Page 11 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

“I am not a commander.”

“Your contract lists you as security commander.”

“My contract was written by people who think changing words changes reality.”

The technician makes a quiet sound that might have been a laugh if he were braver. Merrow’s expression tightens.

I point toward the projection. “Someone entered multiple restricted sections before the expedition was fully staffed. Someone accessed infrastructure points without authorization. Someone erased most of the record but not enough.”

“Smugglers,” Merrow says quickly. “Nareth-Kul has attracted scavengers since the first remote scans leaked.”

“Scavengers steal artifacts and power cells. They do not map generator access and lower transit routes unless they plan to return.”

The liaison’s fingers flex against his sleeve. “Then pirates.”

“Pirates make noise.”

“Religious vandals, perhaps.”

“Religious vandals make more noise.”

Pell looks up from the console. “He’s right. This was quiet.”

Merrow glares at him. “Thank you for your contribution.”

“You’re welcome,” Pell says, with the careful flatness of someone already too tired to care.

I study the pattern again. A cold, familiar sensation settles in my chest, nothing like fear, though fear lives near it. This is the old battlefield instinct, the one that arrives before artillery, before ambush, before the first soldier screams. The site is not merely unsafe. The site is already penetrated.

My gaze drifts, unbidden, to the medical subfeed in the corner of the wall.

Anita Prentiss sits on an examination bench in the field clinic, surrounded by instruments she is clearly insulting. Her dark curls have come partly loose from their pins. Dust smears one cheek. She gestures sharply with one hand while the medic attempts to scan her pupils. Even without audio, irritation radiates from her like heat off hull plating.

My palm remembers her touch.

I close my hand until my claws press against my skin.

Jalshagar.

The word has weight in Vakutan culture. We do not treat it as a silly superstition for mating festivals and sentimental songs. We revere the Precursors, but we do not beg from them. We honor the Grand Design, but we fight with our own hands. A jalshagar bond is considered a blessing, a duty, a recognition of two souls made to meet across the madness of the galaxy.

I have seen men use similar words to justify burning cities.

I have seen commanders call massacres necessary because destiny required clean borders. I have heard priests speak of the Precursor plan while children choked on smoke inside shelters we were told contained enemy munitions. I walked away from the Alliance because too many honorable men became butchers once they believed the universe had signed their orders.

Now the universe, with magnificent cruelty, has put Anita Prentiss in my path and carved certainty into my bones.

I hate it.

Not her. That would be simpler.

I hate that instinct turns my attention toward the clinic feed every few breaths. I hate that my body marks the distance between us as if measuring a wound. I hate that when she yanked her hand away from my arm, something inside me reached after her with humiliating force. I hate that she is brilliant, reckless, abrasive, and alive in a way that makes every other presence in the room feel dimmed.

I hate most of all that she felt it too.

“Commander?” Pell says.

I turn from the clinic feed. “Gather badge data from all workers assigned to these sections. Include contractors, shuttle crew, survey technicians, and temporary labor.”