Chapter 18 Future Chaos #3
“Your... companions,” she finally says. “Have interesting taste in entertainment.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea they would—”
“I wasn’t finished.”
I shut my mouth.
She moves to stand beside me at the railing, looking out at the stars rather than at me. Her profile is sharp, elegant, utterly controlled.
“The bond resonance during the ceremony,” she says quietly. “I’ve attended seventeen Valorian bonding ceremonies. I’ve never seen marks glow like that.”
I don’t know what to say. “Is that... bad?”
“I didn’t see it at my own wedding.” She turns to look at me, and something in her expression has shifted. Not warmer, exactly, but... different. “Valorian bonds are calculated. Strategic. Love sometimes follows. Sometimes not.”
She’s quiet for a long moment.
“What you have with my son—” She studies my face like she’s seeing me for the first time. “That is not calculated. That is not strategic. That is... rare.”
My throat goes tight. “Lady Valorian—”
“I was prepared to disapprove of you.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s discussing trade negotiations. “You’re Fringe. Chaotic. Everything we trained him against.”
“I know.”
“But he looked at you during those vows—” Her voice falters, just barely. “The way his father has never looked at me. The way I’ve never seen anyone look at anyone.”
She turns fully to face me.
“How could I disapprove of that?”
I don’t know what to say. This is the woman who looked at me like I was something stuck to her shoe less than forty-eight hours ago. The woman who radiated cold disapproval from the moment she stepped off her shuttle.
“I... love him.” The words feel inadequate. “I know I’m not what you wanted for him—”
“What I wanted was for him to survive.” Her voice is fierce now, almost raw. “To complete his mission. To come home. You gave me all three.”
She steps closer.
“And you made him laugh. Genuinely laugh, in front of a room full of witnesses, at his own expense.” A pause. “I haven’t heard that since he was a child.”
My eyes are stinging again. This is ridiculous. I’ve cried more in the past two days than in the previous five years combined.
“Welcome to the family, Polly Valorian.”
“It’s still West,” I manage, trying to find my equilibrium. “Hyphenated maybe. We’re negotiating.”
Lady Valorian’s lip quirks. Just barely. The ghost of what might be a smile.
“I see why he likes you.”
She extends her hand—a formal Valorian gesture, the kind she’d offer to an ally. An equal.
I take it.
Her grip is firm, her skin cool against mine. And something passes between us—not warmth, not yet, but the beginning of it. The foundation of something that might become understanding.
“Don’t hurt him,” she says quietly.
“I won’t.”
“And don’t let him hurt himself. He has a tendency toward noble self-sacrifice.”
“Tell me about it.”
This time, the ghost smile actually materializes. Briefly. Gone almost before I can register it.
“We should return,” she says. “Before my daughter starts an interstellar incident with the Zaterran warriors.”
“Is that likely?”
“She’s been trying to arm-wrestle them for the past twenty minutes. Someone is going to lose a limb.”
I laugh—surprised, genuine—and Lady Valorian looks at me like I’ve done something unexpected.
Maybe I have. Maybe laughing is something her family doesn’t do enough of.
We walk back into the chaos together.
Finally. Finally. We’re alone.
Rynn closes the door behind us—the nicest guest suite in the fortress, which means actual furniture and candles and a bed that looks big enough for creative activities—and I hear the lock engage with a sound that feels like victory.
“If Zip or Rusty interrupt this,” I say, already reaching for the clasps of my dress, “I’m spacing them both.”
“Noted.” Rynn’s voice is rough. Through the bond, I feel his hunger—banked all day, simmering through the ceremony and the reception and the endless formal conversations. Now blazing free. “I’ve disabled the comm system.”
“You learned.”
“I’m highly motivated.”
He’s still in his ceremonial attire, all those ridiculous layers and formal sashes, and he’s looking at me like I’m water and he’s been dying of thirst.
“Come here,” I say.
“No.”
I blink. “No?”
“If I touch you right now—” His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide. His scales are flushing gold at his temples, his throat. “I want to do this properly.”
“Properly?”
He moves toward me, slow and deliberate. A predator approaching prey that has no intention of running. The bond pulses between us, heavy with want.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” He stops just in front of me, close enough to feel his heat but not quite touching. “Every moment of the ceremony, every conversation, every time someone looked at you and saw what I see.”
“What do you see?”
“Everything.” He reaches out, traces a single finger along my jaw. The touch sends sparks cascading through my nervous system. “Everything I never knew I wanted.”
“You said that during the vows.”
“I meant it during the vows.” His finger traces down, following the line of my throat to where the mate mark pulses. “I mean it now. I’ll mean it for the rest of my life.”
I swallow. “You’re being romantic.”
“I’m being honest.” His hand cups the back of my neck, tilting my face up. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” My voice comes out rough. “Definitely not a problem.”
He kisses me.
Not like the ceremony—that was public, restrained, appropriate. This is none of those things. This is his mouth claiming mine with the full force of everything he’s been holding back, tongue sliding against mine, hand tightening in my hair.
I melt into him. My hands find his shoulders, his chest, start working on the clasps of his ridiculous formal wear.
“Too many layers,” I gasp against his mouth.
“Valorian formal wear is—”
“Ridiculous. I know. Keep talking.”
