Chapter 4
TROKA
The comm tone drills into my skull at dawn—three sharp pulses, code red.
I jerk awake in my bunk with a snarl still caught in my throat.
For a second, I’m not sure where I am. My sheets smell like disinfectant and engine oil.
The transport hub’s temporary quarters aren’t meant for comfort, just containment.
Another pulse. The code turns from red to black on the screen.
Immediate deployment. No warning or briefing. Just a time stamp and coordinates.
Front line.
Centuries War theater.
“Of course,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bunk. The floor is cold. My boots are still wet from last night’s rain, scuffed with Barrakus dust. My uniform smells faintly of her—of that storage room, of sweat and whiskey and something bright underneath.
Alaina.
Her name hits my chest like a shock grenade.
I rub a hand over my face. Not to wipe sleep away. To ground myself. Orders like this aren’t rare. Vakutan soldiers don’t get goodbyes. We get summons. Efficient. Ruthless. Final. The machine calls, you go.
And usually? That’s enough for me.
But this time, something feels wrong. Something feels torn out of me, still bleeding.
I pull on my armor piece by piece. The chest plate’s still dented from my last exercise run, the smell of scorched polymer clinging to it. My gloves squeak faintly when I flex my claws. Everything about me screams combat readiness—except my head. My head’s still in that storage room.
Her mouth. Her eyes. The way she said “This doesn’t mean anything” but touched me like it did.
I strap my pack and glance at my comm. Part of me wants to send her a message—anything. A warning. A promise. Something to say wait.
But I can’t bring myself to say what I mean, even over a cowardly text only message. I wind up sending only my Trooper ID code deployment date--which is right now--to her over text. She might be able to reach me via message, and she might not.
She’ll think that it’s official notice, most likely. I can’t make myself say the things I need to say.
Hopefully, I won’t be blown to smithereens on this assignment, and I’ll get to see her again.
The transport pad hums under my boots as I step onto it. Rows of soldiers line up around me, their eyes flat, their faces painted in the gray mask of pre-deployment. The smell of ozone and sweat and raw nerves clings to us like a second skin.
Sergeant Korr stalks past, her voice a whip. “T-79! Load heavy! Fast drop, Sector Twelve, no civ protocols!”
I grunt in acknowledgment, but my mind’s a thousand lightyears away.
Every time I blink, I see her against the storage room wall.
Her breathless laugh. Her whisper. Her hand fisting in my collar like she wanted to anchor herself to me and push me away at the same time.
The heat of her thighs locked around my hips.
The taste of her skin—salt, sweet, something human and defiant.
I bite down on a low growl. Not now. Not here.
The pad surges. The transport snaps into motion, shunting us upward through the atmosphere like a bullet through a barrel. My stomach drops. The cabin lights flicker. My helmet vibrates against my knees where I’ve braced it.
Beside me, a young recruit retches into a bag. He smells of fear and rations. I look away.
I need my anger back. My edge. But all I can feel is regret.
We hit orbit in under ten minutes. The stars are sharp and cold through the viewport—thousands of them, glittering like teeth. Normally, that sight steadies me. Reminds me of my scale. Reminds me the galaxy’s bigger than any one fight.
Not tonight.
Tonight, all I can think about is a tiny bar on Barrakus. A woman with a voice like a blade and a body like a secret I wasn’t meant to know. The way her eyes flickered, just once, like she might have wanted me to stay.
My claws dig into the armrest. The metal squeals.
I’ve never believed in fate. Vakutans don’t. We believe in fists, not fortunes. In blood, not stars.
But the galaxy shifted when she looked at me. I felt it.
And now I’m leaving her without a word.
I want to punch something. I want to tear the orders out of the system and throw them into a sun. I want to go back. Find her. Tell her this wasn’t just a thing.
But my unit’s strapped in. The captain’s voice is already rolling through the cabin, rattling off coordinates and fire zones. We’re going into hell again, and I’m supposed to be the monster who thrives there.
As the launch clamps release, I force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The recycled air smells like iron and oil and fear. My armor hums faintly against my scales, the charge building in its capacitors.
Her scent is fading. Already.
I replay the night in my head, building it into a fortress of memory.
Her moans—rough, unpolished, honest. The way she cursed under her breath, like she was angry at herself for wanting me.
The way her nails scraped my skin without drawing blood, a human’s version of claiming.
The way she trembled, just once, when I whispered her name.
Alaina.
I’ll need that fortress where I’m going. The battlefields eat softer things first.
But maybe if I hold on to it hard enough, it’ll still be there when I come back.
If I come back.
We break atmo. The stars stretch into lines. The warp engine kicks like a beast under my boots, a low thrum that resonates through my bones. My head slams back against the seat, but I don’t care.
I make a vow, quiet and savage, like a prayer made of steel.
If I survive this tour, I’ll find her again.
I don’t care how far. I don’t care what I have to burn.
I’ll find her.
Because for the first time in my life, leaving feels like losing.
And Vakutans don’t lose.