’t kill me here.

“Am I?” I step into the room and let the door click shut behind me. “Funny. I was thinking you were overdue.”

She scrambles back, chair legs shrieking against the floor until she bumps into the credenza behind her. A crystal decanter rattles. She throws her hands up, palms out.

“Listen,” she says quickly. “We can talk.”

“Usually we scream first,” I say. “But I can make exceptions.”

Her breathing comes fast and shallow. Then—interestingly—it slows. Not much. Just enough. Her eyes sharpen. The panic doesn’t vanish, but it rearranges itself.

She recognizes me.

That’s new.

“Grau,” she says. She says it right. Clean. No hesitation. “Okay. Okay. I know why you’re here.”

I tilt my head. “Do you?”

“The Coalition,” she says. “The levy. The back taxes. I know I’m… behind.”

“Millions,” I correct.

She flinches, then nods. “Yes. Millions.”

I cross the room and drag a chair away from her desk, turning it around before straddling it. The wood creaks under my weight. I shrug out of my coat and drop it over the back. It hits with a wet sound. Her eyes flick to it, then away.

“Hard to find you,” I say. “You move a lot.”

“That’s because people want me dead,” she says.

I huff a laugh. “People want me dead. We all have hobbies.”

She swallows again. “I don’t have the credits,” she says. “Not liquid.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“It could be,” she says—then stops.

I watch the moment it clicks in her head. The pivot. Panic gives way to calculation. Fear sharpens into something usable.

“What if I told you,” Molly says carefully, “that taking me to a Coalition prison ship is the least profitable option you have tonight?”

I grin. “I’m listening.”

“You get paid a flat rate,” she says. “Delivery fee. Minus fuel. Minus the trouble it takes to dodge every favor I’ve ever called in trying to stop you.”

“Flattering,” I say.

“Or,” she continues, “you walk out of here with something better.”

“Everyone says that.”

“Most of them don’t mean it,” she says.

I lean forward slightly. “You’re very confident for someone cornered in her own office.”

She exhales. “I’m desperate,” she says. “There’s a difference.”

I gesture for her to continue.

“I can give you access,” Molly says. “Wealth. Comfort. Stability. A way out of scraping by on contracts that barely cover ammo and repairs.”

I snort. “You’ve done your research.”

“I do that for a living.”

“I can take those things,” I say. “From other people.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “And then you spend the rest of your life running from the mess you made doing it.”

The words hit closer than I like.

I bare my teeth. “Careful.”

“I’m being honest,” she says. “You’re a Reaper. You don’t belong anywhere. You’re feared, not welcomed. Used when convenient, hunted when inconvenient. I work with people who don’t want to get their hands dirty but desperately need someone like you.”

She gestures at the floating holos around her desk. I don’t look at them.

“I can put you in rooms you’re never invited into,” she says. “Introduce you to problems that pay better than bounties and don’t end with a cell.”

“And what do you get?” I ask.

“I stay alive,” she says simply.

Silence stretches between us. Thick. Electric.

“You’re bargaining,” I say.

“Yes.”

“With someone who came here to drag you screaming into a transport.”

“Yes.”

“That’s bold.”

“That’s survival.”

I rise to my feet. She stiffens but doesn’t run. That alone earns her a sliver of credit.

“I don’t do partnerships,” I say.

“I’m not offering partnership,” she replies. “I’m offering direction.”

I loom over her desk. She doesn’t look away, even though her pulse is pounding hard enough I can hear it.

“If you lie to me,” I say quietly, “there won’t be a prison ship. There won’t be a body to find.”

She nods. “Understood.”

I turn toward the window. “You have my attention,” I say. “That’s all you’ve earned tonight.”

She exhales shakily. “That’s… that’s enough.”

“For now,” I say.

I step back into the night, glass yielding like it knows better than to argue.

Behind me, Molly Jaiden is still breathing.

Then, I feel something strange. I should leave.

Window’s right there. Night’s cool on my skin. The city breathes below me, hungry and wide. This is the part where I walk away and make Molly sweat for a few days, let her stew in the idea of how easily I could’ve ended her.

Instead, I pause.

Something’s crawling under my skin. Like a shadow I can’t shake.

Behind me, she speaks. “Wait.”

I turn, slow. She’s still standing behind her desk, palms braced flat against the surface like it’s the only thing holding her upright. Her voice is steadier than it should be.

“I can prove I’m worth it,” she says.

“You already made your pitch.”

“You haven’t seen the good part.”

I narrow my eyes. “And what’s that?”

She breathes deep—centers herself—and gestures toward the nearest holo pane. It flares to life again, light spilling over her face in ghost-blue flickers. Her fingers dance across the interface, too fast for most eyes to follow. I track every movement.

The screen blooms.

A profile expands.

The image of a woman appears.

And the world ends.

I don’t mean it metaphorically. I mean it like this: the minute I see her, I stop existing the way I did ten seconds ago.

