Alien Prince: Alien Abductions and Seductions

​Fated To The Alien Prince

Cosmic Fates - Book One

Ariel Dawn & Stella Nova

​Chapter One

Kyron

Surrounded by several versions of myself in my closet is like being stuck in a hall of mirrors. Each reflection is a different person, a different skin. But there is only one mirror and its reflection is bare.

The faces are real, but they aren't mine.

Not really.

Soleil Umbra's voice, smooth as honey yet devoid of emotion, echoes through my room's intercom.

The suns will cross in half an hour.

I snort in response to her reminder.

Do not try to be humorous, Kyron, my mother reprimands, as though I need a reminder of my duties and responsibilities.

Of course, mother. I respond with practiced saccharine obedience, muttering bitch under my breath. Truthfully, I couldn’t care less if she hears me. She's more than aware of my contempt for her and these fucking duties I’ve been forced to uphold.

My mother and her games are something I simply can't tolerate. Revered as the Queen of Astronomica, she is the reason I'm even in this closet of horrors.

Under her unyielding insistence, my royal attire is donned when addressing the inhabitants of Astronomica, as though my appearance bears any true significance to them.

Lately, my parents have been vacationing more frequently, leaving me to manage the continuous royal charade.

As I study the different versions of myself at my disposal, knowing which skin I must wear, my gaze falls upon a new female I've never seen before.

Uncovering someone new in my celestial closet is rare. My parents, being the monarchs, usually receive the freshest skins. Whoever placed her here must have known I would be drawn to her.

She fits my preferences perfectly. It’s as if she was made for me.

This new skin stands shorter than the others, with thick, earthy auburn hair, the same color as the soil that nurtures the large vividly bright pink fauna in the courtyard. Her eyes are a bright icy blue, like the glaciers on Earth before they melted and disappeared.

The definition of her muscles and the shadows on her fair skin captivate me like nothing has before. Her toned arms and legs showcasing her dedication to maintaining strong physical condition.

Her obvious might and will impresses me. She is clearly more than what she appears on the surface. I wonder; is her display a malicious act or an attempt to test the strength and endurance of those around her?

Sadly, this fine specimen is in my closet, which means she is not perfect.

Only those with deficiencies and mechanical enhancements are considered for royal closet wear. It’s far easier to possess a machine than a person.

As I observe her impressive silhouette, I'm filled with uncertainty. It's almost challenging. I sense a pull that extends beyond mere curiosity, a connection that is both physical and spiritual. Her icy blue eyes stare into me with the fire of a dying sun, almost as if she can see me. Which is impossible because we are invisible to everyone but each other when we are in our true forms.

Something about her insolent gaze ignites a spark within me as she looks the other way.

With her chin pointed up and her gaze affixed to the dark ceiling, I can’t help but admire her tenacity.

Her silent defiance intrigues me, an unnerving curiosity blooming in my consciousness. She’s not just a survivor; she is a celestial force, and I'm entranced by her power and strength.

But I can't focus on her in this moment. I have a duty to uphold for my parents and my people.

However, once my duties are fulfilled, I plan to explore her potential more. There's something about her that sets her apart from the others, but I can't pinpoint what it is, aside from her strange behavior. I'm eager to uncover the secrets behind her petulant expression.

When my mother’s voice echoes through the intercom again, I jolt back to reality. She reminds me that the suns will cross in just fifteen minutes, because clearly I have nothing better to do than to live up to my prestigious responsibilities before I can satisfy my curiosity any further.

I nod to myself. I'll be there, I say, and then I find the skin I've been looking for—or rather, whom.

A young human man, no more than thirty with dirty ash blonde hair styled to perfection and up to this century's standard of regal elegance, stands before me. As I draw near, my heart pounds violently against my nebulous chest, each beat echoing the unbearable weight of my family's expectations. The relentless pressure to uphold this deceitful facade of superiority threatens to crush me. The bitter taste of regret fills my mouth, a constant reminder of the life I never chose but was cursed with nonetheless.

My apologies, I whisper, my voice shaky, even though I know he cannot hear me. I wish there was another way.

His dull, lifeless eyes do not flinch with even an ounce of remorse or desperation. Not anymore. Not like he used to.

