“Complicated.” Luzrak’s voice is diplomatic—which means it’s very bad. “The Valorian High Houses have called an emergency session. Your evidence has... clarified several political alliances.”
“Some houses are grateful. Others are implicated.” Mother Morrison’s smile is knife-sharp. “The next few weeks will bedelicate. Which is why the wedding might need to happen sooner rather than later.”
Polly stiffens beside me. “The wedding?”
“To cement the alliance. Legitimize the bond.” Mother Morrison waves a hand like this is obvious. “Here's the supplies. You saw the gift basket. With a bow. I don't want to hear another word about it.”
Through the bond: a complicated mix of irritation, gratitude, and something that might be love for this impossible woman who crossed three sectors to save her.
“The Valorian delegation,” I say, steering us back to politics before Polly can start crying or cursing—both equally likely. “My parents attended the memorial.”
“I noticed. Your father looked like he was calculating structural weaknesses.” Mother Morrison pulls up a new display. “He’s requested a formal meeting. Tomorrow, after you’ve had time to recover.” A pause. “I’ve agreed to let it happen on OOPS-controlled territory.”
“You’veagreedto let my parents meet with me?”
“You’re my courier’s mate.” She says it like it’s obvious. Like the political implications of a minor OOPS station commander dictating terms to a Valorian High House are completely irrelevant. “That makes you OOPS jurisdiction until I decide otherwise.”
“Mother—” Polly starts.
“Don’t get emotional.” But she reaches out and squeezes Polly’s shoulder—quick, fierce, gone before anyone can comment. “Now. Both of you. Rest. Tomorrow is going to be complicated, and I need you functional.”
It’s a dismissal. We take it.
Polly’s quarters are small—barely bigger than the medical bay, with a narrow bunk and a porthole that looks out over stars I don’t recognize.
She sits on the edge of the bed, and I lower myself beside her, wincing at the pull of healing wounds.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
“Your father watched me,” she finally says. “During the memorial. After I placed the patch.”
“I saw.”
“He looked... different. Less like he was calculating how to get rid of me.”
“You surprised him.” I reach over and take her hand. “You surprised all of them. A courier standing with warriors, claiming kinship with the fallen. That’s not what they expected from a Fringe transport pilot.”
“I’m not trying to be impressive. I just—” She stops. Swallows. “Those warriors died for us. The least I could do was acknowledge it.”
“I know.” I bring her hand to my lips. “That’s exactly what surprised them. You weren’t performing. You meant it.”
She turns to look at me, and her eyes are bright with something I can’t name. “Your mother still hates me.”
“My mother is... complicated.” I choose my words carefully. “She’s spent her entire life building alliances, arranging marriages, calculating political advantage. You’re not what she planned for me.”
“I’m not what anyone planned for you.”
“No.” I cup her face with my free hand, tilting it toward me. “You’re what I chose for myself. First thing I’ve ever chosen for myself, really. And they don’t know what to do with that.”
“What if they never accept me?”
“Then they miss out on knowing the most extraordinary woman in three sectors.” I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone—that familiar gesture, the one that always makes her breath catch. “I care that they eventually see what I see. But if they never do? I chose you. A hundred times. A thousand times. Always.”
Her eyes are definitely bright now. She blinks rapidly, and I feel her fighting for composure through the bond.
“When did you get so good at speeches?”
“Diplomat. Literally my job.”
