“I love you, Polly Valorian.”
“West,” I correct automatically. “Hyphenated. We’re negotiating.”
“I love you, Polly Hyphenated-We’re-Negotiating.”
I bite him. Gently.
He makes a sound that suggests he doesn’t mind.
“I love you too,” I say against his shoulder. “Even if you’re ridiculous.”
Through the bond: warmth. Safety. Home.
We’ve earned this. Every explosion, every near-death experience, every impossible choice. We’ve earned this moment, this joy, this future stretching out before us full of chaos and love and probably way too many diplomatic incidents.
I can’t wait.
Epilogue
Rynn
ThecrystalspiresofValorian Prime catch the morning light and scatter it into a thousand shards of gold.
I’ve walked these corridors my entire life. Trained in these halls. Learned diplomacy and duty and the weight of a legacythat stretched back generations. But today, as I move through the familiar passages, everything feels different.
Because everything is different.
A year ago, I was running for my life. Carrying my grandmother’s evidence in a bio-locked case, expecting every jump point to be my last. The Meridian Consortium had eyes everywhere, and I was a dead man walking—I just hadn’t stopped moving yet.
Now the Consortium is ashes. Their leaders prosecuted, their bio-harvesting operations exposed and shut down, their political allies scrambling to distance themselves from the wreckage. The evidence my grandmother died protecting has reshaped the power structure of three sectors.
And I am no longer an exile running desperate missions.
I am heir to House Valorian once more—fully restored, publicly acknowledged, welcomed back into a family that nearly lost me. My father still struggles to express emotion, but he’s learning. My mother has softened in ways I never expected, though she’d deny it if asked. Ayla messages me constantly, usually with pictures of things she wants to buy or trouble she’s planning to cause.
But none of that is why I stayed.
I stayed because of her.
The OOPS Valorian Branch headquarters rises ahead of me, its architecture a deliberate blend of Valorian elegance and Fringe practicality. Mother Morrison made the offer six months after our wedding, when the political dust had settled and the need for expanded courier operations in Valorian space became undeniable.
Someone needs to run it, she’d said. Might as well be someone who already has connections here.
Polly had negotiated for three weeks. The final agreement included an outrageous salary, complete creative control, and aclause that specifically prohibited anyone from commenting on her hair color during official functions.
I’d never been prouder.
The lobby is busy this morning—couriers coming and going, logistics officers coordinating deliveries, the organized chaos that defines OOPS operations everywhere. Several people nod as I pass.
“Lord Valorian!”
“Looking for the boss?”
“Always,” I reply, and the young courier grins like she knows exactly what kind of looking I’m planning to do.
She probably does. Privacy is a luxury we’ve learned to guard jealously.
The bond pulses as I approach Polly’s office, warm and steady beneath my ribs. I can feel her before I see her—her focus, her energy, the particular brightness that means she’s in problem-solving mode. A year of marriage has only deepened this connection. I know her moods now like I know my own heartbeat.
