Page 22 of Alien Assassin's Heir

But I still feel him. Like heat on the back of my neck.

Once inside, I set the bouquet on the kitchen counter like it might explode. Solie’s at the neighbor’s overnight—Grinna’s ideaof helping out a “single mama in distress,” though she’d never say it out loud. I love her for it.

I stand there for a long time.

Just staring at those flowers.

Then I curse under my breath, pull out an empty canister from the cupboard, fill it with tap water, and set the bouquet inside like it matters.

Like it means something.

That night, I dream.

Not about war or loss. Not about secrets and shadow files and men who vanish into smoke.

I dream about thefirsttime.

I’m back in my old quarters on the orbital station above Valtar’s Reach. The air smells like recycled citrus and too-strong antiseptic. Kraj’s sitting on the edge of my bunk, massive frame hunched so he doesn’t hit the ceiling. His claws fidget with the corner of my data pad, his yellow eyes glowing in the dim light like twin moons.

He’s nervous.

That surprises me. Nothing rattles him. He’s usually all confidence and snark, swagger and steel.

But not then.

He was quiet. Gentle. Like he thought one wrong move might make me bolt.

“You don’t have to stay,” I whispered.

He looked up at me, pupils wide, breathing slow. “I know.”

I stepped forward anyway.

And when he kissed me—it wasn’t fire and fury. It was soft. Deliberate. Like I was something sacred. His claws stayed curled, careful, his mouth warm and alien andreal. He tasted like spice and smoke and something I still don’t have words for.

In the dream, I let him pull me into his lap. Let my hands trace the stripes down his ribs. Let myself feel safe in the arms of someone I should’ve never trusted.

I sit up in bed, trembling, the dream clinging to me like fog.

The room’s quiet. Too quiet.

I press a hand to my heart like I can calm it by force.

It doesn’t work.

I climb out of bed and cross the room barefoot. The metal floor’s cool under my soles. I open the closet without really thinking. My hands move on their own, digging past folded uniforms, old storage bins, and a moth-eaten coat I haven’t worn since Arkosh’s first cycle.

And then I find it.

The jacket.

Dark navy, synth-leather, cracked along the sleeves where time’s worn it thin. I lift it to my face and breathe in.

Faint.

Almost gone.

But it’s there.