Page 21 of Alien Soldier's Heir

“Always.”

I lift my flight suit from the bench. There’s a knock.

Yoris stands in the doorway. Smirk sharpened. “Heard about your heroics. Too bad you’re lucky enough to have a wing.” He lets that hang.

I close the locker. “Think whatever you like.”

He shrugs and walks off.

Night crawls in the dorms. The corridors are hushed. Even boots echo. I slip into my bunk. The pad on my knee glows blue.

Message window: open.

I type, delete, type again:

Still awake?

I pause. My thumb hovers. I breathe—slow, painful.

Still awake?

Send.

It blinks. No reply. The blue light stains my face.

I set it beside me and lie stiff, staring at the ceiling panel grid. Tiny vents hiss in the dark. I can hear my heartbeat, loud in the silence.

Memories press in. Nova’s voice in the observation lounge. The weight in her eyes. Her silence. Her being there. The gravity between us almost enough to pull me across.

I roll onto my side, one arm draped over the pad. Whisper into the darkness: “I’m here.”

No answer.

Outside the porthole, the stars pulse. Cold, indifferent. I can’t escape what I want.

And now, Swan limps in the darkness, and I worry for more than the mission.

I’m repeating a pattern I promised myself I’d never follow: flying blind, wanting something forbidden.

But I’m too far in for reverse thrust.

CHAPTER 11

NOVA

The restricted deck hums quiet as a prayer. No boots, no chatter, no holo displays barking orders. Just the low thrum of station power coursing through the walls and the wide-eyed stare of stars bleeding through the observation glass like they’re trying to tell secrets only the broken-hearted can hear.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should be asleep. Or reviewing reports. Or doing anything else that isn’t indulging this reckless, ridiculous ache crawling up my spine every time I think about Kaz. Which lately, is always.

The door sighs shut behind me, and there he is—leaned forward on the railing like he was carved into it. Elbows braced, spine curved, gaze lost to the dark. He doesn’t turn at first. Just lifts his head slightly, like he knew it was me from the moment the door hissed.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, voice low and amused, like this whole damn mess is some kind of joke he’s still not done telling.

“I almost didn’t,” I answer, stepping in, arms crossed too tight. “This isn’t smart.”

“Smart’s overrated.”