21. Troka
TROKA
Days passed, and the bar smells like fried synth-meat, old copper, and whatever they use to mop the floors after closing that never quite cuts it.
It’s familiar. It’s mine now, in a weird way.
Not because I work here—hell no—but because she’s here.
Every shift. Every sass-laced drink order.
Every flick of that stubborn brown hair.
And she’s laughing.
Not with me.
With him.
Another damn Vakutan.
Younger. Flashier. One of those fancy-officer types who talks like he bathes in cologne and thinks his jawline wins wars.
“Troka,” Jorla, the bartender on nights I’m off-duty, mutters as he leans across the bar. “Don’t. You’re vibrating.”
I snort, but it’s not funny. Not even close. My fists are clenched, nails digging into my palms. My scales itch with the need to react.
“She’s not yours,” he adds under his breath.
“She was,” I growl. “Still might be.”
“Then act like it.”
The Vakutan at the bar touches her arm.
My vision narrows like a laser scope.
He leans in close. She laughs again—too loud, too bright. Is she doing it to get a rise out of me?
If she is, it’s working.
I cross the room before I know I’m moving, every step a silent thunderclap. I don’t shove the guy. Not technically. I just… insert myself.
Between them.
The guy blinks. “Problem?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice a low snarl. “You’re in my seat.”
“I didn’t realize it had your name on it.”
I bare my teeth. “It doesn’t. But it’s about to have your blood on it if you don’t move.”
“Troka.” Alaina’s voice cracks across the air like a whip. She grabs my arm, tugging me away from the poor bastard who’s just trying to get laid without losing a fang.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses once we’re out back, the alley behind the bar reeking of synth-garbage and old regrets.
“He touched you.”
“So?”
“So I didn’t like it.”
“You don’t get to not like it,” she snaps. “You don’t get to act like I’m yours when you ghosted me for two years!”
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t open a single message, Troka.”
She’s shaking. Red-faced. Furious.
And somehow, still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“I did, I just didn’t know what to say,” I mutter.
“Oh, that’s rich.” She folds her arms. “Big bad warrior doesn’t know how to use words. Must be terrifying.”
“I came back.”
“Yeah, now. After you played soldier of the year. After I raised a baby by myself—”
“I’m not trying to stake a claim,” I say finally. “You want space? I’ll give it. You want time? Take it. But don’t provoke me.”
She looks away.
Later, I find her at the edge of the lot, head tilted up to the smog-smeared stars.
“I don’t want to fight,” I say, stepping beside her.
“Then don’t start them.”
“I didn’t mean to. That guy just—”
“Looked at me like I was more than leftovers?”
I flinch.
She softens. A breath. A beat.
“You hurt me,” she says quietly. “Worse than anyone ever has. I know you didn’t mean to. But that doesn’t erase the fallout.”
“I’m not here to erase anything. I just want to be where you are.”
Her eyes shine in the half-light. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not.”
We sit in silence for a while, just watching a delivery skimmer buzz past overhead.