Page 35 of Alien Assassin's Heir

CHAPTER 8

KRAJ

She’s warm beside me.

Curled into the sheets like a secret the universe forgot to keep. Her hair fans across the pillow in pale gold ribbons, catching the early rays filtering through the slats. She’s breathing soft—steady—and for a heartbeat, for a blink in this fractured life of mine, I believe peace is something I might actually deserve.

I don’t move. Not at first.

I just look.

Her back is bare, the curve of her spine begging for my hand. There’s a scratch near her shoulder blade—I don’t know if it’s from me or something old—and the temptation to brush my fingers over it is like a song I can’t silence. Her skin smells like sleep and something I swear is home.

I want to stay.

I want to stay so godsdamn bad.

But I don’t.

Because I know better.

I dress in silence, every piece of armor and cloth feeling like a lie I wrap myself in. My boots scuff softly across her floor.Her apartment’s still dim, still quiet, but it’s already fading—the illusion that this could be a life. That we could just… be.

Before I leave, I find a slip of synthpaper near her kitchen nook and scrawl two lines with one of those cheap styluses that always smudge.

Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll see you tonight. —K.

I hesitate for half a breath, then tuck it under her battered little clay mug by the stove.

And then I’m gone.

The suns rise like twin knives over Wildwood, carving sharp lines through the dusty alleys I slip into. I keep to the side streets, the ones that stink of old oil and recycled air. Steam hisses from a vent beside a droid shop, briefly fogging my goggles. I swipe the lenses clean and keep walking.

The adrenaline’s still in my blood, but it’s not from the mission.

It’s her.

Her touch still lingers on my skin—phantom impressions of nails on my shoulders, breath on my neck, her body arching against mine like we were meant to fit.

And yet, guilt chews at me. Raw. Relentless.

Because I’m still sending reports.

Still keeping Targen in the loop.

Still playing the role I promised myself I’d shed.

I duck into my hideout near the old mag-rail station. The walls are curved prefab, patched with smuggled panels and scavenged nodes. The place smells like old coolant and singed wires, but it’s mine. There’s a terminal in the corner—a clunky black thing with a cracked screen and a squeaky input coil. I power it up.

The encryption protocols are second nature. My fingers move faster than my thoughts.

I compose the report in short bursts.

Courier activity remains consistent. Fabrication site output shows no signs of Alliance collaboration. Surveillance sweeps ongoing.

I pause.

My jaw clenches.