Chapter 2
TROKA
Ishouldn’t be here.
I was supposed to be bunked on the transport ship, halfway across Sector Ten by now. But no, the core unit glitches on final boot, dumps me at a barracks-planet fueling station with zero notice and a half-day to kill.
Could’ve gone anywhere. Could’ve kept walking.
But the glow from this place pulled at me.
Docking Bay Lounge. Looked like every sleazy outpost bar from every warzone I’ve ever pissed through—low ceilings, sticky floors, loud music made by beings who’ve never seen a key.
It smelled like heat and alcohol and too many stories nobody wanted to tell.
I stepped inside. And the universe shifted.
I didn’t see her at first. Too much noise. Too many bodies. The stink of synthetic pheromones and fried protein clogged the air. Cadets bellowing war stories like their voices could cash checks their spines couldn’t back.
Then she spoke.
Not to me. Not yet.
But her voice carried. Sharp, dry, cocky as hell. I tracked the sound before I even realized what I was doing. She laughed at someone—biting, not cruel—and it went off in my chest like a flare.
When I reached the bar and she turned, everything stilled.
Brown eyes, warm and cutting all at once. That mouth—gods, that mouth could tear a man down to atoms with one smirk. She looked like trouble in a softshell package, and every inch of me stood at attention.
She called me out instantly. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t simper. Tossed attitude like she’d been training her whole life just to piss me off.
It should’ve made me walk.
Instead, I leaned in.
“Evenin’,” she says with a curl in her voice, flipping a towel like a whip. “Don’t tell me you’re here to order something fruity. I might lose respect.”
I don’t blink. “Give me something that burns, as usual. And make it quick.”
Her smile goes sideways. “You ask all the women in your life that nicely?”
Only the ones I don’t plan to kill. “Only the ones I want to keep talking.”
Her scent hits me next. Something floral and gritty. No artifice. No cheap glitter-spray or borrowed pheromones. Just skin, heat, and that earthy note of someone who works for a living.
She’s… short. By my standards, anyway. Barely past my chest. Compact, strong. Curved in ways that don’t play fair with my self-control. And her eyes, gods above, they spark like a soldier ready to draw steel just for the thrill of it.
I asked her name the first time before. She gives me Southland like it’s a challenge.
I want her first name. The real one. The one people probably whisper in bed or yell during fights. But she guards it.
Good.
I like when things take effort. Victory’s sweeter when it’s earned.
She pours the whiskey. Doesn’t shake. Her hands are callused on the edges, but her nails are clean. Practical. She slides the glass across the bar like a weapon.
“You a cadet?” she asks, even though I know she already clocked the rank stripes on my collar.
“Combat unit designation T-79. Advanced ground tactics.”
Her eyes narrow. “So you are the big bad.”
I tilt my head, measuring her. “That what they call me?”
“No,” she says. “That’s what I just decided.”
I let a smile slip, small and sharp. She’s got claws. Not afraid to swing 'em. Vakutan females, they don’t waste time with banter. They fight to flirt. They bond by blood.
But this human… she’s something else.
She fights with language.
She dances with it. Flashes it like a blade. She pushes my buttons and waits to see if I explode or smolder.
Joke’s on her—I’m already burning.
She serves two more cadets while I sit and watch. Not like a creep. Like a predator. I study how she moves—confident, quick, smart. Always aware of her space. Never letting a hand linger too long, never letting a stare go unpunished.
“Hey, sweetheart,” some greasy-haired tank tech leers as she passes, “when do you get off shift?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Right after your IQ hits double digits. So… never.”
The whole table groans. The cadet flushes, wounded pride leaking from his ears. She breezes past like a queen with a crown of daggers.
I growl low.
Not jealousy.
But possessiveness. That old ancestral heat twisting in my gut. Wanting to stand behind her and let the whole bar know—mine.
Except she’s not.
Not even close.
I don’t even know her name.
She circles back to me, one brow arched. “Still here?”
“I was promised sass and fire,” I murmur, sipping the next drink. “You delivered.”
“Is that why you’re staring like you’re trying to memorize my blood type?”
I grin. “Just checking for weak spots.”
She leans in. Not close enough to touch—but close enough to tempt. “Let me know when you find one.”
I choke on a laugh. Holy void. She’s fearless.
I want to know what her voice sounds like when it’s breathless. What her sarcasm sounds like when it trembles. I want to earn every inch of surrender she’s never given anyone. Not because I need to win.
Because I need to understand how someone like her exists in this cesspit of a galaxy.
And because my body is already building blueprints for how she’d fit against me.
My comm buzzes. Ground crew update. My ride’s grounded till morning, at least.
I should find a bunk. Recharge. Stay clean.
But I look at her—and I know that if I leave, I’ll regret it more than any battle wound I’ve taken.
Fate’s a joke. Destiny’s a story cowards tell themselves. But this? This is something else.
I didn’t choose to walk in here. But the moment I saw her, the rest of the galaxy fell away.
I toss a credchip on the bar. She eyes it. “Overtip much?”
“Buying your name.”
She laughs. Not cruel. Not fake. Just amused.
“You couldn’t afford it.”
“Try me.”
She leans forward, just a breath’s width from mine. “Alaina.”
Alaina.
It echoes in my head like a battle cry and a prayer all at once.
She straightens. “Now get outta my way. Table six is bleeding for attention.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
I watch her walk—hips swaying, braid bouncing, shoulders sharp.
And I know, down to my bones, that tonight isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.