In the beginning, there is always resistance, no matter who it is that I possess. Humans by nature are defiant and disobedient—no one likes to be controlled. But they learn rather quickly that resistance is futile. At least when they give themselves to me, I can provide them the escape they seek.

But now, when I slip into this consciousness, there is no resistance. The consciousness that we share is barely cohabitation. This skin is as used to hosting me as I am used to wearing it, and it shows. Thankfully I only don this image when I must be Prince Kyron of Astronomica.

For the kingdom. I steel my resolve. It starts with a touch, a sliver, a wisp of my essence penetrating his flesh

The man whose name I never bothered to learn nods slightly.

For the greater good, he murmurs lifelessly, the formal response to the god forsaken proclamation, his voice lost and empty. He is a shell of a man, but a beautiful regal shell, nonetheless,

The mirror across the space reflects my seven-foot shimmering starlit form for the fraction of a moment as I dissolve into a translucent glow. My body is invisible to anyone who's not celestial, Umbra, or my mate. But the shiver on his flesh, the emptiness in his gaze as he awaits me, and the trepidation as his voice shakes, tell me he doesn’t need to see me to know I’m here.

In this skin I am a prince. A high duke adorned in sashes and medals befitting my titles. But such titles are nothing but a sham, false entitlements for what is not truly mine, nor will it ever truly be mine. Only bone-deep lies continue to spread false hope into the people.

How can I convey the necessity of my actions when they feel so fundamentally flawed? How do I make these skins, these humans, understand that I am just as much a fucking prisoner of our barbaric system as they are? That my regal bonds are still, indeed, bonds. I am not free, nor will I ever be.

At least my skins have lived before serving me with their inevitable death.

Our people groan under the oppressive hand of the monarchy, and this ignites a fury within me that knows no limits. As I steal another curious glance at the new skin who looks so alive compared to the other grim, dull skins in my closet, I am both calmed at the prospect of uncovering her secrets and terrified that no matter what her history may be, she will never be who she was, for she will just be mine.

Or rather, my face. We truly are monsters dripping in blood and diamonds. In flesh and fantasy. My parents were the only survivors of the mass eradication of their planet, and they built an empire on stardust and dreams alone.

We, celestials, are creatures of immense power and grandeur, born from the very fabric of the universe itself, my father would say. Upholding the traditions and the sacred order of our people is our duty, even if it means sacrificing our own desires and ambitions for the greater good.

To him, I am a very real threat.

I dig my metaphorical claws into the skin in front of me, and the transition is seamless.

Donning the regal garb befitting my status, I am filled with a sense of awe and wonder. My form flexes into its new shell, relishing in the movement this skin provides. Steady arms, tactile fingertips. Fresh, warm blood. A sizable cock.

At this moment, I am not a mortal being, not quite a celestial. I am a mighty prince of immense power and grandeur, tasked with preserving and protecting our kingdom. Even if it is all an illusion, it is a necessary one, for without it, our people would be lost in the vastness of the cosmos.

Does anyone truly believe this shit?

A surge of power and control courses through me as the body of another comes under my control. It's like being caught in a whirlpool of emotions that threatens to pull me under. Suppressing any emotion, empathy, or compassion, I settle into the body, a cold and calculated process that demands complete attention and discipline.

There's no need for pockets, even though the suit adorning my skin has many,  they've never been used. His body has a myriad of hidden compartments scattered throughout his augmented parts. His forearm, calf, and right hip conceal secret storage that are ideal for safeguarding weapons, drugs, or any other necessities required for accomplishing our missions.

I've thoroughly tested these compartments and can attest to their usefulness in both profitable and intimate situations. Protection is always within reach.

Given this skin's generous endowment, having proper precautions is essential when someone desires to bed the prince.

With his cybernetic enhancements, this skin is the perfect tool for achieving our goals in a world where technology and power reign supreme. I've made sure to add plenty of upgrades to the skins I wear most often, especially in areas that matter for more intimate encounters. After all, when you're a prince, you need to be prepared for all kinds of... diplomatic negotiations.

