It echoes in my head like a battle cry and a prayer all at once.
She straightens. “Now get outta my way. Table six is bleeding for attention.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
I watch her walk—hips swaying, braid bouncing, shoulders sharp.
And I know, down to my bones, that tonight isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.
CHAPTER 3
ALAINA
Ithink about him all night.
It’s embarrassing. I’ve got better things to do—sleep, for one. I should be passed out, dead to the world with my feet propped up and a heat patch strapped to my lower back. Instead, I’m staring at the cracked ceiling of my rented bunk, replaying every word, every glance, every breath that damn red-scaled bastard gave me.
Troka.
It evensoundslike trouble.
It’s not like he said anything earth-shattering. He wasn’t sweet. He didn’t charm me with poetry or recite stardust sonnets. He just looked at me like I was made of weapons and wonder, and gods help me, Ilikedit.
That’s not normal. Not for me.
I’ve had flings. Quick ones. Forgettable. Usually drunk and usually regrettable.
But this…? This feels like the start of a wildfire.
I keep telling myself it was nothing. One conversation. Two drinks. A few smirks exchanged over a sticky bar top. But my skin still feels too tight. My chest’s too warm. And the memory of those golden eyes won’t leave me the hell alone.
So when I get called in for another shift the next night, I almost say no. Almost.
Instead, I pull on my uniform. I do my face just enough to look awake. And I leave the house with a pit in my stomach and a warning bell clanging in my chest.
The Docking Bay’s quieter tonight—but only just. Fewer cadets, maybe, but the tension still hangs thick in the air like smoke and cheap lube. The regulars are grumbling in their corners, and the jukebox is stuck on a glitchy remix loop. I nod at Jorla, who’s already mid-argument with a Kessari merchant about drink prices.
I move behind the bar, muscle memory taking over. My hands know what to do. But my brain? My brain’s stuck in the same damn loop.
Will he come back?
But then he does.
Troka walks in like a problem I asked the universe for when I was drunk on bad decisions and lonelier than I wanted to admit. Same uniform. Same smirk that’s more suggestion than smile.
Our eyes meet.
I pretend I don’t flinch. “You’re back,” I say, way too casual.
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought maybe you found a better bar.”
He shrugs. “I found a better bartender.”
Damn it.
