Page 7 of Alien Soldier's Heir

Kaz’s eyes widen. “Nova?—”

“I said no.”

He backs off instantly, palms up, contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”

I’m already standing. My lips still burn. My chest heaves. Fury and shame and want twist inside me like live wires.

“This was a mistake.”

“Nova—”

“Go.”

He hesitates. For a second, I think he’ll argue.

Then he nods, gathers his tools, and walks.

I don’t watch him go. I close the door, lean against it, and slide to the floor.

My fingers tremble as I refasten the clasp.

What the hell am I doing?

I’m not supposed to want this. I’m not supposed tofeellike this. Not for a student. Not forhim.

But gods help me… I do.

CHAPTER 4

KAZ

Ican't get her out of my head.

The second that door slammed in my face, it should’ve been a signal to move on. To treat it like a blown maneuver—shake it off and prep for the next run. But I’m still replaying it. Her lips, soft and sweet like that damn lemonade. The heat in her body when she kissed me back. And the cold fire in her voice when she ended it.

This wasn’t just another conquest. I don’t want to admit it, but I know it. She’s different. She’s got my number, and I can’t stop dialing.

I throw myself into the morning drills like they’re combat. I’m up before first light, muscle memory taking over as I strap into the cockpit. My skin hums with leftover tension. I burn it out in the sky.

The range is brutal today—Nova made sure of it. The flight gauntlet includes rotating hazard zones, short-range jammers, and real-time interference that screws with HUD alignment. She’s not pulling punches.

Good.

The simulator dome launches me into the sequence with a screech of simulated ions. I dive headlong into the mess,running the opening loop like it owes me rent. Thrusters redline. Shields scream. Sweat beads under my collar as I roll and cut between marker buoys and pop two drone targets before the first corner.

I catch sight of her in the tower—arms folded, expression flat.

Judging.

Always judging.

I push harder. Cut a tighter turn. Juke through a heat bloom just for show. Every twist of my body, every twitch of the stick, is for her. I want her to see I’m more than a smirk and a tool belt. I want her tofeelit in her bones when she watches me fly.

“Too hot, Kaz,” Swan warns over the comms. “You’re redlining your pitch axis.”

“I’m not done,” I grit out.

The last lap is a blur—narrowly avoiding simulated flak, weaving through collapsing nav markers.