My fingers hover over his name.
I don’t press it.
But I write the message.
Not to send. Just to get it out.
“I was scared. Not of you. Of what you make me feel. Of how good you are with him. Of how much I wanted it to be true—and how much I knew it was. He’s yours, Troka. He always was. And I’m afraid that accepting you will drive you away again.”
I don’t delete it.
I don’t send it, either.
I just leave it there.
Like a lit match.
Waiting.
Because secrets don’t whisper forever.
They scream when you least expect them.
And the silence in this apartment?
It’s getting louder by the second.
CHAPTER 29
TROKA
Idon’t sign.
I stare at the damn enlistment holo until the image goes grainy with screen burn and the recruiting officer starts side-eyeing me like I’m about to piss on the desk.
But I don’t sign.
I almost do.
My claw hovers over the authorization glyph, that little pulse-glow begging to be pressed. It’d be easy. Too easy. The galaxy’s still spinning in blood and fire out there—another theater of war always needing another weapon to throw at the front. I know how to be that. Iwasthat.
And gods, part of memissesit.
Misses the orders. The clarity. The simplicity of kill or don’t. Move or die. No feelings. No longing. No three-foot-tall soft-skinned babies with gold-flecked eyes and a giggle that makes my heart seize like a rusted gear.
I don’t sign.
I walk.
Barrakus air hits like a slap. Dry, sour, full of rust and reactor soot. The wind kicks up dust devils in the street, grit scraping my scales like penance. I don’t even bother brushing it off.
I sleep on Larek’s couch that night. He doesn’t ask questions. Just slaps me on the back hard enough to bruise and throws a synthblanket over my legs.
“You want something stronger than water?” he asks, nodding toward the cabinet.
“Yeah.”
He pours something neon green and dangerous. It tastes like antiseptic and regret.
