And when I finally shatter—back arched, nails clawing the table, pussy clenching tight around his cock—I scream his name like it’s a prayer.
He follows seconds later, snarling low as he comes, cock pulsing deep inside me.
We collapse together on the floor. Sweaty. Breathless. Still tangled.
Not naked. Not fully. But it feels like everything is stripped bare.
His scales are warm under my cheek. His heart beats slow and steady. I listen to it like it’s the only music left in the universe.
“You okay?” he asks, voice softer than I’ve ever heard.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”
He brushes hair from my face. There’s something reverent in his touch that makes my throat tighten.
“This didn’t mean anything,” I repeat. Weak. Lying.
He says nothing.
Because we both know—this meant everything.
CHAPTER 4
TROKA
The comm tone drills into my skull at dawn—three sharp pulses, code red. I jerk awake in my bunk with a snarl still caught in my throat. For a second, I’m not sure where I am. My sheets smell like disinfectant and engine oil. The transport hub’s temporary quarters aren’t meant for comfort, just containment.
Another pulse. The code turns from red to black on the screen.
Immediate deployment. No warning or briefing. Just a time stamp and coordinates.
Front line.
Centuries War theater.
“Of course,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bunk. The floor is cold. My boots are still wet from last night’s rain, scuffed with Barrakus dust. My uniform smells faintly of her—of that storage room, of sweat and whiskey and something bright underneath.
Alaina.
Her name hits my chest like a shock grenade.
I rub a hand over my face. Not to wipe sleep away. To ground myself. Orders like this aren’t rare. Vakutan soldiersdon’t get goodbyes. We get summons. Efficient. Ruthless. Final. The machine calls, you go.
And usually? That’s enough for me.
But this time, something feels wrong. Something feels torn out of me, still bleeding.
I pull on my armor piece by piece. The chest plate’s still dented from my last exercise run, the smell of scorched polymer clinging to it. My gloves squeak faintly when I flex my claws. Everything about me screams combat readiness—except my head. My head’s still in that storage room.
Her mouth. Her eyes. The way she said “This doesn’t mean anything” but touched me like it did.
I strap my pack and glance at my comm. Part of me wants to send her a message—anything. A warning. A promise. Something to saywait.
But I can’t bring myself to say what I mean, even over a cowardly text only message. I wind up sending only my Trooper ID code deployment date--which is right now--to her over text. She might be able to reach me via message, and she might not.
She’ll think that it’s official notice, most likely. I can’t make myself say the things I need to say.
Hopefully, I won’t be blown to smithereens on this assignment, and I’ll get to see her again.