Blonde hair. Tied back like she means business but hasn’t yet had her spirit crushed by the weight of it.

Blue eyes. Clear, but not soft. There's war behind those eyes.

A kind that hasn't been named. A mouth made to say impossible things.

Her face is oval, chin a touch defiant, the curve of her cheekbones sharpened by a life that's clearly tried her, but failed to dim the spark beneath the skin.

Her name flickers beneath the picture.

Yara Greenfield.

The sound it makes in my head doesn’t belong to any language I know. It rings.

Something inside me detonates. Like a pressure valve’s been sealed too long and just got kicked open. My knees don’t buckle, but they think about it. My chest goes tight. Heat spikes up my spine like I'm about to shift into full combat mode. But it’s not rage. It’s not even lust. It’s...

Jalshagar.

I haven’t felt it in decades.

Didn’t think I could anymore. Thought it was some primal relic, a ghost limb of an extinct need. But this? This isn’t myth. This is real. It’s gravity. A pull so visceral, so immediate, it overrides everything else—instinct, training, strategy.

I can't breathe.

My mouth is dry, tongue heavy behind my teeth. Every inch of me strains toward the image like it's something I can touch if I just lean hard enough. I hear my own heartbeat pounding in my skull like a war drum. My hands curl into fists without asking permission.

Molly notices.

Her voice is soft. Testing the water.

“I take it… she interests you?”

I can’t speak at first.

I stare at the woman in the projection, and the image seems to move even though it’s frozen. Her eyes are looking straight ahead, neutral. But to me, it’s like she sees me. Like she's always seen me.

“Who is she?” I ask. My voice doesn’t sound right. Too low. Too rough. It’s gravel caught in a whirlwind.

Molly straightens just a little. She knows she’s got something now. Doesn’t know what exactly, but she can feel it.

“Yara Greenfield,” she says. “Heir to the CY8 megacorp. Her father died recently, left her controlling shares. The company’s drowning in debt. She’s trying to save it.”

I barely register the words. I’m stuck on her name. Her face. That pull. The jalshagar bond snaps into place with terrifying finality. It’s not affection. It’s not affection. It’s possession.

“What’s her connection to you?” I ask, stepping back to the desk.

“She hired me,” Molly says. “Two days ago. Wants a match. Someone... elite. Exciting. Capable of protecting her in a cutthroat galaxy but who won’t dominate her in boardrooms.”

I let out a sound. Could be a laugh. Might be a growl. “And you thought of me?”

“I didn’t,” she says. “Yet. But you saw her picture. I’d say that’s a match made in hell.”

Hell. No. This is something older. Wilder. Scarier.

I want her.

Not just her body—though that, too, with a heat I haven’t felt in years—but her. Her voice. Her scent. Her blood in my mouth and her heartbeat under my palm and the feel of her hips in my hands when I pull her toward me like gravity itself’s given up trying to compete.

I take a slow breath. It doesn’t help.

“She doesn’t know you exist,” Molly says. “Yet.”

I smile, all teeth. “Then we fix that.”

“You’ll do it?” she says, cautious hope laced with disbelief.

I don’t answer right away.

Instead, I step closer to the holo, staring at Yara like it’s going to answer every question I’ve ever had. Her profile flicks through details—height, weight, family history. I don’t care. None of that matters. I’ve seen enough. Felt enough.

This isn’t a contract. It’s a claim.

I look at Molly.

“I’ll do it.”

She exhales, just once. “You’ll pose as the match?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I am the match.”

“That’s… okay. That’s good.” She starts typing again, but her hands tremble.

“And you’ll set it up,” I say. “No red tape. No screening. Just the date. Fast.”

“I can make it happen.”

I give her a warning glance. “You will make it happen.”

She nods. “Right. Of course.”

I stare at the picture again. A thousand thoughts rush through my head, none of them civilized. I imagine her eyes when she sees me. The way her breath will catch. The way her pupils will dilate. The way her scent will spike with interest and something closer to surrender.

I’ve bedded queens and killers and fugitives and things that blur the line between, but I’ve never felt this. Never been hooked like this.

And the worst part? The most dangerous part?

She’s mine now.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

I glance over my shoulder at Molly, who’s trying very hard not to look smug.

I step toward her, fast enough that she flinches.

“You live,” I say.

Her mouth opens like she’s about to thank me.

I raise a hand. “Not out of kindness. Don’t mistake this.”

She nods, quickly. “Understood.”

“You live because you showed me something more important than your bounty.” I let the threat hang there, low and sharp. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll need credentials. Background. Something passable for her filters.”

“I’ve got files,” she says. “Backup identities. Some of them even believable.”

“Make me her type.”

Molly swallows. “She doesn’t have one.”

“Then make her believe I’m it.”

She nods again, tapping frantically at her console, sending data into the ether. She’s a survivor—gotta give her that.

I don’t care about her.

I don’t care about anything else tonight.

Only Yara.

And whatever it is fate just did to me.