“A miracle,” Liora cuts in.
“She’s my daughter,” I snarl. “You got a problem with that?”
The rep opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. The drones catch every beat of his confusion, every tremor of his hands. And then, just like that, he stammers something about reviewing protocol and retreats faster than a Hylari sunlizard from rain.
Too late.
The footage spreads like wildfire. Within the hour, the net is ablaze: #ReaperWedding, #GalacticLoveGoals, #AlienDaddyEnergy. People repost it with captions like “Did you SEE that kiss?” and “I want what they have.” Pepper becomes a symbol. So do we. We’re not a scandal. We’re a goddamn phenomenon.
We’re home.
And if anyone tries to rip this from me now… well.
Let them try.
CHAPTER 35
LIORA
The moment the reception doors close behind us, I don’t even pretend to be civilized anymore.
I grab Gyon by the collar of his ceremonial plating, yank him down to my mouth, and kiss him like I’ve been starving for years—which, honestly, I have. The noise of the gala fades into static behind us: clinking glasses, polite laughter, the nonsensical murmur of reporters trying to get B-roll. None of it touches me.
Only he does.
“Liora,” he growls against my lips, voice already slipping into that low, dangerous rumble that hits me behind the knees. “If you keep looking at me like that, I will carry you out of here over my shoulder.”
“Then don’t make me look at you,” I whisper, dragging him backward into the dressing suite and slamming the door shut with my heel.
He barely has time to breathe before I shove him back against the wall.
He laughs—one sharp exhale of disbelief and desire. “This is how you wish to begin our first night as bonded?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, already fumbling with the decorative straps on my bodice. “Or help.”
His hands are on me instantly, large and burning hot through the thin layers, tracing the curve of my waist like he’s reacquainting himself with territory he has a lifetime claim to. He mutters something filthy and reverent in Reaper-speak, something that makes my stomach drop and heat bloom between my ribs.
I look up at him, breathless. “Translate.”
“It loses meaning in your tongue,” he says—then leans in, lips brushing my ear. “But the closest phrase would be:this woman is the axis of my existence, and the gods envy me for touching her.”
“Oh,” I whisper, and the word crumbles in my mouth.
His jacket falls first. Then mine.
He lifts me easily—always so damn effortlessly—and lays me down on the softest part of the bed, like I’m something fragile. But he knows better.
I’m not fragile.
Not with him.
I tug at his braid, undoing it with shaking fingers. He watches me, eyes molten, every breath a thread between us.
“Touch me like you mean it,” I whisper.
“I always do.”
His hands move over me—slow, reverent, mapping every inch of skin like it’s sacred ground. My pulse races. My breath catches. Every place he touches burns in the best way, like his fingers rewrite what I thought was possible.
