Stolen By the Alien Bodyguard (Warriors of the Lathar #21)

Chapter 1

Zzzt-pop. Zzzt-pop.

Each flicker from the fluorescent light in the storage room drove another spike into Emily's skull. She pressed her palms against her eyes for a moment, then sighed, trying not to breathe in the basement’s less than fragrant odor of wet wool and industrial bleach, or the faint tang of musty clothes.

"Careful with that box, Em," Amelia grunted, sliding a crate of canned peaches across the concrete floor. "Bottom's rotting out. If we lose the peaches, the Tuesday night crew will riot."

"I got it," Emily said, wiping a smudge of dust from her cheek with her shoulder. She hoisted a box of donated winter coats onto the metal shelving unit. It was heavy, awkward, and smelled like mothballs.

But she loved it.

She loved the lack of pretense. No one here gave a flying rat's ass about her last name or her mother's social calendar. Here, she was just Em, who could de-escalate a fight over a bunk in seconds and organize the pantry like a quartermaster.

Ripping open the top of the box, she snorted. Right on top lay a pristine, white cashmere coat with the tags still on. Soft, expensive, it was utterly impractical for real life. "Look at this. Who donates white cashmere to a homeless shelter?"

Amelia leaned on her broom. "Someone who’s never actually met a poor person?”

Emily shoved it aside, digging for the sturdy parkas beneath. "I’ll take it to the consignment shop down the street. We can trade it for fifty pairs of thermal socks."

Her wrist unit vibrated. Not the gentle buzz of a text, but the jarring, teeth-rattling pulse of a Priority Alert. Frowning, she dropped the parka to shake her wrist, but the vibration refused to stop. It was the specific, high-pitched ping reserved for government emergencies.

"Is that you?" Amelia asked, looking at her own silent wrist unit. "Is there a weather warning?"

"I don't know." Peeling off her work glove, Emily tapped the screen. The damn thing had better not be on the blink again.

The holographic display flared to life, projecting a gold-and-black crest into the dusty air of the storage room. The symbol was sharp, aggressive… stylized wings wrapping around a planet. Her eyes widened as she recognised it. It was the symbol of the Latharian Empire.

CANDIDATE: EVANS, EMILY J.STATUS: MATCH CONFIRMED.CLEARANCE: ULTRAVIOLET.IMMEDIATE TRANSPORT REQUIRED.

The breath left her lungs in a rush. She stared at the floating letters, but her brain refused to process them.

"Uh, Em?" Amelia peered over her shoulder at the holographic projection hovering above her wrist. "Is that... is the alien thing? The mate program?”

"It’s spam," she said. The crest rotated slowly. "I must have clicked a bad link on the supplier manifesto or something.”

She tapped ‘dismiss’.

The message didn't vanish. Instead, the unit buzzed—a harsh, angry error tone and the text shifted, scrolling rapidly.

CANDIDATE: EVANS, EMILY J.

GENETIC MARKERS: VERIFIED.

SOURCE: CLINICAL SAMPLE 44-B [REF: DR. ALLINSON].

STATUS: MATCH CONFIRMED.

"Dr. Allinson?” She froze, her finger hovering over the screen.

"Who's Dr. Allinson?” Amelia asked, stepping closer, her brow furrowed. "Your doctor?"

“No. He’s my mother’s doctor."

Her stomach bottomed out, and the scent of bleach and stale peaches vanished.

“Shit, the blood draw…” She’d thought it was a lot of vials for a cholesterol check.

The appointment had been three weeks ago and her mother had been insistent… “It’s just a preventative screening, Emily. It runs in the family. Do it for my peace of mind.”

"No," she breathed. "No, she wouldn't."

She jabbed at the screen again, harder this time. "Cancel. Opt out. Delete."

ERROR, the screen flashed red. CONTRACT FINALIZED BY PROXY: MIRANDA EVANS.

The text vanished, replaced by a countdown timer ticking down with terrifying speed.

TRANSPORT ARRIVAL: 45 MINUTES.

"Forty-five minutes?" Amelia looked from the screen to Emily’s face, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm. "Emily, that’s an official transport code. Look at the clearance level. That’s not a glitches-and-spam kind of thing. That’s a 'they come with guns' kind of thing."

Emily stared at the name glowing on her wrist.

Miranda Evans.

Her mother.

Shit. Now everything made sense… The sudden interest in Emily’s schedule, the cryptic comments about the upcoming Gala for Interstellar Relations, the way her mother had looked at her last Sunday—

"You need to get out of here," Amelia said, looking at the timer. "If that thing is real..."

"Oh, it's real." Emily grabbed her bag from the hook on the wall, moving on pure adrenaline now. "And I'm going to go strangle the person responsible."

