Bride of the Ruthless Alien (Survivor Brides of Tajss #3)

Chapter 1

TALIA

By the time the argument outside reaches shouting volume, I’ve already decided to ignore it.

“Eyes here,” I say calmly. “We’re almost done.”

The children sit in a loose, uneven circle on scavenged mats and folded blankets, bodies that don’t quite match but have learned how to fit anyway.

Some have scales dusting their cheeks or shoulders.

Some have horns barely breaking the skin.

Others look entirely human until they move and the light catches something wrong.

Three races. All of them refugees.

Illadon sits near the front, long limbs folded with barely contained energy, brilliantly colored scales catching the light every time he shifts. He’s older than most of the others, already protective without realizing it, positioned so he can see Rverre without making it obvious.

Rverre sits a little apart, wings tucked tight, dark hair falling forward as she traces shapes on her slate that don’t quite match what I’m teaching.

Malcolm sprawls beside Zoe, round and cheerful and already chalk-smudged, his tiny magenta-tinted horns peeking through his curls as he whispers something that makes her snort.

Zoe’s red hair is braided back from her face, subtle scales at her temples flashing rainbow colors when she turns her head.

Elneese and Ganeese sit shoulder to shoulder, mirror images except for the way one always watches the tent flap while the other watches me. Aeros perches on the edge of his mat like he’s ready to bolt at any moment, wings twitching when the shouting outside spikes.

Pachua and Leia share a slate between them, heads bent together in serious concentration.

There are human children too—some older, some younger, some far too quiet for their age. They sit mixed in without ceremony, because in here, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

“This isn’t about memorizing dates,” I say, raising my voice just enough to cut through the noise outside. “It’s about understanding why people built the world the way they did.”

A hand shoots up.

“So no one could sneak up behind you,” Illadon says before I can stop him, flashing a grin that shows just a hint of fang.

“That’s one reason,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Anyone else?”

“The stone carries sound,” Zoe adds thoughtfully. “In the tunnels, you could hear someone coming.”

“Yes,” I say. “The tunnels weren’t just protection. They were communication.”

I pace slowly as I talk—not because I need the space, but because movement keeps them grounded. Keeps me grounded. Outside the tent, someone shouts again—angrier now—and something metal clangs against packed earth.

Malcolm startles. Aeros’s wings flare.

“Hey,” I say softly, crouching so I’m at eye level with them. “Look at me.”

They do. Every time, it still feels like a small miracle.

“This space is ours,” I tell them. “No shouting. No fighting. No choosing sides.”

I rest my hand briefly on Pachua’s shoulder, then Leia’s and they settle. When I straighten, my gaze finds Rverre again. She hasn’t looked up once.

Her chalk moves across the slate in steady, deliberate lines. Not letters. Not numbers. Shapes that don’t belong to tunnels or camps or anything we’ve built since escaping from under the mountain.

Arches. Towers. Repeating patterns that make my chest tighten for reasons I can’t quite name.

“Rverre?” I say gently.

She doesn’t respond, instead, she sets the chalk aside and presses her palm flat against the ground. Her shoulders loosen, just a fraction, like she’s finally found something solid after too long floating.

That’s when the wrongness settles into my bones. I kneel beside her and place my hand over hers, warm against the packed dirt beneath the mat.

“Stay with me,” I murmur.

Her fingers twitch underneath mine. Around us, the circle tightens without my asking. Illadon closes with her. The rest are silent and attentive. Even the human children fall silent, drawn by something they don’t understand but feel anyway.

The shouting outside fades to a dull roar. Rverre breathes easier, but I don’t. Because whatever she’s sensing—whatever all of them are becoming—it doesn’t belong in a place this temporary.

And a certainty settles into me, quiet and terrible at the same time. Staying here isn’t keeping them safe. It’s holding them back.

I feel the shift before I see it. Rverre’s hand tightens, her fingers curling as if something has pulled on an invisible thread. She doesn’t look at me when she stands. She just… turns toward the opening the tent.

“Rverre,” I say, keeping my voice calm as I rise with her. “We’re not done yet.”

She doesn’t answer. She slips free of my hand and steps past the edge of the mats, moving with quiet certainty toward the tent flap. Illadon is on his feet.

“Hey,” he says, not loud, but sharp enough to cut. “Rverre.”

“Rverre!” Illadon lunges, but he hesitated just long enough to look at me first.

