Page 5 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

REKKGAR

I do not sleep.

I do not even lie down. The thought of closing my eyes and surrendering to the dark makes my skin crawl. So I train. I bleed. I burn.

The air in my studio is thick with heat, the tang of my sweat curdling into something rank against the clean metal walls.

Every movement I make is sharp, deliberate, and without mercy.

My foot slams into the reinforced training post, again, and again, and again, until the stone composite groans beneath the pressure.

I pivot, switch stances, slam an elbow strike into the padded wall until my arm shakes.

Pain blossoms in small, controlled blooms across my muscles, but I welcome it.

It’s not enough.

I roar. Slam both fists into the post and hear the satisfying, sickening crack of bone giving slightly—not mine. Not yet.

I want to shatter. I deserve to shatter.

Because I lost control.

And worse—I didn’t hate it.

Her scream had sliced through the night like a blade across old scar tissue. I didn’t think. I didn’t reason. I reacted. By the time I reached her, the monster inside me—the one I locked away after the war, the one I swore never to release again—was already clawing its way out.

And it did not hesitate.

It punished.

Those men were nothing. They deserved worse. But what breaks me—what ruins me—is her face after it was over. Not twisted in horror. Not wide with fear. Not even disgust.

She looked at me with awe.

That’s what kills me.

That’s what keeps me awake.

She shouldn’t have looked at me like that. Should’ve screamed again. Should’ve turned and run. Instead, she stood there, blood on her lip, eyes wide… and wanting .

I stagger back from the post, panting, heart stuttering in its cage. My cybernetic eye glitches, flickering as sweat stings the socket. I swipe at it with the back of my forearm and slump against the far wall.

The floor is cool beneath me. That helps. My knees creak as I drop into a seated position, palms pressed flat against the polished tile. I close my eyes, even though it brings the memories back in sharper clarity.

Her blouse—torn. Her lip—split and red. Her voice, small but steady, calling my name. The tremble in her body… but not from fear. From something else.

I don’t know what to do with that.

She should fear me.

I fear me.

I press a palm to my sternum, right over the tattooed ridges of my honor-markings. The ink is old. The flesh beneath it older. But the mark still burns like it’s fresh. A reminder of who I was. Who I’m supposed to be. What I cannot become again.

I should’ve stayed away.

I meant to.

But every day, I walk into Earth Bites like it’s the only place that lets me breathe. She offers me coffee and warmth like it costs her nothing, and I accept it like a coward—like I can take what I want in small pieces and never admit I want the whole.

I never should’ve touched her world.

And now, I’ve stained it.

The scent of blood lingers on me still. Their blood.

Her blood. I’ve washed twice since returning, but I can’t scrub it out of my nose.

My body remembers the violence like a favorite song.

My bones hum with it. The part of me I buried—under sand, under steel, under ten years of silence—rose tonight.

And it looked at her.

And it liked what it saw.

A low growl builds in my throat. I punch the floor, hard enough to send a shockwave up my spine.

She deserves peace. She deserves sweetness. Delicate things. Sunlight and cinnamon and laughter. She deserves to be kissed gently, touched reverently—not guarded by a war relic built to destroy.

She deserves more.

And yet…

Her eyes.

I can’t forget her eyes.

Not frightened.

Not angry.

Not even disappointed.

There was fire in them. Understanding. And that’s what terrifies me most.

What if she saw that monster inside me and didn’t flinch because she’s known it was there all along? What if she doesn’t want me in spite of it… but because of it?

What kind of man does that make me?

What kind of creature does that make her?

My breathing slows, but it’s shallow now. A vacuum just behind my sternum. I look down at my hands—hands that once held hers with all the tenderness I could summon. Hands that tore a jaw off a sentient being tonight like it was paper.

I rub my thumb along my knuckles, tracing the dried blood that still lives in the creases. It feels tacky. Real. More real than anything else in this room.

I can’t go back to her. Not yet. Not like this.

And yet, the urge to see her, to know that she’s okay—that she didn’t curl into bed sobbing, that she didn’t fear the sound of her own door creaking open—gnaws at me until it feels like I might claw my own skin off.

I should never have gotten close.

I thought I could manage it. Just her voice. Just her smile. Just the coffee. A safe distance. A friendship that bled into ritual.

I was wrong.

I was selfish.

And tonight, that selfishness exploded into something brutal and bloody.

I press my forehead against the floor, inhale the sterile tang of industrial cleaner and steel, and let the ache pulse in my temples like punishment.

She looked at me like she understood.

