The Alien's Little Sister (Stolen by an Alien #8) - Amanda Milo Page 0,1

a pointed, subject-changing glance at our saving grace. “And sorry, Miss…?”

I glance at my brand new employee too, waiting for her name. Soon as I have it, I’m going to hustle her overachiever ass into the escape room, and give her the quickest crash-course in how to run all the lights and sounds and fun stuff. Hell, I’ll stick around and run the goody panel, I only need her to stand there and blink at anyone who walks through the door. That’s what she’s doing to me and Stacy now, and I shit you not—with her makeup and the all-out prosthetics, she’s cool as fuck.

“Hello,” I tell her. And when she still hasn’t spoken, not even to answer Stacy, I give her a chin jerk. “What’s your name, gorgeous? Gotta know what to put on the paperwork. You’re hired.”

The woman—and she is a woman, even if she is covered in shiny little scales—smiles. “Am I?”

Ohhh, fuck me. She’s got a sex kitten voice.

“She needs a speaking part,” Stacy declares immediately.

Didn’t I tell you the kid’s got good business sense? “Damn straight,” I agree. Seventy percent of the clientele hitting the alien escape room are male. (Ladies tend to go for the Centaur Stable escape room. Especially bachelorette parties. Chicks dig centaurs. I don’t really get why, but then again, I was never a horse-crazy teenage girl who grew up to find half of a guy hot, and it’s okay that it’s not my area. I don’t need to share their enthusiasm for the game to know the theme is gold.) Guys are going to lick the sight of this woman right up.

To the new girl, I hold out my hand. “I’m Matt, your new boss. There’s a tour happening in twenty minutes, so if you’ll follow me, I’ll get you set up. We’ll do your paperwork after, yeah?”

The woman is tall, almost as tall as me. She’s built like a brick shithouse too, the sexiest, sexiest brick shithouse ever. It’s all in her rack and rounded shoulders and ass and curvy hips, Hallelujah.

“Oh my land, I’m so glad you walked in here today,” Stacy squeaks to her, her hands coming together in a clap of happiness. “Matt was seriously getting crabby.” Stacy’s eyes widen, and she quickly promises, “But usually he’s cool.” Her smile showcases itself again as she gives her brand new coworker a more thorough looking over. “And you showing up in costume for the interview? Win!”

Yeah, gotta say—normally, I’d feel they were trying a little too hard if someone showed up in their own costume in order to get a job. Of course today, I’d take anything. But hell—a costume like this woman’s, whether I was hiring or not, and I’d abduct her off the damn street.

It’s a kickass getup. She’s mostly teal and frost blue in color, with slashes of white almost tiger-like stripes on her scales. And whatever material her suit is made of, or whatever paint she used, the scales she’s wearing are kind of metallic so she’s showing color shifts. The effect? Cool as shit. Flexible spines sprout out from between gaps in her clothing running down her back. They clack a little when she moves. She’s got delicate twisting horns, two of them, sprouting above long, elegant ears, and what appears to be dreads or… leather strips? In place of human hair.

I look her over closer, wondering where she’s hiding her hair. All I can see are the leather strip-things, looking like they attach right to her latex-scale covered skull, which makes me curious if she went full throttle and shaved her head for this costume. That’d be nuts, but you won’t hear me complaining. She looks as legit an alien as anything I’ve ever seen, and far better than I can probably afford to pay her for.

Whoever she is.

“Got a name?” I try again. But really, I don’t care what her name is. She’s mine now.

“I am the jewel of the Bone Grinder’s cave, sibling to Rotk Kotok Zadeon, and Arokh, a Prime class gladiator, as well as—”

“Okaaay…” I interrupt, holding up an impatient hand. “Got a nickname?”

Her mouth turns down a little. “Inara.”

“Ooh, pretty,” Stacy breathes.

This Inara flashes her a smile that, for some reason, hits me square in the gut. “Thank you.” Her lips are spread so wide she’s showing her teeth. They’re good: they look real, but they’re pointed, like—well, like alien teeth. They sure don’t look human. Nothing on her does, and I cannot believe how good