I don’t let him. Pull him down into another kiss while my fingers find buttons and closures and there, finally, his bare chest under my palms. He’s warm—he’s always warm—scales smooth and hot under my touch.
His hands find the clasps of my dress. More patient than me, more deliberate, like he’s unwrapping a gift. The fabric slithers down my body and pools at my feet, and he pulls back to look at me.
“Stars.” The word comes out reverent. His eyes trace over me—every curve, every imperfection, the mark on my throat that glows brighter as his attention focuses on it. “You’re—”
“Don’t say beautiful. That’s boring.”
“I was going to say mine.” His voice drops low, rough with want. “But beautiful works too.”
He backs me toward the bed. Slow, inexorable, giving me every chance to stop him.
I have no intention of stopping him.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I pull him down with me.
We’ve done this before—frantic, desperate, against walls and in bunks and wherever we could find five minutes alone. But this is different. This is a wedding night. This is ours.
“I want to take my time,” he murmurs against my throat, lips brushing the mate mark. The touch sends lightning through my veins. “I want to make you feel—”
“Rynn.” I thread my fingers through his hair, pull him up to meet my eyes. “We have all night. We have the rest of our lives. Right now, I want you to stop talking and touch me.”
His eyes blaze.
He touches me.
His hands trace down my body with deliberate purpose, learning every inch of skin like he’s mapping unknown territory. When his mouth follows—tracing the line of my collarbone, the swell of my breast, the sensitive spot below my ribs that makes me gasp—I arch into him like a plant seeking sunlight.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my skin. “Let me hear you.”
I’m not quiet. Can’t be, not with his hands and his mouth and the bond blazing between us, letting me feel his pleasure layered over my own. When his fingers find the heat between my thighs, I cry out.
“Rynn—please—”
“Please what?” He’s watching me, golden eyes dark with hunger, pupils blown. His fingers stroke, tease, never quite giving enough.
“You know what.”
“Say it.” A command wrapped in velvet. Power exchange, but loving—not about control, about trust.
I’m going to combust. I’m going to die right here, in the nicest bed I’ve ever been in, because my husband is a tease.
“Touch me.” The words break from my throat. “I need—I need more—Rynn, please—”
He gives me more.
His fingers sink into me as his thumb finds the spot that makes me see stars. I shatter almost immediately—all the tension of the day, the ceremony, the waiting, crashing through me in waves that leave me gasping and shaking and utterly undone.
He works me through it, gentle now, watching my face like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“More,” I manage when I can breathe again.
His smile is pure trouble. “Demanding.”
“You love it.”
“I love you.”
He says it simply, without artifice, and my heart cracks open all over again.
I pull him down and kiss him, tasting myself on his lips, and reach between us to wrap my hand around him. He groans against my mouth—finally, finally a crack in that control.
“Polly—”
“My turn.”
I push him back against the pillows and straddle him, watching his face as I sink down onto him inch by inch. His hands grip my hips—guiding, not controlling—and his eyes never leave mine.
“You’re—” He tries to speak, fails, tries again. “You’re beautiful.”
“Obviously,” I gasp, and even now, even now, the sass comes out.
He laughs. Actually laughs, with me on top of him, joined in the most intimate way possible. And somehow that’s what tips us over the edge—not the heat or the need but the joy, the ridiculous absurd wonderful joy of finding someone who makes you laugh even in moments like this.
I move. He moves with me. The bond synchronizes us perfectly, pleasure feeding back and forth between us until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
“Together,” he manages, voice wrecked.
“Always.”
We shatter.
The mate marks blaze bright enough to light the room, and I feel him pulse inside me, feel myself clenching around him, feel the bond flare and bloom and settle into something permanent. Something unbreakable.
When the light finally fades and I collapse against his chest, we’re both breathing like we’ve run a marathon. His arms wrap around me, holding me close, and I can feel his heart pounding against my cheek.
“So,” I say into his chest. “Married.”
“Married,” he agrees.
“Any regrets?”
His arms tighten. “Only that I didn’t find you sooner.”
I prop myself up to look at him. His hair is a disaster, his eyes are soft, and he’s looking at me like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever asked.
“Sap.”
“Your sap now.”
“Stars help me.” But I’m smiling, and through the bond, I feel his joy—uncomplicated, bright, entirely ours.
We lie there in the candlelight, tangled together, sweaty and satisfied and glowing—literally, his scales are still flickering with residual heat.
“Your mother accepted me,” I say after a while. “On the balcony. She welcomed me to the family.”
I feel his surprise through the bond. “She did?”
“I think we bonded over you being ridiculous.”
“I am not ridiculous.”
“You set water on fire, Rynn.”
“One time.”
“I’m keeping receipts forever.”
He laughs again—that easy, real sound I’m learning to love—and pulls me closer.
“I love you, Polly Valorian.”
“West,” I correct automatically. “Hyphenated. We’re negotiating.”
“I love you, Polly Hyphenated-We’re-Negotiating.”
I bite him. Gently.
He makes a sound that suggests he doesn’t mind.
“I love you too,” I say against his shoulder. “Even if you’re ridiculous.”
Through the bond: warmth. Safety. Home.
We’ve earned this. Every explosion, every near-death experience, every impossible choice. We’ve earned this moment, this joy, this future stretching out before us full of chaos and love and probably way too many diplomatic incidents.
I can’t wait.