Chapter Four
Somebody's Watching Me
LA's good at rolling with the new. The nighttime streets were packed, and the air inside the center was charged with Academy Award-like anticipation. Except this wasn't about movies or music, but official First Contact with aliens.
I adjusted my shirt, a dark blue button-down, to hug my shoulders and chest. Enough to look sharp without looking like I tried.
Brandon had insisted I dress up. "You're representing Humanity," he'd said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He knew I got strong-armed and well, this could be good. The official word was I'd check out the Volardi, but eligible men on this planet would see me.
The massive, glassy ballroom at the Dolby Theatre, where the Oscars were held every year, had transformed into something otherworldly with gleaming crystal décor.
Floating orbs shot tractor beams that carried hors d'oeuvres: some Human snacks and the rest were pastel-colored, spongy squares that shimmered faintly.
Metal tables hovered and then expanded when needed.
Holographic images displayed different planets from their empire.
The whole setup screamed, "We do things your species can't."
The first familiar face was Brandon's agent, Cindy Collins.
She was stunning, as always, and tonight she was in a black satin dress with diamond accents catching the ballroom's soft light.
Her green eyes sparkled behind sleek dark glasses, and her curls framed her face with effortless elegance.
At over my height in heels, she held herself like a queen.
Commanding but never cold, she glided between groups with a perfect mix of warmth and polished professionalism.
She spotted me and crossed the room with a graceful, no-nonsense stride. "Ah, Thomas," she said, her voice silky-smooth as she leaned in for a quick air kiss. "Looking handsome as ever."
"Thanks," I replied, trying not to fidget with my collar.
My shirt suddenly felt a size too small, and I was hyper-aware of every bead of sweat forming at my temple.
This schmoozing wasn't me. I was an occasional background extra and gig musician.
Even then, Brandon had pulled strings to get me on set.
She glanced around, taking stock of Humans and Volardi. "This is good for us and you. Know what I mean? This is where things with a capital 'T' happen. Connections. Opportunities. You've got the looks and the charm. Don't waste it."
My so-called opportunity was to land a mate and carry his child, or rather children. That was the unspoken deal behind all this glitter and glow. The empire wanted more than friendship. They needed Omegas to bear the next generation of purple-eyed subjects. I knew the real role.
And yet, the Volardi loved pop culture and our songs. I'd never broken through on Earth, but tonight, eyes were on me and cameras everywhere. I could get noticed, and from there, who knows?
Brandon and Alen stood together on an elevated stage under a glowing arch of shifting alien script. The text morphed into various languages including English, Spanish, French, and Arabic. My implant translated it all.
"Volardi and Earth: A partnership to benefit both."
Sounds like it loses something in the translation.
Brandon, with his light brown hair styled neatly and his sharp light-blue eyes scanning the room, stood confident. He had the poise of someone used to cameras, but a twitch of nerves collected in the corner of his smile.
Alen towered over Brandon and the crowd at six-foot-three. His long, dark brown hair brushed his shoulders, nearly black under the stage lights, and his purple eyes studied the party guests. He wore the form-fitting, subtly armored clothing that said warrior and diplomat.
Together, they were the galaxy's new power couple, meant to show how wonderful life with the Volardi could be. Brandon caught my eye and hurried down the steps away from the group, his face lighting up as he approached.
"Thomas!" he pulled me into a quick hug and held it for several seconds.
"Hey," I said, stepping back after he finished. "You and Alen look like the poster boys for intergalactic love. Must be nice. No more hiding, just living it."
He chuckled, with a hint of sadness in his eyes.
"Yeah, well, someone's gotta set an example, right?
" Brandon glanced back at Alen, who charmed a group of Earth diplomats in perfect French.
"It's weird. We're together, but sometimes I feel like.
.. I'm losing pieces of myself to this whole thing, you know? "
I nodded before he continued. "When I found out about Alen, I mean, really knew about him, I wanted to tell you so bad. You have no idea!" Brandon's gaze darted down for a moment. "Not out of friendship exactly. I mean yes, but I needed to share so I wouldn't be the only one knowing the truth."
