Page 34 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

“No,” I say.

Her face changes.

The sarcasm withdraws, not completely, but enough that surprise shows through. “No?”

“I do not trust destiny.”

She sits very still. “That is not what I expected you to say.”

“I know.”

“Vakutan warrior, Precursor reverence, big soulmate moment, lots of brooding. I had a whole argument prepared.”

“I apologize for poor cooperation.”

“That was almost a joke.”

“Do not spread rumors.”

Her mouth curves faintly, then fades again. “Why don’t you trust destiny?”

The mess module feels suddenly too warm. The smell of stew turns heavy. I look at my hands, at the scars crossing my knuckles, at the claws I have used in close combat when weapons failed and men kept screaming.

“During the Centuries War,” I say, “I served under officers who believed every order had cosmic weight because our side stood within the Grand Design. I saw Alliance commanders frame atrocities as necessary pressure on history. I saw priests bless campaigns that should have been condemned. I saw Vakutan warriors, good men, honorable men, become monsters because they were told fate had already judged their enemies.”

Anita says nothing.

I continue because stopping now would be cowardice. “Destiny is dangerous when people use it to silence doubt. It is dangerous when it turns choice into obedience. I left the military because I no longer knew how to tell the difference between honor and a story told to make slaughter bearable.”

Her green eyes remain fixed on me, wide and unguarded in a way I have not seen before. She is not preparing a joke. She is not preparing an attack.

It makes my chest ache.

“So when I touched you,” I say, quieter now, “and felt certainty, I hated it.”

She flinches, not from insult, but recognition.

I force the rest out. “Not because of you. Because certainty has cost me too much.”

The words linger between us. Around the room, life continues with indecent normality. Brakk curses at someone for stealing his roll. Teren laughs too loudly at something Pell says. A heater coughs and restarts.

Anita looks down at her hands. Her fingers are curled around her spoon, but she is not eating.

Finally, she says, “I grew up on a colony that sold fake Precursor miracles to tourists.”

I wait.

“My mother ran a legitimate lodging house. My uncle ran a souvenir stall full of blessed rocks he bought in bulk from a quarry. Pilgrims came looking for meaning. Desperate people, grieving people, sick people. Some of them spent everything because somebody told them the Precursors had touched our stupid little moon.” Her eyes grow hard. “I decided early that sacred stories are usually somebody’s business model.”

“That is not always true.”

“No. Just often enough to make me a delight at parties.”

I look at her more carefully. Beneath the wit, there is old anger there, and old grief too. Not the grief of battlefields, but the quieter kind made by watching hope get packaged and sold to people who cannot afford disappointment.

“You study the Precursors because you do not believe in them,” I say.

“I study them because I want the truth underneath the performance.” She looks up again. “And because sometimes the artifacts are real, which is incredibly inconvenient for my cynicism.”