Page 32 of Alien Assassin's Heir

He watches until I’m gone.

That night, I don’t sleep.

Not because of nightmares.

Because I can still feel the echo of his voice, low and gruff, saying my name like it still matters.

And Precursors help me, I want it to.

I don’t knowwhat the hell I’m doing.

One minute I’m running manifests with half a brain cell and my nerves on edge, the next I’m walking through Wildwood’s main plaza with the man who once made me believe the stars might actually give a damn.

The plaza isn’t much. Some vendors, the static hum of solar lamps strung overhead like cheap constellations, the bite of peppered meat sizzling from the food cart near the statue of some long-dead Combine engineer. There’s music playing—one of those old synth tracks on loop that’s supposed to feel nostalgic but mostly just makes the air feel heavier. Kraj walks beside me, not too close, not pushing. Just there.

His presence alone makes the air different—charged. Like static before a storm.

I trip on a raised cobble stone. It's dumb, an uneven sliver of pavement, nothing special. But my foot catches, and I lurch forward with a sharp curse.

Before I can fall flat on my face, his arm catches me.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

His hand lands warm and solid between my shoulder blades. His fingers span nearly the whole width of my back, pressing through the worn fabric of my jacket like a live current. I freeze. Not from fear.

From something else entirely.

Slowly,I straighten, his touch lingering longer than necessary. I turn my head, and our eyes lock.

Gods.

His pupils dilate,those golden irises flaring brighter in the shifting plaza lights. He smells like metal and dust and something underneath—something wild and musky and his. I catch my breath too late.

He leans down,slow, giving me every chance to stop him.

I don’t.

The kiss iscautious at first, like we’re checking to make sure the other is real. His mouth is warm, hesitant. His claws stay at his sides, not grabbing, not demanding. Just waiting. Letting me come to him.

I do.

Because I can’t not.

Because his kiss tastes like regret and longing, and it’s been so long since anyone touched me like they meant it. Like they remembered.

My lips part and his breath hitches, and that’s all it takes. The kiss deepens, hungry now, starved. My fingers slide into the lapel of his jacket, tugging him closer. He groans—low, rough, guttural—and I feel it vibrate in my ribs.

Time unravels.

Three years vanish.

We’re back on a crowded transport ship, tucked into an unused cargo bay. Back in that narrow hallway by my old quarters, when he’d trapped me with nothing but a look. Back to heat and fingertips and laughter between whispered plans.

I pull away,breath ragged. My heart’s trying to climb through my throat.

“This was a mistake,” I whisper.

His hand’sstill on my back. His forehead touches mine. “Is it?”