"They still won't believe us," we said in unison.
"Even with their ships in the sky, nobody's going to believe our story. Aliens coming to help? Hollywood's got too many invasion stories, and not only in Parker's scripts. As Maurice said, 'they're waiting for the penny to drop.'" Brandon blinked. "Speaking of..."
We walked over to a small group gathered by the ballroom's edge.
Maurice Williams was already in mid-story, his deep brown eyes lively under a sweep of silver-grey hair.
His voice carried the tone of a seasoned theater actor with an unmistakable British accent.
He looked younger than his seventy-plus years and stood tall at nearly six feet.
"—to reiterate," said Maurice. "Hollywood may think it's seen everything, but nothing will compare to this partnership.
Oh, what this will inspire! Aliens! Romance with not two, but three lovers.
High stakes and a royal emperor. Why, it's practically Shakespearean! The world isn't a stage. No! A galaxy!"
Beside him, Parker Stephens nodded, adjusting his narrow glasses with long, graceful fingers. Slim and sharp in both build and tone, he had a timeless face that made you second-guess his age. Sixties technically, but forties or fifties in appearance.
His hazel eyes sparkled with dry amusement as he chimed in.
"Yes, but what I find fascinating is how no other race has a Shakespeare, Hitchcock, or Stan Lee," said Parker.
"No comic books, sitcoms, or movies. The Empire can't fathom a radioactive spider giving a teenager superpowers, a talking horse, or a vampire falling in love with a teenager. It's a uniquely Human art form."
A chuckle joined the circle as Ryan Walters strolled up, tall and sun-kissed with an easy energy.
At six-one, he towered over most in the group, his shaggy light-blond hair tousled just enough to look unbothered.
Moss-green eyes flicked between us, full of laid-back confidence.
"Well," he said with his surfer-chill voice, "if their empire can build Folded Space warp drives, they can learn from Netflix. "
I smirked, but my attention lingered on Ryan. He was attractive in a classic surfer-boy way. Too tall to pass for an Omega and short for a Soturi, but he could fit the Dara or Beta role the Volardi prized.
He caught me looking, guessing my thoughts. "Don't get any ideas," he said, half-joking. "I'm not Volardi material."
"Neither am I," I shot back, more quickly than I intended.
Westmore's hologram appeared onstage. At six-one, his broad shoulders and iron-straight posture gave off authority nobody questioned.
His peppered black-and-white hair was neatly swept back, the silver streaks catching the light, and his deep-blue eyes scanned the room like a general who'd seen enough wars and didn't plan to lose the next.
His sharp cough cut through the hum of a dozen conversations. Once silent, he thanked Alen for his 'inventions' that had helped Humanity before the official First Contact. He segued into Alen and Brandon's kidnapping. As well as Cindy, Maurice, and Ryan's abductions.
"Despite rogue Human actions, the Volardi graciously waived this as a diplomatic misunderstanding," he said, his words heavy and clipped.
My muscles tightened. The crowd didn't know the whole story, but I did. One man, besides Brandon and Ryan, knew an alien was on our planet and thought advanced technology could make him the ruler. It wouldn't have worked since the Volardi were coming, but he'd taken the chance.
The hologram flickered, and a carefully edited and reconstructed clip played of me piloting an alien mining suit I repurposed into something resembling Iron Man.
The footage made it look heroic, even glamorous, like something from Parker's Hollywood scripts.
What wasn't shown was the mercs five minutes later, killed by Alen's hand.
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay calm as whispers spread through the ballroom. Eyes, including purple ones, turned toward me, curious and intrigued. A heavy, deliberate gaze landed squarely on me, and my breath caught at a familiar sight, now in person.
He was a water king, or more formally Tydalos, the sovereign of one of the most powerful ocean provinces in the Empire.
He stood tall at six-foot-six. His tanned skin, kissed bronze by an alien sun, gleamed under the ballroom lights. Loose, dark hair actually flowed like water, and maybe nanite-controlled. A single, vivid stripe of violet hair ran through the right side.