She doesn’t turn or slow. The tent flap lifts from the wind, sunlight pouring in too bright and too wide, and for a heartbeat I see nothing but the line of the dunes beyond—endless, exposed, unforgiving. Rverre walks straight into it.

“Rverre,” I call after her. “Wait.”

She doesn’t.

“Rverre!” Illadon yells running by the time I clear the tent.

Outside the camp is chaos in motion—people arguing, supplies stacked too high, tempers stretched thin. Rverre weaves through it all like she knows exactly where she’s going. She dodges a startled Cavern Zmaj, skirts a heated argument between humans, and keeps moving.

Toward the opening of the valley where it lets out onto the sprawling desert.

“Rverre, stop!” I call, forcing my way after her.

She doesn’t slow. We break free of the densest part of the camp, the ground sloping downward as the valley opens ahead of us. The noise behind fades, replaced by wind and space and too much sky.

This is where the camp ends. This is where everything falls away. Rverre reaches the edge and keeps going.

Illadon skids to a halt beside me, breath sharp. “She’s not listening.”

“No,” I say, heart pounding. “She’s answering.”

Rverre takes three more steps into the open valley, then a shadow detaches itself from the rocks ahead and moves fast. The Urr’ki warrior intercepts her before she can reach the dunes.

He drops to one knee in the sand, placing himself directly in her path, broad body a wall between her and the vast, exposed desert beyond. One hand closes gently—but unyieldingly—around her wrist.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and even. “You don’t go out there alone.”

Rverre freezes and for a terrifying second, I think she’s going to fight him.

Instead, she looks at him. Her small head tilts to one side, studying him as Illadon and I run to catch up.

The warrior doesn’t move. He doesn’t pull her back or push her away.

He simply stays where he is, anchoring her with presence instead of force.

The desert stretches behind him, too wide, too empty, eternally deadly. He keeps his back angled toward a cluster of rock outcroppings, shoulders tight, head turning in precise increments as he scans the horizon. He’s counting threats. I approach slowly, hands open.

“She’s not running,” I say quietly. “She’s responding.”

His eyes flick to me. Sharp, assessing, gold-ringed pupils narrowing a fraction.

“Responding to what?” he asks.

“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But pulling her back hard will make it worse.”

He studies my face for a long beat, then looks back at Rverre.

“What do you feel?” he asks her.

The question surprises me. Rverre swallows.

“Loud,” she whispers. “And… wrong.”

His jaw tightens and he nods once, as if that confirms something he already suspected.

“You don’t leave the camp without escort,” he says. “Even if something calls.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “You can hear it too?”

“No,” he says. “But I know what it sounds like when the ground lies.”

A chill slips down my spine. He releases her wrist but doesn’t move away, staying between her and the dunes. I reach her side and crouch beside her, resting my hand on her back.

“You did the right thing,” I tell her softly. “Next time though, you tell me first, okay?”

She nods, leaning into my touch.

The warrior straightens, rising in one smooth motion. Up close, he’s larger than I had realized. Dense muscle, ridged emerald green skin along his neck and jaw, scars etched deep enough to catch the light. He exudes danger, honed and contained.

“You’re her teacher,” he says, not a question.

“Yes.”

“She listens to you.”

“Usually.”

That earns me the briefest flicker of something like approval.

“Good,” he says. “Then keep her close. The edge isn’t safe.”

I glance past him, following his gaze out toward the open valley. The horizon feels too important to ignore.

“Is it ever?” I ask.

His attention snaps back to me, and for just a moment, the control cracks enough for me to see his discomfort. It’s not fear, I don’t think, but it’s definitely something making him strain.

“Not like this,” he says.

Behind us, raised voices drift from the camp. The fragile peace flexes again.

“I’m Talia,” I say, because it feels necessary. Because names matter when lines are being drawn.

He inclines his head slightly. “Korr.”

The name settles between us like a promise and a warning all at once. Rverre’s fingers tighten in my sleeve. Whatever she’s sensing isn’t finished with her. And neither, I suspect, is he.

We don’t make it back to the tent before the shouting catches us.

It swells as we walk, voices stacking on voices until the air is tight with it. Rverre stays pressed to my side, fingers still knotted in my sleeve, her steps slower and heavier. Whatever pulled her toward the valley hasn’t released her yet, but it’s loosened its grip.

Illadon walks on her other side, jaw set, eyes sharp, daring anyone to say a word. And, of course, someone does.

“There,” a man snaps as we pass between two clusters of tents. “That’s the one.”