I stand on the balcony, gazing out at the slums that surround the ornate palace that the city was built around. The sight fills me with both sadness and anger directed at my parents, my siblings, and all who support this terrible situation.

The palace and its symbolic significance go against my conscience. I see the desperation and poverty that pervades the streets below. Our people, whom we have pledged to protect, struggle in despair and deprivation. Meanwhile, my family and I enjoy the luxury of an immortal life, parading around in their bodies as we see fit, discarding them when we are done like trash. It's abhorrent.

But it is my life.

Fuck me, I mutter under my breath as Boomer, my trusted advisor, approaches with a fitted suit jacket. His blue skin catches the light, all six of his muscular arms moving with an odd grace that still surprises me sometimes. Let me guess, another royal decree from her majesty?

Boomer's slight brogue fills the air as he responds, Aye, the queen has requested ye make an additional announcement today. He looks more like a space pirate than an ex-soldier turned political advisor, what with that eyepatch and his rugged features. One of his hands produces a tiny silver mic, ready to pin it on my lapel.

I roll my eyes, not bothering to hide my disdain. Wonderful. Because clearly, I don't have enough bullshit to deal with already. I let out a heavy sigh, steeling myself for whatever nonsense I'll have to spew this time. Go on then, what's her latest whim?

Somethin’ about the new air purifier the palace has installed, Boomer says with a slight lilt. You know how it goes. Just stick to the script and ye'll be fine.

I fucking hate this, I mutter, allowing him to pin the mic in place.

I know, Ky. But ye have to do it. Boomer gives me a reassuring pat on the back. We're all countin’ on ye.

I make my way to the arches of the balcony for the daily midday address, a task that has traditionally been my mother's responsibility. Lately, however, her lazy, spoiled ass seems more than content to leave all her duties for someone else to handle. As I approach, the crowd below erupts into cheers and praises, oblivious to the fact that their beloved queen can't be bothered to address them herself anymore.

It's becoming a pattern; my mother retreating further into her luxurious lifestyle while I'm left to pick up the slack. The irony of the situation isn't lost on me as I prepare to deliver yet another speech in her stead, wondering how long it'll be before she completely abandons her royal obligations.

I can't imagine what the new skin would think of all this. Has she believed in all the lies too? Did she cheer enthusiastically with the others, fawning over the golden prince Kyron and his deep emerald eyes before she was delivered to my closet?

Or was she one of the select few who wished for a violent death upon my cursed face?

Probably the latter considering the depth of her slicing stare. I’d imagine she must not be in the Prince Ky Fan Club.

Do you ever think there's more we can do for the people of Astronomica? I ask Boomer, feeling the weight of the slums outside the palace.

He gives me a sympathetic look.

Ah know how ye feel, yer highness, Boomer says. But we're doin' everythin' we can. We cannot change everythin' overnight.

His dark eyes flicker for a moment, and I think he almost looks as if he wants to say more, but doesn't. I want to press, but I also know the man is a fortress all on his own. If there is something I need to know, he will tell me.

I know. But it's not enough. I shake my head. We can't keep living like this, ignoring the suffering of our people.

We'll find a way, Ky. I promise. Boomer pats my shoulder with one of his six arms. Two of his lower arms grab a piece of paper and a pen, jotting down notes about the stupid purifiers that's just one more distraction the people don't care about. His remaining three arms hang at his sides, ready for any task that might arise.

But fer now, we have tae do what we can. And that means keepin' up appearances, even if it makes us sick.

I nod, knowing he's right. But it doesn't make it any easier.

Let's just get this over with, I say, gesturing towards the balcony and the crowd below.

With all six of his arms outstretched, hands waving dramatically, Boomer says in his lilting accent, It's showtime, laddie.

​Chapter Two

Gemma

This is it. The moment my entire life has been leading up to.

This is going to hurt, Raif says as he holds the gun steady, aiming at me—or rather, my left knee, to be exact—with precision.

His shoulders press together as he solidifies his stance, his feet apart. Of course it’s going to hurt, Raif. No one wants to be shot. I huff, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. My father, Nikolai, the head of the Astral Crusade, has instilled in me a sense of purpose and determination that drives me forward, even when the odds seem insurmountable. He has told me time and time again that this is what I was born to do.