The robes shimmered like a living current, perhaps from his thoughts. Then he smiled. Not the forced kind like a political figure trying to win favor, or the flirty spark of a hookup. No. This smile was knowing, like he'd already decided something.
He approached with deliberate, unhurried steps. When he stopped, a faint sea salt and floral aroma wafted out. The scent of water. The smell of him. "Thomas," he said, his voice deep and with a slight musical quality all Volardi seemed to have.
So weird how they don't have songs.
"You know my name?" I cringed, inside. Obviously.
His smile deepened. "Of course. It would be foolish to come to an event without knowing those who are significant."
I frowned, unsure if I should be flattered or freaked out. "Significant?"
His dark-purple eyes swept over me appraisingly. "You are far more than you realize. Brave, resourceful, and deeply loyal to those you care about. These are rare qualities, ones even those in my own empire lack. To see it in a Femeni is..." For a second, his eyes widened. "Astounding."
"Right," I said cautiously. "I'm just... plain ol' Tommy, uh, Thomas. Astounding isn't something used to describe me."
His voice lowered so we were the only ones in his universe. "There is great potential in you. Together, we could achieve something extraordinary."
"I'm not sure what you mean." My pulse pounded in my ears.
"Oh, I think you do," he gestured to the holographic display playing my mining suit rescue again. I had seen a few other Earthmen here as potential mates, but they weren't shoved to the top with metaphorical 'Buy me' arrows pointed at their heads.
My mouth went dry.
"It looked flashier than it was. Alen's suit did most of the heavy lifting, and I only got in because Volardi security systems respond to sound. I've got a good ear, that's all."
"You alone broke into a laboratory, and under pressure, you adapted as if you were a member of my world. Liquid runs in your veins."
I shook my head in confusion.
"Ah, it loses context in the translation.
Water is adaptable and flows where it must. It provides pressure, and those who adapt in its depths are strong.
We are water. You and I could accomplish so much together.
Not only for the Volardi but for Earth. Your planet is divided and swimming with ill intent toward others over our arrival.
What if you stood next to me in a show of unity? "
His palm went out with a hologram showing Earth. The landmasses were greyed out with the water being a rich blue. "You and I, Sentinels... caretakers."
Westmore mentioned how they were more like rulers.
"Earth rules itself," I said. "That was the deal."
He smiled slightly. "There won't be any power not freely given, and imagine the rewards."
The hologram shifted. Polluted oceans turned clean. Underwater farms appeared with growing numbers of endangered whales and other aquatic creatures. Glowing cities appeared on the ocean beds.
"Your people are sharing their technology anyway."
"And standard procedure is to share slowly. What ecological damage will happen as the solutions trickle in? A mated Human would have the ear of those higher in the Empire. You could bring our technologies here sooner than later."
His words were smooth, almost hypnotic, but it was a calculated offer. The prepared holographic slideshow proved it.
I took a small step back to put some space between us. "I don't know." My voice came out quieter than I intended, "I'm not exactly Sentinel material."
"You underestimate yourself," he said, his gaze steady and unrelenting. "You think you're just a... what is the term? Ah, surfer-musician."
That wasn't a term.
"One could hold the Emp—world in the palm of his hand if he chooses."
Someone called his name from across the room: a high-ranking Volardi official, judging by the elaborate embroidery on his robes. He glanced toward them, then back at me, his expression unreadable.
"I must go," he said, his voice lowering slightly. "Think on my words, Thomas. The galaxy is watching." He paced backward, somehow not running into anyone before turning toward the other delegates.
He did nothing wrong, but I now needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere.
I turned too fast and slammed into an electrical force field. Energy lashed out, jolting up my arms. The smaller figure within crashed onto the floor with a thud.
My fine blond arm hairs stood straight up, still charged from the backlash.
The Femeni blinked up at me, his light-violet eyes shining with stunned pain.
He curled in on himself, cradling his arm.
His breathing was already shallow and tight.
Then a soft, strangled sound escaped him—part sob, part gasp.
Like he was trying not to cry but couldn't stop. He was so small. So breakable.
And I'd just bowled him over like a runaway truck.
***