Page 66 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

She undoes my gear piece by piece, fingers grazing scars like they mean something. I trace the line of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, like she might vanish if I blink too long.

We move like gravity’s real again. Like we’re not on a broken rock full of killers. Like time didn’t break us once already.

After, we lie tangled in silence. The kind that says more than words ever could.

She’s on her side, back to me, but not far. My hand rests against her hip, thumb moving slow.

I ask, “Were you ever going to come back?”

She’s quiet for a long time.

Then she whispers, “I didn’t think I’d have to.”

And just like that, my heart cracks all over again.

The fire’s low and sputtering, kicked up to life every few minutes by wind-lashed sparks.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

We just came back from a raid victorious—Molteks flattened, tech secured, no casualties for once. Usually, that means booze, bones, and bragging for hours. But tonight, the pit is near silent. Grunts nurse bruises and fiddle with weapons they don’t need to clean. Nobody looks at me. Nobody looks at her.

Jaela sits near the back of the encampment, inspecting a plasma burn on her arm, wrapped in cooling gel. The glow flickers over her skin, makes her look like a ghost. A war angel. Too whole, too human, toobrightfor this place.

And that’s the problem.

They don’t know what to do with her. Not really.

Hope don’t survive long on Jurtik. And she’s walking around with it pouring out of her like light.

I shove a rusted door open, stalk toward my command tent. I need a drink. Or a distraction.

Instead, I get both.

Two of my lieutenants—Brannik and a newer grunt called Lys—are crouched inside, whispering over a battered terrain map. When they see me, they jump like kids caught stealing rations.

“Get out,” I growl.

Brannik doesn’t move. “We need to talk, Red Eye.”

Wrong tone. Wrong time.

I step forward, slow, like a storm rolling in. “You forget who you’re talking to?”

He lifts his chin. “It’s about her.”

My spine straightens. “Jaela?”

“She’s soft. Dangerous. She’s got you... different.”

Lys shifts, eyes down. “People are getting nervous.”

I cross my arms. “You meanyou’regetting nervous.”

Brannik spits. “We all know what happens when softness spreads here. Mutiny. Weakness. She makes you hesitate.”

“She’s not a threat to me.”