The moment stretches. The faint hum of the air-con, the scent of our mingled sweat and his armor polish, the low night-buzz of the studio lot drifting in through the vent—all of it forms the soundtrack of this small victory. I breathe in deep,tongues past lips dry from talking, from emotion, from laughter and pain. I exhale.
“Pepper is upstairs,” I say eventually. “I want her to wake up safe.”
He shifts, wraps one arm around me. “She will. With us.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of my head. “Liora… we’re home.”
And for the first time in years, I don’t doubt him. Not for a second.
I close my eyes and melt into him, the afterglow wrapping around us like warm silk.
For the first time in three years—maybe ever—I feel whole.
And tomorrow, the galaxy will come for us with questions and headlines and opinions.
But tonight?
Tonight I am Liora.
Wife of a Reaper.
Mother of a miracle.
Loved.
And I sleep in the arms of the man who crossed star systems to kiss me again.
CHAPTER 36
GYON
The morning after our bonding ceremony tastes different.
Not like victory. Not like relief.
Likerightness.
The kind that settles in my bones and quiets every instinct that’s ever told me to run, fight, tear, survive. I wake with Liora’s hair spread across my chest like a dark silk banner, her breath warm against my skin, her fingers curled loosely against my ribs. The light filtering in from the tiny gap in the curtains paints her face gold.
Pepper is already gone—Liora walked her to the school shuttle an hour ago while I pretended not to watch them from the window like a paranoid beast.
Now, the apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
I hear the shower running.
Her footsteps. The slide of the glass door. The water shifting over her skin.
My body reacts before I tell it to. My chest warms. My claws flex—slow, careful, not the way I used to when hunger was a weapon. This is a different kind of hunger. Quieter. More dangerous.
I rise, follow the sound down the hall, and push the bathroom door open.
Steam rolls over me, hot and fragrant with her soap—orange blossom and something sweeter underneath. Her scent. My lungs seize on it greedily.
She doesn’t hear me at first.
She stands beneath the spray, head tipped back, hair plastered to her spine, fingers massaging her scalp. The water runs down her shoulders, her back, her legs. Light slips along every curve.
