Chapter 2
Cullen
I watched Serna from across the terrace of her ancestral home, her silhouette framed against the blue-green waters of the Valasyne River. The twin moons had risen early, casting silver light across the gardens. She stood perfectly still, staring out at nothing. Or perhaps at everything.
Three days since the funeral. Three days of watching her move through the rituals of widowhood with unshakeable composure, greeting dignitaries and accepting condolences with grace that seemed effortless.
But I'd been watching closely enough to see what others missed: the way she barely touched her food at meals, how her eyes carried shadows that hadn't been there before, the slight tremor in her hands when she thought no one was looking.
She was exhausted. Not just physically, though that was part of it. This was bone-deep weariness, the kind that came from carrying too much for too long.
Most people saw only the title, the power, the unbreakable leader who'd held the Alliance together through crisis after crisis. They didn't see the woman underneath, the one who'd sacrificed everything for duty.
But I saw her.
I'd been seeing her for months now, ever since I'd arrived in Alliance space. And God help me, I couldn't stop.
"You're brooding again."
I turned to find Willa approaching with Titus balanced on her hip, the toddler's blue-gold eyes bright with curiosity. She gave me a knowing look that made me feel uncomfortably transparent.
"Just thinking," I said.
"About her." Not a question. Willa glanced toward Serna, then back at me. "You care about her."
I should have deflected. Should have maintained the professional distance my position required. But Willa had a way of cutting through bullshit that reminded me of my own daughter, and I found myself being honest instead.
"I respect her," I said carefully. "She carries more than anyone should have to."
"That's not what I meant." Willa shifted Titus to her other hip. "But I'll let it go. For now." She paused, studying me. "You're good for her, you know. She needs someone who sees past the job."
Before I could respond, she'd moved on, leaving me alone with thoughts I had no business entertaining.
The truth was, I hadn't planned on any of this.
When I'd volunteered to come to Alliance space, it had been purely strategic.
A way to help President Eleanor Bradford deal with the Declan Hewes situation.
Ellie had been in the crosshairs of that bastard's human trafficking operation, and the Prime had stepped in to help.
When Ellie fell in love with Rickon—an alien who'd chosen to stay with her on Earth with the help of a holographic disguise—I'd offered to help the Alliance track and capture Hewes.
It was supposed to be temporary. A few months, maybe a year at most. Just long enough to see Hewes brought to justice and ensure Earth's relationship with the Alliance remained strong. A feat we'd finally accomplished.
Then Chloe arrived. My daughter, brilliant and stubborn and so much like her mother it hurt sometimes to look at her. She'd come on a mission to draw Hewes out of hiding, met Nansar, and within weeks they'd bonded as mates.
My wife Catherine had been gone over ten years now, taken by cancer that had eaten away at her until there was nothing left but pain and goodbye.
I'd thrown myself into work afterward, into service, because it was easier than facing the empty house and the memories.
I'd told myself I was honoring her by staying busy, by making a difference.
But the truth was, I'd been running. And I'd kept running until I ended up here, in a place so far from Earth that the stars themselves looked different.
Now Chloe was here, building a life with Nansar. And I couldn't bring myself to leave. Not just because of her, though that was part of it.
Because of Serna.
I'd been drawn to her from the first video comm, when I'd seen past the formal greeting and the title to the woman beneath.
She'd been beautiful, yes—striking in a way that had nothing to do with conventional attractiveness and everything to do with presence, with the kind of strength that came from surviving things that would have broken lesser people.
But it was more than that. It was the way she listened when people spoke, really listened, as if their words mattered.
The way she made decisions with both her head and her heart, even when it cost her.
The way she carried the weight of billions of lives on her shoulders and never complained, never faltered, never asked for help even when she desperately needed it.
I respected the hell out of her. And somewhere along the way, respect had become something else. Something I had no right to feel.
She was the Prime. I was a human from Earth on temporary assignment. Whatever I felt—whatever I thought I saw in those rare moments when she let her guard down around me—it didn't matter. It couldn't matter.
