He growls—a low, possessive sound that vibrates through my chest. He pulls me in, one arm wrapping around my waist, lifting me effortlessly until my feet leave the floorboards.
His mouth crashes against mine, and the quiet of the house vanishes.
I moan—sharp, guttural—because it’s not soft. It’s not just comfort. It’s a hunger we’ve starved for years. His tongue claims mine, hot and demanding, his claws tangling in my hair as he tilts me back.
“You’re mine,” he growls against my lips.
“I always was,” I pant. “Show me.”
He carries me to the bed, laying me down on the quilt we bought in the village. There’s no armor to strip away this time. No tactical gear. Just the soft linen shirt he wears, which I yank over his head in one impatient motion.
He grins, sharp and wicked, and follows me down.
His body covers mine, massive and burning. Under the moonlight, his red-gold scales shimmer. He kisses the curve of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, moving lower until I’m writhing, whispering his name like a curse and a prayer.
“Valtron—”
He slips his hand between us, touching me with a reverence that makes my heart ache. “So wet for me,” he murmurs.
“Stop talking.”
He slides one thick finger into me, then two, stretching me slowly, his eyes locked on my face, watching every flicker of pleasure.
“Perfect,” he breathes.
When he finally replaces his hand with his body, pushing inside me slow and deep, I gasp, clawing at his shoulders. He fills every empty space, every cracked part of my soul.
We move together in the rhythm of the waves outside—steady, relentless, consuming. He fucks me like he’s trying to memorize me, and I take him like I’m anchoring him to this earth.
When we come, it’s not quiet. It’s a shattered cry into the dark, a release of everything we survived to get here.
After, he holds me, his heart thudding against my back, and for the first time in my life, I don’t fear the morning.
The idea comestwo days later, born from the mind of a six-year-old with sticky fingers and too much energy.
Ripley is down by the shore, collecting "gems"—smooth, flat stones polished by the mirrorwash lake until they gleam like opal. She has a pile of them on the bench Valtron built.
Valtron is sitting beside her, letting her braid a piece of grass around his wrist.
“Valtron?” she asks, tying a knot.
“Yeah, storm?”
“Why don’t you and Mama have the promise bands?”
He blinks. “The what?”
“In the stories,” she says, exasperated, as if explaining physics to a toddler. “When the prince and the pilot stop fighting the bad guys, they get promise bands. It means they’re a team forever.”
Valtron looks up at me where I’m standing on the deck. I smile, leaning against the rail.
“We are a team,” Valtron says seriously.
“But you didn’t do the thing!” Ripley stands up, brushing sand off her knees. She picks up two of the smoothest, roundest stones she’s found. “We have to do the thing.”
She marches up to the deck, grabs my hand, and drags me down to the sand. She makes us stand in front of the swing.
“Okay,” she announces, her voice taking on a very official, imperious tone. “I am the... the Captain of the Lake.”