And I don’t know how to live with that.

Or worse—what I’ll do if she looks at me like that again.

I don’t go back.

Not that day. Not the next. Not even the one after. I stop walking the familiar path, stop letting the smell of roasted beans and warm sugar pull me in like gravity. The routine fractures, and with it, something inside me begins to splinter.

I train harder. Longer. Until my joints scream and my cybernetic lens starts glitching mid-swing. I ignore it. Ignore the whispered murmurs from my students—young warriors fresh out of novice ranks, eager, observant, annoyingly perceptive.

“Master, are you... unwell?” Vekkor asks after our third round of bladework drills.

“Form is suffering,” Synn notes sharply, never one to soften the blow.

I don’t answer. I just grunt and rotate my shoulder, feel the pop-pop of stress knots unwinding with effort and rage.

They don’t understand. They can’t. To them, I’m the mountain. The anchor. Unshakable. But mountains can crumble, and anchors rust from the inside out.

Every morning, the scent drifts under the training hall doors—yeast and cinnamon and roasted grounds—and something inside me twists. Tight. Aching. But I stay where I am, grounded in discipline and fear. Mostly fear.

I stare at the door to the street more than I should. Aware that if I cross it, I might lose the last thread of control I have left.

On the fourth day, Lyrie walks by outside.

She’s all hips and sway and deliberate provocation as usual, pink scales glinting like polished quartz beneath a shredded mesh coverlet. Normally, I wouldn’t spare her more than a nod.

But this time, she slows. Sees me through the window. Our eyes meet—mine, a cold flicker; hers, molten disapproval.

She curls her lip and flips me off. Two fingers, sharp and gleaming, before she tosses her head and struts past like I’m the dirt under her boots.

I almost chuckle. Almost.

She’s not wrong.

That night, I don’t sleep again. I just lie on my back in the center of the mat, arms splayed, breath shallow. The dojo lights are dimmed to ambient glow, casting long shadows across the ceiling like claws.

The next morning, I try to meditate before class. It goes poorly.

Vonn finds me instead.

The front door slams open like an explosion.

I don’t need to see her to know it’s her.

The unmistakable thump of orthopedic boots stomping through the entry, the clatter of a cane against the floor, the huff of ancient indignation.

Her scent hits a second later—peppery fur oil, something floral and vaguely medicinal.

“YOU GREAT brOODING IDIOT!”

I don’t even turn around.

The thwack of her cane against the floor makes a sound like thunder.

“You think you can just vanish?” she snarls, voice sharp as honed glass. “Leave that girl wondering if she dreamt the whole damn thing? You think cowardice is the hallmark of a warrior?”

She’s speaking Fratvoyan, fast and furious. I catch most of it. The tone says the rest.

I hear the crunch of something arcing through the air. Reflex takes over. I snatch it out of instinct before it hits my head. Still warm. Fluffy. Bits of melted chocolate smear my palm.

A muffin.

Of course.

Vonn glares at me from beneath her heavy fur cowl, eyes like embers. “She made it,” she snaps. “Said it was for you. Then threw it away. I rescued it. Because I have sense. ”

“I can’t.”

The words are gravel in my throat. She cocks her head.

“You can’t or you won’t? ”

“I shouldn’t, ” I bite out. “She needs peace. Not whatever this is.” I gesture at myself. “I’m not safe.”

Vonn snorts like I’ve insulted her lineage. “You think she doesn’t know who you are? What you are? She’s known you ten years, Vakutan. If she wanted safety, she’d have picked a nice dork from the Bureau of Agricultural Statistics.”

“She’s engaged. ”

“She was ,” Vonn spits. “Technically still is, but I know that look. Girl’s been checked out of that deal since the first time you scowled at her with affection.”

I look away. The muffin’s still in my hand. I should throw it out. Crush it. Do something useful with my guilt.

Instead, I cradle it like something fragile.

Vonn lets the silence stretch. Her cane ticks against the floor. Then she mutters, “Dumb lizard,” and slams the door on her way out.

That afternoon, I’m supposed to lead advanced hand-to-hand forms. I barely speak. I demonstrate, mechanically, but my mind is a thousand meters west, watching through the dojo window as Ruby moves inside Earth Bites.

She’s slower.

Her motions lack their usual rhythm. She forgets her oven mitt once and yelps when she grabs a tray. She laughs with Lyrie but doesn’t tilt her head back. She smiles at customers but doesn’t linger.

And when she thinks no one’s looking, she sighs like her soul’s been wrung out and left on the counter.

I did that.