Page 64 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

“Cute kid.”

My throat closes.

I nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t press.

But he watches me with new eyes after that. Every move I make, every breath I take—it’s measured. Calculated. Not out of suspicion. But something... deeper.

Like he’s hunting a truth that’s already living under his skin.

CHAPTER 18

KYLDAK

Idon't like this feeling.

It's clawing under my skin like sand lice—familiar but never welcome. The kind of nerves I thought I'd burned out of myself after the third year on Jurtik. After I lost everything.

But here I am, staring across the pit at Jaela while we gear up for a raid, and all I can think is:If she dies out there, I’ll rip this whole moon in half.

She’s strapping on a repurposed blast vest like it’s her second damn skin. She's modified it already—removed the overpadding, added spike plating from a scrapped hover bike, stitched it with medic-grade tension mesh. Smart. Always smart. Too smart for this place.

"You’re not coming," I growl, tossing an extra mag into my belt.

She doesn't even blink. "Try and stop me."

"Jaela—"

"No."

She slides a modified sidearm into her holster and walks past me like I’m some random soldier, not the warlord who commands this entire death-ridden junkpile.

I grit my teeth. “You’re not a soldier.”

“Neither are half the idiots you’ve got on this crew, but you’re sending them.”

“I trust them.”

She turns, sharp. “And you don’t trust me?”

I stare at her. Hard. “I don’t want to watch you die.”

Her jaw sets. “I didn’t come this far to sit on the sidelines.”

I want to shove her into the med tent and lock the damn door. But I don't. I just curse under my breath and walk.

We roll out in three modified buggies—scavenged scrap with engines tuned for speed and brutality. The sun’s a white-hot bastard above us, cooking metal, boiling blood.

She rides with me.

Of course she does.

At first, I keep half an eye on her, expecting her to flinch, freeze, panic. But no. She’s scanning the terrain, plotting routes, calling out wind shifts like she’s been doing this her whole life. When the first trap detonates—plasma wire rigged to a fake comm dish—she’s the one who spots it. Disarms it. Cool as hell.

Ten klicks later, she shouts, “Buggy right! Take the ravine!” and I follow her instinct without even thinking.

Because it’s right.