Chapter 29 Ella
ELLA
I’m grinning at the kitchen, a soft, ridiculous grin that feels like it might crack my face.
He’s across the room, standing over Vex’s crib.
But he isn’t just watching. He’s reinforcing it.
His massive hands, capable of tearing through hull plating, are moving with impossible delicacy as he tightens a safety rail.
He tests the tension with one claw, satisfying himself that it will hold, before picking up a tiny romper that was draped over the side.
The fabric looks absurdly small against his palm. He smells faintly of detergent and the sharp, clean scent of ozone that always clings to his skin.
I lean against the counter, memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his shoulders flex under his shirt. He turns, catching my eye.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. Barely a question.
I arch an eyebrow. “Hey.”
He steps closer, holding up the little shirt. “This one’s yours, right? I thought the buttons matched your eyes.”
I flush. “You think about these things, huh?”
He shrugs, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “When I see him, I try to imagine the life he’ll have. What he’ll wear. Who he’ll become.”
My heart staggers. I swallow. I realize—this is love reassembling itself around us, quiet but relentless.
He hums suddenly. A faint melody. Off-key, a little rough. I hear it before I see it: he’s singing to Vex. The baby fusses, stuffy, then settles, lulled by the rumble of his chest. I blink. He doesn’t notice me watching him, watching the miracle he carries.
I catch myself smiling again. Head spinning. I’m falling—all over again. But it terrifies me.
Because there’s a weight in the silence. The world outside hasn’t stopped turning just because we found our orbit.
Suddenly, the front door chimes.
Not a knock. The electronic chirp of the mag-lock disengaging.
My smile vanishes. We locked that door.
Takhiss stiffens, spinning toward the entryway, placing himself between the crib and the hall. Vex stirs.
Autrua steps in.
Poised. Sharp. Diplomacy in a dress. Her robes billow, edged in gold, and her heels click on the floor with military precision. She smells of old incense and ambition. She didn’t break in; she simply overrode the system like she owns the grid.
She surveys us—Takhiss standing guard, me leaning near the counter—and an expression that’s nearly satisfaction flickers in her eyes.
“Well, well,” she says, voice smooth as oil and twice as dangerous. “The happy family.”
Takhiss doesn’t move. His claws flex at his sides. I step forward, keeping my voice steady.
“Autrua,” I greet. “To what do we owe the pleasure? And the bypass of our security?”
She smiles, unbothered. “I wanted to see this—to witness the fruit of our efforts.” She nods at Vex. “Beautiful child. You both wear parenthood well.”
I force a nod. “Thank you.”
She turns to Takhiss. “You’ve done well. Redemption suits you.”
He bristles. “Redemption isn’t your ledger to balance.”
She glances at me. “Ella, you’ve done remarkable work too. Stability. Home. Safety. Something many claimants never produce.”
I watch her weigh us. I sense her asking, How much are they worth? I steel myself.
“What do you want now, Autrua?”
She lifts a single finger, wandering toward the window to look out at the scrapyard. “Simply to ensure that this ‘restoration’ is permanent. That no one can challenge your status or his.” She turns back, looking me square in the eye. “Children need structure, Ella. A claim. Oversight. Governance.”
I feel my blood cool. “Governance.”
“Precisely.”
I tilt my head. “So the paperwork can cut us apart again.”
She lets that hang. She doesn’t deny it. She simply steps back. “I see you understand. Good. I’ll take my leave—for now.”
She glides away. The door hisses shut behind her, the lock re-engaging with a mocking click.
The soft echo of her presence lingers like smoke.
Takhiss watches the door, face taut. I cross into his space. He reaches for me immediately.
I take his hand. My voice drops. “We have to prepare.”
He nods without asking. He’s already breathing in the danger.
After she leaves, we work. It’s the only way to burn off the adrenaline. We stack baby clothes, fix cables, secure the perimeter. The workshop smells of oil, solder, and something warmer—defiance.
We talk in whispers.
“I’m starting research on guardianship laws,” I say, scrolling through a datapad. “I’m contacting Tribunal Advocates tomorrow. If there’s a loophole, I’ll find it.”
He stiffens. “You don’t need to do this on your own.”
I shake my head. “You’re already fighting so much just to exist here. Let me carry some. If they file a claim—”
He interrupts, stopping my hand. “I will fight it. I will not lose you or Vex to their paper wars.”
I taste tears. “I won’t let you.”
He draws me close. “We’ll survive this.”
And for a moment, everything is safe in his arms. Nothing else exists but us.
But I feel the ticking—time, politics, claims, fear—and I know: this isn’t a dream. It’s a siege.
I press my face to his throat, inhaling him.
And I vow: I will fight harder than all the laws. For love, for blood, for home.