He didn’t leer.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t touch.
But those eyes… they saw me. Not the dancer. Not the stage body. Me.
And somehow, that terrifies me more than anything else.
Because whatever this is, whatever he wants—I think it’s real. And real things are dangerous.
And I think I’m already in too deep.
CHAPTER 4
ROJA
Idon’t go back to the Crimson Coil.
Not for three days.
I bury myself in work instead. Welding plates on suborbital engine struts, hammering down heat-seals in the rain where the dome vents don’t quite cover. The shifts drag, hours smeared together in the grind of heat and metal. My gloves steam. My shoulders ache.
The other guys notice. Of course they do. Grel makes a crack about me being even grumpier than usual. Jex says I must’ve started mating season early. I don’t answer either of them. I just grunt and burn another rivet line deep into the bulkhead.
They don’t get it. How could they?
It’s not about sex.
It’s not even about the show.
It’s about her.
That human woman with fire in her hands and sadness in her spine. The one who dances like it’s the only time she’s not afraid.
The way she looked at me in that alley… Not scared. Not really. Wary, yeah. Ready to bolt. But underneath it—questions. Heat. Hunger maybe, if I read her right.
And I haven’t been able to stop seeing her face since.
Every time I close my eyes, there she is. Pale skin kissed by firelight. Eyes wide and sharp. Mouth twitching with the words she didn’t say. The sound of her voice soft and raw when she whispered thanks, like she didn’t know what I’d do with it.
She thinks I’m some kind of threat.
She’s not wrong.
I don’t want to want her. I don’t want toneedanything. I gave up wanting when I left the black squads behind. Desire gets you compromised. Gets you twisted. Gets you dead.
But she’s in my blood now.
I spend my breaks staring at the floor instead of eating. My nights pacing instead of sleeping. My skin feels too tight. My chest too small.
It’s like the world’s shifted just a few degrees sideways, and I can’t quite find my balance anymore.
I shouldn’t go back.
But of course, after my shift that’s just what I do. I don’t plan it.
Just find myself outside the Crimson Coil again, collar turned up against the wind, boots wet with the city’s filth. The glow of the sign pulses against the haze like a heartbeat, red and relentless. I stand across the street for a long minute, just breathing in the stink of fried oil, spilled synth-spice, and the electric musk of bodies packed too tight inside.
I don’t go in to watch the stage.
