Chapter 11
ALAINA
Idon’t hear it on the comms. Don’t see it on the holo-board. I just feel it—like the air shifted in the bar, a tremor running through the floor. The rumors come first through soft voices, gossip clipped in back hallways:
“Did you see him on the plaza this morning?”
“He’s back.”
“Bar folks say he’s scheduled to appear tonight.”
My chest hammers. My fork hovers over cold supper. Caelix babbles in his high voice—light, innocent—oblivious to the storm brewing.
I swallow. I tell myself it’s lies. But I erase them one by one.
I slip into work early. The bar’s still quiet. Neon glow paints the floor. The air smells of spilled liquor, cold metal, and faded smoke stains. I trace the coordinates of old steps, moving among empty stools and the echo of my own boots.
Jorla is stacking glasses, humming a low note. She pauses and watches me for a moment.
“Something’s off,” she says, voice low.
“Just tired,” I lie. My voice echoes. It tastes hollow.
She nods instead of prodding. She’s learned. Some things are too raw to ask.
Mid-shift, the door hisses open. It doesn’t sound like other doors. It feels like one I know.
Footsteps. Heavy. Scaled. Cautious.
My back stiffens. I grip the rag so tight my knuckles whiten. A fellow server freezes mid-step. A patron’s laugh breaks off.
I don’t look.
Until I do.
When I finally glance, he’s exactly where I always feared.
Troka.
A ghost in flesh. Rough around the edges from war. Shadows under his eyes. Scars I never saw before. But still—his golden gaze finds mine like a magnet.
My breath catches. A drink tumbles in a tray behind me—crack goes the glass. Heads whip. Bar staff murmur.
He steps to the bar. The world tilts.
I swallow. “You’re here,” I say, voice more brittle than I planned.
He nods once. Doesn’t smile.
“Coffee?” I force a laugh. “Still addictive, still here.”
He doesn’t settle for coffee. He says, “Scotch.”
I nod and move to pour. My hands shake. The glass clinks too loud.
He watches me. I think about how I used to think he was fast, savage, never-still. Now he’s slow, deliberate, heavy with things he won’t say.
I set the drink before him. “Here.”
He picks it up and inhales. “Smells like bad decisions and good memories.”
I can’t tell if that’s sweet or jaded.
He clears his throat. “Alaina, I—”
I cut him. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
He bows his head. The bar lights cast angular shadows across his face. Broken lines. Hard edges.
I take a breath. Test the lie on my tongue. “Just so you know… the baby? It’s not yours.”
Silence lands like a slab of stone. The hum of neon, of the hum of the bar, dims. Staff freeze mid-motion. A barfly leans, curious.
Troka’s fingers tighten around the glass. He doesn’t blink. His lips press into a thin line.
“You think that makes it easier?” he finally whispers.
“No,” I say, voice small but jagged. “But I can’t let this be a trap, Troka. I can’t live in waiting.”
He swallows. “You think I’d make it a trap.” His voice cracks, like metal under pressure.
I turn away. I wipe the counter. Breeze from the vent brushes my neck. It feels like his breath.
“Don’t expect me to welcome you back,” I say. “You missed everything.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens again.
“Why lie?”
Because anywhere beneath your gaze, the truth would drown me.
I lash back, “Because I’m scared, Troka. Scared of hoping too hard. Scared of getting broken again.”
We stare. The distance between us—bar length, years long—feels too small and too immense.
Then he does something I never saw coming: he smiles. Just a twitch. Hurt, bitter, soft.
“Still beautiful,” he mutters. Then turns, steps toward the exit.
I want to call him back. I want to scream at him. But my voice sticks behind my ribs.
He pauses at the door. Looks over his shoulder once. The golden gaze flickers.
Then he’s gone.
The door hisses closed. The neon buzz returns. Patrons shift. The bar life resumes—laughter, clinks, voices. But I’m still. Behind the bar, rag in hand, heart carved open like a wound, lying to protect a love that might be lost already.