Page 6 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

I say nothing.

“Session’s at 0600,” she adds, stepping past me toward the door. “Try being on time. And sober. I’m not dragging your sorry golden ass off the floor again.”

She reaches the threshold, pauses. “You want to be a warrior again? Prove it.”

The door closes behind her.

I stand there, chest still rising and falling like a war drum. The tray pieces glint at my feet. Her scent lingers in the air—like industrial soap and something sharper. Steel, maybe. Or spice.

I don’t sit. I don’t move.

I just stare at the door.

And for the first time since the blast that ripped me apart, I feel something warm and dangerous blooming in my chest.

Hope.

CHAPTER 3

JAELA

The prosthetic recalibration interface is blinking at me like it wants to pick a fight.

“No, you smug little bastard,” I mutter, tapping the edge of the console with my stylus. “We’re doing this my way.”

The system beeps a protest. I override it, code sliding under my fingers in smooth, efficient strokes. The Alzhon patient I’m adjusting this for has four knees and the patience of a hornet, so I’ve got to get this kinetic script right or I’ll be dodging angry chitin limbs for the rest of the week.

It’s not working.

Not the code. The distraction.

I shove back from the workstation and exhale hard. My breath fogs the panel, which is a stupid thing because it's climate-controlled and shouldn’t fog at all. But here we are. Fogging and flustered like a rookie tech on her first trauma rotation.

Because I can’t stop thinking about the way Kyldak said my name.

Like it tasted wrong in his mouth, but he still wanted another bite.

Damn him.

I turn away from the console and head toward Bay Four. Talia’s session is next. She’s fifteen, fused spine, recent cybernetic install. Sweet kid, all legs and bright eyes and a stubborn streak that makes her refuse to use her walker even when she’s clearly hurting. We get along.

She’s already waiting when I get there, perched awkwardly on the edge of the medbed like it’s going to bite her.

“Morning, Talia,” I chirp. “You planning to walk or are we staging a dramatic fainting spell today?”

She grins, but it’s a little forced. “Depends. Will there be snacks?”

“Only if you count dignity as a snack.”

She snorts. I help her up, guide her through her weight shifting protocol, tweak her spinal stim thresholds. We banter. We laugh. But my head’s somewhere else.

Somewhere golden and angry and tall enough to blot out the damn sun.

“Is it true?” Talia asks mid-drill, voice a little breathless. “That you’re working with a Vakutan?”

I blink. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Rumors,” she says. “And one of the nurses said you came out of his room looking like you’d seen a ghost. Or punched one.”