Bring down the monarchy and expose the truth.

While most girls my age were off at school, or playing with their peers, I was studying under my father’s tutelage.

My instructors weren't teaching me basic principles of science or reading fluffy literature and letting me draw shapes and colors. No, they filled my days with combat training, learning the principles and applications of deceptive tactics, etiquette classes, and, of course, weapons training.

My parents knew the truth about the royal family.

Because my mom escaped them when she was pregnant with me, and like our earthbound ancestors, the passing of time would only have exposed her whether or not she said something.

And judging from the photographs, or what is left of them, anyway, she would have never been able to hide me. The woman looked like she was carrying twins. To this day she teases me about it, saying I needed the freedom to move, even then.

That was how she met my dad, a member of the Astral Crusade. Pregnant and alone, he offered to help her find a way out, but the cost was leaving her job. The only life she knew was joining the resistance. As my mother tells it, there was no choice. If she stayed with the family, even if she persisted to hide her growing belly under mountains of aprons and clothes, there would always be the risk, and in her eyes the only chance I had at a life was one outside the palace walls, far away. And somewhere along the way, my dad became more than just the guy who got her out. And after I was born, regardless of blood, he became the only dad I ever knew.

But so much has changed since then. That was nearly twenty-six years ago.

When the royals started smuggling in skins to replace their rotted ones.

Dad noticed the pattern almost immediately. Even in a state where crime was abundant, the royal assholes only took certain people.

People who wouldn’t be identified, wouldn’t be missed.

Years worth of research compiled by our soldiers tells us the royals have closets full of skins, or rather people that the royals use by possessing the bodies as their own to maintain the illusion they are not the monsters that are to blame. It’s absurd to just use people like parasites, discarding their shells when they’ve rendered enough use. Imagine someone climbing into your body and using it against your will. Every word, every touch, every action fueled and driven by some alien while you sit shotgun without any control.

And the public has no idea. They are all oblivious, despite the fact that one day, they might end up as one of the royal’s favorite outfits.The thought alone makes me shudder. These assholes have entire closets filled with people they possess. Although I’m sure the term closet was more for their benefit than anything else, because prison or pen just didn’t have the same zip.

I personally don't find the idea of wearing another person's skin fashionable, but I suppose it's only appealing to hoity-toity royals hiding their true identities. It’s concerning that the trendy children Kyron, Eros, and Sabella may have a sick desire to wear someone else's flesh beyond the palace walls. There are even rumors that the youngest, Raphael, is still alive and wearing a human skin suit since his supposed childhood death.

Even in death, these assholes take and take, and it has to stop!

Raif runs his tongue over his full, dark lips as he locks his deep brown eyes onto his target.

I wish he’d just do it already and stop stalling. If he can’t shoot me, how the hell is he going to make it in the resistance? I suppose you could make the argument that shooting your best friend is considerably different from shooting an enemy, but in the grand scheme of things, it isn’t. The only difference is the value you place on your target, and that’s where Raif and I differ.

If the situation was reversed, and Dad had made Raif the poster boy for Operation Royal Alien Invasion, I wouldn’t blink if I was the one tasked with shooting Raif anywhere I was asked to. Personally I’d go for the back, close enough to the central nervous system that would warrant modification, but not damage the system itself, so he could stay alert. While human bodies like ours aren’t as evolved as some of the species here, we are still pretty fucking resilient. Plus, it would give him a higher chance of getting picked up by one of the heavy hitters whose skins were likely seeing the end of their tenure.

But I don’t make the rules, I don’t call the shots. My dad does, and he rarely gives you the big picture—just what you need for the mission, for the moment. No questions. But hey, that's the job. And if you want to survive, you keep your head down and your mouth shut. So here I am, following orders like a good little soldier, never asking too many questions. After all, ignorance is bliss, right?

This is the moment I've been relentlessly training for my entire life.

I smirk at Raif as I nonchalantly prop my leg out.

It’ll go faster for both of us if you just do it. Don’t think about it, I say with a wink.

Maybe I should have worn the red suit today, looked more like a target, and he’d have an easier time. But then again, where's the fun in that? After all, Raif spent a good portion