Heir With His Horns

Chapter 1

ALAINA

It’s hot. Not just "working a double shift" hot—but sweaty, booze-slick, testosterone-thick hot.

The kind of hot that sticks to your skin and makes your clothes feel like lies.

The Docking Bay Lounge is boiling over tonight—full to capacity, probably past fire code, but what the hell do regulations mean on a payday near Barrakus Training Academy?

Cadets swarm the place like they’ve never seen women or alcohol. Most of them probably haven’t in months. They slap their creds down like war heroes and shout over each other in a cacophony of egos and body spray.

I’ve seen them all. Every flavor of overhyped, oversexed spaceboy with something to prove. And I’ve got zero time for any of ‘em.

“ALAINA!” Jorla hollers from behind the holo-keg. “Table twelve’s flashing me like I serve drinks outta my cleavage!”

“Maybe you do,” I shout back, grabbing a tray with one hand and three half-full glasses with the other. “If the tips are right!”

She cackles and vanishes into the crush. I sidestep two off-duty flyers doing some half-assed mating dance and almost get clipped by a spinning tray.

It’s hell in here.

Then the temperature changes.

Not physically. Not visibly. But the second he walks in, something shifts. Like a pressure drop before a storm. The noise dims just slightly. The energy stretches taut. My spine straightens like it has something to prove.

Vakutan.

Tall as a damn doorway. Broad like he eats tanks for breakfast. Scales like burnished crimson armor under the flicker of neon.

Golden eyes that scan the room like they’re measuring threat levels.

Horns on top of his head like a wild beast. A walking, breathing weapon strutting through payday chaos like he owns it.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Not at first.

But everyone looks at him.

And of course, this shiny disaster heads for my bar.

I plant my feet. Rest my weight on one hip. I’ve danced with worse.

“Let me guess,” I say as he closes in. “Something high-proof with a side of violence?”

His mouth twitches. “Something that burns.”

His voice hits like smoke—low, hot, curling into places I don’t want to acknowledge.

I raise a brow. “You’re not gonna sweet-talk me first? I’m delicate.”

He leans forward just enough to make the bar creak. “You look anything but delicate.”

Damn.

I pour without breaking eye contact. A golden pour of Starcore whiskey, sharp as nails and twice as illegal off-world. The good stuff. He watches every movement like he’s cataloging it.

I slide the glass to him.

“Name?” I ask, mostly to throw him off.

“Troka,” he replies, downing the shot in one long pull. His throat flexes as he swallows. “Tactical ground command. Unit T-79.”

I whistle. “Fancy. You supposed to be here unsupervised?”

“Only supervision I need’s my gut.”

“Let me guess,” I say, wiping the bar lazily. “Your gut told you I was the most interesting thing in this dump?”

He smirks for the first time. Just a hint. “My gut’s very reliable.”

It’s my turn to flinch. A little. Internally.

Because damn it, he’s got presence. Not just size. Not just species. The way he sees me—it’s unnerving. Most guys look and see skin or sass or attitude. He looks like he’s mapping terrain. Like he’s seeing all of me. And I’m not sure I like that.

I brace myself. Throw him another shot. “Tell me, Commander Troka, how long you planning on slumming it here with the rest of the cannon fodder?”

He downs it without flinching. “Until I find what I’m looking for.”

“And what’s that?”

He leans in just enough to make my breath stutter. “Still figuring that out.”

I hate the way that sends a jolt down my spine.

Vakutans are dangerous. Emotionally volatile. Possessive. Half-crazy. They don’t do flings. They do battles. They do claims.

So I step back. Just slightly. Enough to let him know I’m not prey.

He tracks the movement. Doesn’t pursue. Just watches.

Good. I like him better dangerous than desperate.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice like velvet over steel.

“Southland,” I reply.

“That’s not a name.”

“It’s the only one I’m offering.”

He tilts his head, those golden eyes glinting. “I’ll earn the rest.”

I blink. Once. Twice.

That wasn’t a line. That was a promise.

My heart does a dumb flutter thing, and I immediately slap it back down. Nope. No sir. Not today. I’ve got rent to make and a spine to keep intact.

But the way he looks at me...

Solar winds. I might be in trouble.