Page 8 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
She watches me.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asks, tone light.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She bites her lip. Just a little. And I look away before I do something unforgivable.
The door hisses open behind me. I step out into the morning, back into the chill, trying not to think about how badly I want to turn around and stay.
CHAPTER 3
RUBY
The last of the scones cools on the rack behind me, their golden crusts flaking just enough to satisfy even Vonn’s absurd standards, and the espresso machine hisses its final exhale like a dragon sighing itself to sleep. The shop smells like warm brown sugar and cardamom, with a ghost-trace of toasted almond dancing somewhere beneath. I love this time of day—the hush right before lock-up, when the world exhales and the day folds itself into neat corners.
“Lyrie, you’ve got the inventory, right?” I ask, slinging the satchel of credits over my shoulder. It’s heavier than usual. Today was busy.
She’s lounging against the prep table, scales glittering under the fluorescents like pink opals in heat. “Yup. Already ran the numbers. You want me to do the deposit?”
“No, I’ve got it,” I say, stretching the tension from my shoulders. “You’d just flirt with the security drone again.”
She smirks. “He flirts first.”
“Uh huh.” I roll my eyes and unbolt the side door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Don’t die!”
“Helpful, thanks!”
The door swings shut behind me with a whisper, and the outside hits me all at once—the cool kiss of Novarian dusk brushing against my cheeks, the sulfur-spiced tang of exhaust curling down from the upper traffic lanes, the faint electric hum of city life coiled tight beneath its skin. Interstellar Commons isn’t exactly dangerous, but it’s not the cozy side of Novaria either. It’s got bite.
My boots clack against the cobblestone, steady and confident even as I glance left, then right. The alleyway beside Earth Bites stretches long and dim under the orange-pink glow of the overhead lamps. The light pools more than it spreads, casting everything in pockets of shadow and filtered haze. The dropbox is only twenty steps away—secured, triple encrypted, monitored by the Alliance—but it still raises my hackles every time I make this run.
Still humming to myself, a tune I don’t realize I’ve been carrying all day, I step into the alley.
It starts with a footfall that doesn’t belong to me.
Then another.
And then a voice, oily and mocking.
“Well, well. Look what’s baking up pretty out here.”
I freeze. Just for a second. Then turn, slow and controlled, like I’ve got nothing to hide and nothing to fear. A lie I tell with my spine straight and my chin lifted.
Three of them.
The Grolgath is the biggest—gray skin marbled with green veins, eyes like melted ice chips and tusks chipped from too many brawls. The Baragon stands to his right, spindly but coiled with wiry muscle, a flickering blade holstered at one hip. The third is human, which feels like the worst betrayal. Tall, dirty-blonde, the kind of smirk you want to wipe off with sandpaper.
Their posture’s all wrong. Too relaxed. Too theatrical. Like they’ve practiced this.
I shift my weight back, mentally clocking the distance to the box. Eighteen steps.
“Don’t,” I say, trying to sound more bored than scared. “The Trident Alliance enforces hate crime statutes on Novaria. Surveillance here is real-time. You’ll be flagged before you even spit.”
The Baragon snickers, a dry, chittering sound that makes my skin crawl. “Flagged doesn’t mean stopped, sweetheart.”
The human lets out a low whistle. “You’ve got a real pretty mouth for a freak-lover. We seen you in your bakery making eyes at the ridge-head.”
