But she’shere. Alive. Mine.
I kiss down her jaw, her neck, finding the place where my mark pulses gold against her skin. She gasps when my lips brush it, her whole body arcing into mine, and the bond flares so bright I see stars.
“Rynn—” My name breaks in her throat. “Gods, when you do that—”
“I know.” I can feel exactly what it does to her. The bond hides nothing. “I feel it too.”
She pulls back, breathing hard, and I bite back a growl of protest. But there’s that wicked smile curling her lips now—the one that means trouble. The one I’ve learned to crave like oxygen.
“I’m beingverygentle with you right now,” she says. Her finger traces my jaw, light as a whisper. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A promise.” She leans in, and her breath is warm against my ear. “Because the second you’re healed enough to handle me? I’m going back to being a brat.”
My scales flash with heat. A growl rumbles in my chest.
“And you,” she continues, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes, “are going to have to dosomethingabout it.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
Her grin sharpens. “Yes.”
I surge up to kiss her again, harder this time, catching her gasp against my lips—
The door chimes.
We spring apart. Well, she springs. I wince, reminded forcefully of all the reasons I shouldn’t be moving quickly.
Mother Morrison’s voice comes through the intercom, dry as dust: “If you two are done with yourmedical consultation, theValorian delegation is docking in twenty minutes. Try to look presentable. Or at least vertical.”
Polly drops her forehead against mine, laughing. The sound is warm and real and everything I never knew I needed.
“Your family has terrible timing,” she murmurs.
“They’re about to have worse timing.” I reach up to cup her face, sobering. “They don’t know about you. Not really.”
Her smile falters slightly. “What exactly did you tell them?”
“That I completed the mission. That I’m alive.” I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone, watching the way her eyes soften. “That I found something worth living for.”
Through the bond: a pulse of emotion so strong it steals my breath. Love. Fear. Hope.
She kisses my palm—soft, sure—and pulls away.
“Then let’s get you presentable,” she says. “Can’t have you meeting your parents looking like you lost a fight with a plasma cannon.”
“Iwonthe fight with the plasma cannon.”
“Did you though? Did you really?”
“I’m alive.”
“Barely.” But she’s smiling again as she reaches for the fresh bandages. “Now hold still, Lord Chaos. I need to make you pretty.”
Twenty minutes is not enough time.
Polly helps me into formal clothes from Mother Morrison’s “emergency diplomatic supplies,” and I don’t ask why shehappens to have formal wear in my size. That woman terrifies me in ways I’m not prepared to examine.