Even if the memory of her face in that corridor after the funeral, the way she'd looked at me with such raw vulnerability, haunted me every time I closed my eyes.
"Admiral Blackwood."
I turned to find Sahikas, Serna's attaché, approaching with a data pad. The Kelvan was efficient and unflappable, qualities I appreciated given the chaos that seemed to follow us lately.
"Duke Ako is ready for the comm," he said. "The Prime is joining us now."
I glanced back toward the terrace, but Serna was already moving, her posture straightening as she shifted back into Prime mode. By the time she reached us, there was no trace of the exhausted woman I'd been watching moments before. Just the leader, composed and ready.
We gathered in the study. Tall windows along the eastern wall filtered natural light into soft, golden streams that illuminated dust motes dancing above the reading alcoves carved into the stone walls.
Those alcoves—deep and intimate—housed thousands of books and were lined with cushioned seats worn smooth by generations of scholars.
It was the kind of room that demanded reverence.
The holographic display flickered to life in the center of the room, its blue light casting strange shadows across the ancient texts. Duke Ako's pale face materialized before us, and from the look of him, holding down the fort on Calpa while Serna attended to funeral rites hadn't been easy.
"Prime," he said, inclining his head respectfully. "Admiral Blackwood. Sahikas."
For just a moment, something warm flickered across Serna's face—the ghost of a smile that showed she and Ako had been friends for years. Then it was gone, replaced by the controlled expression of a leader addressing an ally.
"Duke Ako," she said, her voice steady and formal now. "Thank you for your assistance during my absence. Have we heard anything more from Persico?"
"Nothing," Ako confirmed, his expression exasperated. "And what he did give us left more questions than answers."
Serna's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "It did. He claims my greatest enemy is still out there, but he provided no specifics. No names. No evidence. Just... a warning."
"Which troubles me," Ako said carefully. "Hewes is dead. His slavery enterprise is being dismantled. So if Persico is right—"
"Then someone else is positioning themselves," Serna finished, her voice clipped.
"But who?" She paused, and I caught the frustration flickering across her features before she locked it down again.
"Persico doesn't make claims without foundation.
But he doesn't typically leave me in the dark like this, either. "
To most of the Alliance, Persico was a criminal—the crime lord of Fange City on planet Palaydium, a Kerzak whose influence stretched across the underworld like a spider's web.
His reputation was built on smuggling, extortion, and information brokering, the kind of figure respectable politicians publicly condemned while privately acknowledging his usefulness.
In reality, Persico was an operative of Asad Intelligence, the spy ring the Alliance relied on when official channels failed.
He'd spent decades building his criminal empire as cover, embedding himself so deeply in the galaxy's underbelly that even most Alliance officials believed the facade.
Only a handful of people knew the truth—Serna, Ako, and a select few others who understood that sometimes the best intelligence came from those who operated in the shadows.
"He's still investigating," Ako said. "I've reached out to Siemba, head of Asad Intelligence, and he's put more operatives on it. But so far, nothing."
Serna nodded slowly, her mind clearly working through possibilities. "There's more, isn't there?"
"There is," Ako said, and his tone shifted. "The Alliance is... unsettled. With Hewes gone, several of the royal families who depended on his services are pushing back against the moratorium on human slaves. There's talk of revoking Earth's protectorate status."
My jaw tightened. Hewes had been a monster, a human slave trader who'd built an empire on suffering. His death should have been cause for celebration, not political maneuvering.
"Let them talk," Serna said, her voice cold. "Earth's protection is not up for debate. We made a commitment, and we will honor it."
"Some of the council members are questioning your judgment," Ako said carefully.
"They're saying your family ties to humans—your daughter-in-law Willa, your half-human grandchild Titus—have clouded your perspective on the protectorate issue.
They believe your personal connections are influencing your stance. "
Serna didn't even flinch. "My judgment is sound. And my personal associations are my own business. If the council has concerns, they can raise them when I return to Calpa."
"You need to return as soon as possible," Ako suggested. "The longer you're away, the more ground we lose. Your presence would go a long way toward settling things."
Serna nodded slowly. "Agreed. We'll leave tomorrow."