“There’s a gift basket. With abow.”
“...Shut up and let me do my job.”
Through the bond, I feel Rynn’s bewildered amusement. He’s conscious enough now to follow the conversation, though his eyes are barely open.
Your boss brought us wedding gifts?
She runs a betting pool on her couriers apparently, I send back.
Should I be concerned or flattered?
Both. Definitely both.
I look at Mother—this impossible woman who complains about romance and paperwork while secretly packing wedding gifts “just in case.” Who flew across three sectors because her people were in trouble. Who built a family out of misfits and couriers and anyone else who needed one.
“You knew,” I say softly. “Youknewthis would happen.”
Mother finally meets my eyes. And for just a moment, her armor cracks.
“Kid, I’ve been doing this job for twenty-three years. I’ve seen every variation of ‘routine delivery gone sideways’ you can imagine. And somewhere along the way, I learned to read people.” She shrugs. “You and your ‘diplomatic package’ were obvious from the moment I saw the mission parameters.”
“Then why did you let me take the job?”
“Because you’re my best courier. And because sometimes—” She pauses. Takes a breath. “Sometimes people need to fall in love the hard way. Builds character.”
“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
“Tell anyone and I’ll deny it.”
Luzrak returns with an update: the Valorian Fleet has been briefed, the diplomatic situation is “complicated but manageable,” and Rynn’s family is “processing the news of his mating bond with what appears to be significant emotional turbulence.”
“I’ve recommended they send diplomatic personnel,” Luzrak adds. “The military commanders seem... territorial about Lord Valorian’s choices.”
“Aristocrats,” Mother mutters. “They’re all the same.”
I help Rynn sit up as the medical team steps back. He’s still weak—bio-flare drain is apparently no joke—but his eyes are clear now. Alert. Focused entirely on me in a way that makes my heart do stupid things.
“I should contact my family,” he says. “Explain—”
“You shouldrest.” I push him back down. “Luzrak’s handling the diplomacy. Your family can wait until you don’t look like death warmed over.”
“I never look like death warmed over. I am a Valorian noble.”
“You’re a Valorian noble who just used himself as bait for an entire corporate fleet. You look like something Zip would scrape off the hull.”
“THAT IS HURTFUL BUT ACCURATE,” Zip chimes in through the comm. “LORD VALORIAN, YOUR VITAL SIGNS SUGGEST YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO CAPTAIN CHAOS. SHE HAS EXCELLENT INSTINCTS FOR KEEPING PEOPLE ALIVE.”
Mother snorts. “Your AI has opinions.”
“He hasmanyopinions. Most of them are about me.”
“SOMEONE HAS TO PROVIDE OBJECTIVE COMMENTARY, CAPTAIN. YOU’RE CERTAINLY NOT CAPABLE OF IT.”
I grin. I can’t help it. We’re alive. We’re all alive. And somehow, despite everything, we won.
Not through military might. Not through noble sacrifice. Through courier skills—speed and creativity and being “extremely annoying and hard to hit.” Through a sarcastic AI who uploaded viruses and terrible music. Through a found family that crossed three sectors because one of their own was in trouble.
Throughus.
