Page 19 of Alien Soldier's Heir

I smirk faintly. “You always think everyone’s trouble.”

“Because nine times out of ten, I’m right.”

I lean back against the chair, watching the steam coil up from the mug. “He’s talented, Kelsey. Better than most. And he’s trying so hard to be better than the version of himself everyone expects.”

Her expression softens. “And you like that.”

I sigh. “I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

The silence stretches. The only sound is the faint hum of the environmental systems.

She says quietly, “Don’t let him be the reason you crash, Nova.”

“I won’t.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.

Her hologram flickers. “You always say that.”

Then she’s gone.

The room feels emptier without her voice. I drain the last of my tea and stand, pacing toward the viewport. Barakkus glows below—vast, mechanical, indifferent. A planet of rules and regulations that I’ve lived by my whole life.

But right now, all I can think about is Kaz, sitting in the hangar after his loss, staring up at his ship like he could will it to understand him.

That hurt in his eyes when I walked past.

The restraint it must’ve taken not to speak. Not to look at me the way I know he wanted to.

My fingers curl against the glass.

I’ve seen pilots fall apart under pressure, lose focus, lose control. I’ve never thought I’d be the one holding the joystick while my own heart plummets toward the ground.

I tell myself it’s a crush. A phase. A simple chemical misfire born of adrenaline and proximity.

But that’s a lie. A stupid, human lie.

The truth is simpler—and infinitely worse.

I’m falling.

And I don’t know how to pull up.

CHAPTER 10

KAZ

Iwake to pain. It starts at my shoulder, a dull fire that spreads down my arm and into my ribs. The sheet’s too stiff against my skin, the air too cold. I shift, trying to silence the ache, but it wakes everything else up too—memory, want, the echo of last night.

Training starts before dawn. We’re in the weapons yard by first light, the range lights spilling pale halos across the tarmac. The field smells of burnt propellant and scorched metal. Every breath tastes of grit.

I rub at a bruise near my hip—probably from the zero-G maneuver yesterday—and check my systems again: thermal scopes, ammo feed, targeting alignment. When I look up, I see Swan. He’s limping. Not obvious—but enough. One boot’s dragging, weight slightly off center.

“Hey,” I hiss into my comm channel. “You sure you’re good?”

He pauses mid-stride. “Yeah,” he says, voice clipped. “Don’t worry about me.”

But his leg throws off the rhythm of his walk. His weight shifts too sharply. I scowl. He’s my wing. I won’t let him fudge this.