“I should go,” I murmur, voice ragged.
“I know,” he says.
But neither of us moves.
Eventually, I do.
I walk home with shaking legs and a chest so full I don’t know how it doesn’t crack.
I sleep alone that night.
But in my dreams, he’s there—laughing, cooking, holding me like I’m something precious.
And when I wake, I don’t want to let it go.
CHAPTER 8
KENRON
Ihaven’t cooked this bad since I was a larva with knobby fingers and no patience.
The broth’s burned. Twice. The rootmeat is so over-salted even the back kitchen hand cringed when he tasted it. I forget the damn fireleaf garnish on two plates in a row, and now my prep counter looks like a war zone. The staff’s trying to pretend they don’t notice, bless their tight-lipped hearts, but the side-eyes are stacking like dirty dishes in a rush shift.
No one says it. Not out loud.
But they all know.
She kissed me.
Or maybe I kissed her. I don’t even know anymore. All I remember is the feel of her lips—soft and trembling and alive—and the way her breath hitched when we pulled apart. Like maybe she didn’t expect to feel anything at all. Like maybe it scared her.
It sure as shit scared me.
I slam the blade down harder than I mean to, shearing through a rootbulb and into the board beneath. The vibration shudders up my arm.
“Careful,” my father says behind me. His voice is gravelly with age and smoke, low like distant thunder. “Your balance is off.”
I grunt. “Steel’s thin.”
He doesn’t argue. Just watches for a breath longer than necessary before walking away.
I exhale and return to the blade. But my hands won’t steady. They remember the shape of her fingers. The tension in her shoulders. The way she tried to bolt even as her eyes begged her to stay.
There’s something about Kristi Montana that gets under my scales.
She’s fire and thorn and guilt wrapped in steel. She walks like she’s daring the world to push her, and maybe she wants it to. Maybe if it pushes hard enough, she won’t have to stand on her own anymore.
I get it.
I’ve walked that line.
When the second knife snaps mid-sharpen, I curse so loud the dish runner flinches.
“I need air,” I mutter, tossing the hilt into the scrap bin.
Outside, Novaria Prime smells like grease and hover exhaust and too many lives layered on top of each other. The market is starting to swell—humans, Fratvoyans, Pi’Rell, all moving like blood through veins that never quite rest.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