"You're going to your mom's?"

"No. She’s three star systems away on a cruise. Which is typical when she's thrown the cat in among the pigeons." She shoved her arms into her jacket. "I’m going down to that office, and I’m going to scream until someone voids this damn contract or calls the police."

* * *

The Latharian Mate Program headquarters was a tower of glass and steel that rose from the city center like a middle finger to the surrounding architecture. It screamed money and power to anyone who glanced its way.

Emily didn’t care. She stormed through the automatic doors, ignoring the startled looks from the perfectly groomed women in the waiting area. Marching straight to the reception desk, she slapped her wrist unit down on the polished marble.

The receptionist, a woman whose skin was so flawless it looked synthetic, blinked slowly. "Welcome to the LMP. How may I—"

"You can explain why I just got a draft notice," Emily cut her off, voice trembling with adrenaline. "My name is Emily Evans. I did not sign up. I did not consent. And I want this file deleted. Now."

The receptionist’s polite smile faltered. She glanced down at the console, her fingers flying across the keys. "Evans... Evans..."

Her fingers stopped, and the color drained from her face so fast it was alarming. She didn't look up. She didn't speak. She just pressed a button under the desk. A silent, red light began to pulse on the wall behind her.

"Ms. Evans," the receptionist said, her voice breathless and entirely different than before. "Please. Step away from the exit."

"I'm not stepping anywhere until you cancel this."

"I... I can’t do that. You need to come with me." The receptionist stood up, smoothing her skirt with shaking hands. She gestured toward a set of heavy, frosted glass doors to the right of the desk. "Immediately."

"I'm not going in the back," Emily said, planting her feet. "I want to speak to a supervisor out here. Where everyone can see me.”

Two security guards materialized from the shadows of the lobby. They weren't the usual rent-a-cops. These men were armed with kinetic stunners and wore the insignia of the Interstellar Liaison Office.

"Ms. Evans," one of them said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This way."

Her stomach dropped. This wasn't a clerical error. Clerical errors didn't get you flanked by armed guards.

She let them escort her through the doors, down a silent corridor, and into an interrogation room masquerading as a VIP lounge. The walls were tasteful beige, the chairs were plush leather, but there were no windows, and the door locked with a heavy, magnetic thud behind her.

She paced. She checked her wrist unit.

15 MINUTES.

The door hissed open.

A man walked in. Short and balding, he wore a designer suit and had a datapad tucked under his arm.

"Ms. Evans," he said, not offering a hand. "I’m Director Haynes. Please, sit."

"I’ll stand," Emily said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Director, my mother forged my signature. I am a social worker. I have a life. I am not interested in being shipped off to some colony world to breed with a warrior who can’t subtract without using his fingers. Void the match."

Haynes sighed, tapping his datapad. "It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. The initial screening was... irregular, yes. But the genetic markers were a definitive positive. The match has been logged in the Imperial Mainframe."

"I don't care about the mainframe. I care about habeas corpus."

"Habeas corpus doesn't apply to Imperial Decree, Ms. Evans." Haynes looked up, his eyes cold behind wire-rimmed glasses. "And this is an Imperial Decree."

"What are you talking about?"

"Usually, we offer a cancellation window," Haynes said, sounding bored. "For standard warrior matches. Even for high-ranking commanders, there is a negotiation period. But your genetic profile triggered a Priority One alert."

He turned the datapad around and slid it across the table.

Emily looked down. A face stared back at her. A Latharian male. He was terrifyingly handsome, with dark hair and green eyes that seemed to burn even through the digital image. He wore a crown of simple, unadorned iron.

"You haven't been matched to a warrior or a colonist, Ms. Evans," Haynes said softly. "You have been matched to the Emperor himself.”

The silence in the room pressed down on her.

"The... Emperor," she repeated. The words sounded nonsensical. "The king of the aliens."

"The ruler of the Latharian Empire. The most powerful individual in the known galaxy." Haynes straightened his cuffs. "Rejection of a direct match to the Imperial line is… well, it’s probably considered an act of war. You aren't just a bride, Ms. Evans. You are now a treaty obligation."

"I'm a what?" Her voice rose, cracking. "I’m a person! You can't just wrap me in a bow and ship me off to—to some asshole alien in a crown because a computer said we have chemistry!"

"It is not about chemistry. It is about genetics. And it is done." Haynes checked his watch. "Your transport is in orbit. Your escort is here."

"Escort?" She backed away, hitting the wall. “Oh no… I’m not going. I’m not going anywhere with anyone."

The door behind Haynes slid open.

"I am afraid," a new voice rumbled, deep enough to vibrate in the floorboards, "that you do not have a choice."

Emily stopped breathing.