I press close. “You do belong. And I didn’t see right away the weight that collection carried for you.” I swallow. “Thank your father—for welcoming you even amid uncertainty.”
He kisses my temple. “I’ll wire from that collection someday, build things for our child.” He smiles. “We’ll make that room, that workshop.”
We lean together in moonlight. I rest my cheek against his chest. He strokes my hair.
Inside, Dad and Mom are packing away dinner, their laughter faint behind the windows. The wire box sits neatly closed on the table.
Tonight wasn’t flawless. But acceptance found its way through wires and nerves. I know tomorrow we will carry forward—all of us.
And: I finally feelat home.
CHAPTER 50
TROKA
Ilean against the wooden divider behind the altar hall, breathing like I just ran a sprint. The smell of flowers—white lilies and soft orchids—warms the air. The sound of the organ tuning, the distant rustle of guests settling, the hush of robes shifting. My heart hammers so loud I’m sure everyone to my left can hear it.
I press my forehead to the divider, trying to still my pulse. On the other side: Alaina. Her dress makes the air crackle—silk and lace, soft folds, hope stitched into every seam. I imagine her breath, soft and excited. I imagine her eyes. I imagine her smile.
A small voice whispers through the partition. “Troka?”
I can’t speak. My throat’s dry. I clear it. “Alaina?” My voice is husky.
“Are you okay?” She breathes. I hear a tremor in her question, but also excitement.
I press my hand flat on the wood. “I’ve never been more terrified.”
She laughs, soft and trembling. “Me too.”
The hovercar hums around us, the city lights shrinking below, but I don’t care. My hand’s in his—warm, strong, massive—and that’s all that matters.
He glances over, golden eyes molten, and when I meet them, everything I’ve ever tried to bury about how I feel for him rushes to the surface like a dam cracked open. We’ve crossed a thousand battlefields. Buried people. Burned futures. But here? Now?
This is ours.
He leans in and kisses me. Slow. Soft. Fierce. Like a promise, like a homecoming.
By the time we reach the honeymoon cottage, I’m breathless. The place is warm, tucked into trees, lanterns glowing around the porch. The moment the hovercar doors slide open, he’s there—lifting me like I weigh nothing, bridal-style, his arms solid around me.
“Troka—” I laugh, startled, breathless.
“Mine now,” he growls, mouth brushing my ear.
Stars help me, that voice.
He kicks the door open and strides inside. The scent hits first—honeysilk and cedarwood. Then the soft lights, the low bed draped in woven blankets, the shadows flickering across the redwood walls. It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.
He sets me down gently at the foot of the bed. My heart is thudding like it might break free.
“You nervous?” he asks, voice low.
“No.” I step in, sliding my hands up his chest. “Just ready.”
His gaze darkens. “Say it.”
“I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
