Page 53 of Alien Assassin's Heir

And I know.

He knows.

Not all of it, not yet. But enough to start pulling the threads.

I stirstew at the stove long after it’s finished cooking, the wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the pot in slow, nervouscircles. The air smells of spiced root and smoke, but underneath it, my nose still catches the metallic tang of fear. Not his fear—mine.

He’s sitting at the table behind me, the old chair groaning under his weight as he sharpens one of his knives with slow, measured strokes. The rasp of stone against steel saws at my nerves.

“You’ve been…” I start, then stop. My throat is dry. I swallow, try again. “You’ve been different lately.”

The rasp halts. Silence hums. I can feel his eyes on my back before he speaks. “Different how?”

I turn, leaning on the counter, spoon clutched tight in my hand like it’s a weapon. “Quieter. More guarded. Like you’re somewhere else, even when you’re sitting right here.”

He rises, slow, deliberate, crossing the tiny kitchen until his heat and his scent surround me. He plucks the spoon from my hand, sets it down with care, and cups my face with claws so careful it hurts. His smile is warm, but it doesn’t reach the corners of his mouth.

“Old instincts,” he murmurs. Then he kisses me, soft and lingering, as though he can press the explanation into my lips.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. “Front lines get in your bones, Luna. Sometimes they don’t let go.”

I want to believe him. Stars above, I want to. But there’s tension in his jaw, a shadow in his eyes he doesn’t bother to hide. He’s slipping again, the way he slipped before he vanished the first time. My stomach knots tight.

I force a smile. “Then maybe stay off the front lines.”

He huffs, a humorless sound, and kisses me again. It works, for the moment. We eat together, Solie curled against him, giggling at his stories, her golden eyes shining in the lamp light. It almost feels normal. Almost.

But when the house goes quiet and Solie is tucked into bed, her little hand curled around her stuffed animal, I can’t shake the dread gnawing at me. I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to her soft breaths, brushing her hair back, memorizing the peace on her face.

And I know. If something’s coming—and I can feel it pressing in from all sides—I won’t let it take her.

Later, when Kraj drifts into a restless sleep on the couch, I slip on my jacket and boots. The night air is sharp, carrying the faint scent of desert blooms and dust. The streets of Wildwood are half-deserted, shadows stretching long under the dual moons that hang fat and luminous above the rooftops. My steps echo off the cobblestones as I head for the old comms hub at the edge of the plaza.

The hub is a relic—metal siding dented, door hanging crooked, solar panels patched with scavenged glass. Inside, it smells of old circuitry and burnt ozone. The consoles hum faintly when I power one on, dust motes swirling in the weak glow.

My fingers tremble as I type in an encryption code I swore I’d never use again. The screen flickers, then steadies, ready for input.

I keep it short. Just a burst, flagged to the only person I trust: Elara Vey, my old mentor in the IHC. She taught me how to read between the lines of orders, how to track patterns in data that others overlooked. She’s the one who warned me—too late—that loving a man like Kraj might cost me everything.

I don’t send her a plea for help. I don’t dare. Just a warning.

Arkosh. Helios exec inbound. Questions about energy and traffic. Something brewing. Be ready. —L

I transmit, the hum of the console rising as the message bursts skyward into the relay net. It takes seconds. But when it’s done, I feel like I’ve dropped a stone into a still pond, the ripples spreading further than I can see.

On the walk home, the silence presses heavy. The dual moons light the path, one pale and cold, the other tinged red like blood. My boots crunch on the dirt, and every shadow feels alive, every rustle in the brush a watcher I can’t shake.

I pull my jacket tighter and make myself a promise, right there under the moons.

If the past is coming for me again—and it is, I know it—I won’t run. Not this time.

I will meet it head-on.

And I will not lose my daughter.

Or Kraj.

Not without a fight.