Page 29 of Alien Assassin's Heir

CHAPTER 7

LUNA

The café's tucked behind what used to be a maintenance bay. Now it’s got a counter, three dented metal tables, and a tattered shade canopy that whines when the breeze catches it just right. The whole place smells like grease and roasted synthbean—sharp, oily, oddly comforting. I used to come here during supply runs, back when I still believed in fresh starts.

I shouldn’t be here now.

Should’ve deleted his offer the second he made it. Should’ve turned the other way, held Solie tighter, told myself the past was buried and I meant to keep it that way.

But I came.

And I hate that I don’t even know why.

Kraj is already sitting when I walk up. Back against the wall, eyes scanning every movement like he’s still on patrol. His scales catch the orange sunlight, throwing off dull red glints like hot coals under ash. His coffee—black, probably bitter as sin—sits untouched.

He stands when he sees me. That old-fashioned gesture I never expected from a man who once killed with nothing but a glance.

“Luna,” he says.

I keep my arms crossed, heart battering my ribs. “Don’t make me regret this.”

His mouth curls, not into a smile exactly. Something smaller. Sadder.

“You won’t,” he says, and gestures to the seat across from him.

I don’t sit right away. Let him stew a bit. Make him wonder if I’ll bolt.

But I do. Eventually.

Because I need this.

I need to know.

The first few minutes are stiff. I don’t touch the synthbean he orders for me, even though the warmth of the cup seeps into my fingers, grounding me. He doesn’t force the conversation. Doesn’t fill the silence with lies or platitudes.

That’s almost worse.

“So,” I finally say, watching a cleaner-bot scuttle past the edge of the platform. “You’re alive.”

“I am,” he says. “Not by choice some days.”

I huff. “Not much of a sales pitch.”

He looks down at his claws, turning the tips slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what they’re good for if not breaking things.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

I flinch. “For what part, exactly? For lying? For vanishing? For making me think you cared?”

He nods, slow. “Yes.”

My jaw tightens. “That’s not an answer.”

His eyes flick up. Gold, like Solie’s. Only now do I realize how much I’ve been avoiding looking directly at them. It’s like staring into fire—you know it’ll hurt eventually, but gods, it’s mesmerizing.

“I’m sorry for using you,” he says. “For the way I left. For not being strong enough to make my own choices back then.”

I shake my head, scoffing. “You think an apology fixes it? You tore my life apart.”