Page 55 of Stars in Nova

The compact room she retreated to was tucked into the far cranny of the subterranean home.

Inside, the space was spare but neatly arranged.

A woven mat covered the stone floor, its faded colors a remnant of brighter days.

Her bed was in one corner, layered with soft blankets and a pillow stitched by Misandra’s steady hands.

The air was packed with florals and moss, a calming scent she had come to associate with this tiny sanctuary.

A side table stood by her pallet, its surface scratched but polished. It held a single lamp and a holographic photo.

A carved wooden chest sat at the foot of the bedding, its contents sparse—extra clothes, a few keepsakes, and a battered journal.

Samira sank onto her mattress, the ache in her body reminding her of the day’s work.

Reaching for a petite tin on the table, she opened it to reveal a natural lotion made from herbs and oils.

In a ritual she’d never let go of since before the war, she rubbed it into her palms, the scent of wildflowers filling the room then massaged it into her skin. The action was a nightly tradition that soothed her frayed nerves.

Her fingers paused as her gaze flicked to the virtual photo on a stand.

The image showed a younger version of herself, her face glowing with happiness.

She stood beside a man in a general’s uniform, his arm around her waist, his expression warm and confident. Between them, two children beamed at the camera—a boy with her dark hair and a girl with his light eyes.

Her throat tightened as she reached out and brushed the edge of the holo frame. ‘Ryen,’ she whispered, her voice breaking on the name.

The sadness of his memory pressed against her chest, the image of that life—her life before the battle—lingering in her mind.

Designer gowns, glittering balls, the hum of music and laughter in grand halls. It all appeared like another world, a dream she could just about recall.

She felt a familiar wave of guilt about her long-gone husband. He had been compassionate, gentle, and generous—her childhood sweetheart.

Over the years, as they’d matured, their love had shifted to a kind, considerate, sometimes placid partnership, with little excitement but plenty of nurturing.

When the fighting began, he took charge of Thalassa’s forces.

She’d fought by his side, their kindred hearts united for the sake of their people and children.

Until she’d lost him in a Corilian rail gun attack.

With a sigh, she turned off the lamp, plunging the room into the soft blue light of the bioluminescence that seeped through the cracks in the stone.

She lay down, pulling the blankets over her, her body heavy with exhaustion.

The cavern was silent except for the distant drip of water, which was soothing but not enough to quiet Samira’s mind. She stared at the arched ceiling above, the glow of the algae casting shifting shadows across the rock.

Sleep evaded her, and her thoughts were unable to find peace.

Instead, it conjured images of Eden II—of Kisan.

Fokk, the way his hands had gripped her arms, firm and searching.

Then, he’d glided his lean fingers over her skin as though trying to memorize her.

She remembered the intensity in his viridescent eyes, the glow that appeared to pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat. She twisted in her bed, heart burning with the ache of her betrayal, the knowledge that she had used him.

Yet, beneath the guilt, a spark of something else remained—a longing, a wild need for him that glided over her skin and left her throbbing and aching between her thighs.

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