Chapter 33
LIORA
I’ve practiced this speech so many times the words feel like pebbles rattling in my skull. I’ve rehearsed in the shower, over the sink, in the car, pacing the hall, even whispering to the dish sponge like a lunatic. Every version sounds terrible. Every one ends with me choking on my own guilt.
But today… it feels like maybe I can do it.
Pepper’s at school. The apartment is blissfully quiet.
Morning light spills across the countertop in a warm stripe.
The air smells like citrus cleaner and the faint sweetness of pastry crumbs I forgot to sweep up.
And Gyon—my impossible, infuriating, patient mountain of a man—is in my kitchen making tea like he’s been doing it his whole life.
A Reaper. Making chamomile.
I watch him from the living room doorway. His broad back turned, muscles shifting under a too-tight shirt he insists isn’t too tight. The kettle clicks, steam curls, and he reaches for two cups—mine with the chipped blue rim, his with the crack he pretends not to notice.
This… is the moment. The universe practically laid out a red carpet, sprinkled rose petals, and said, Just tell him, you coward.
I inhale. My heart slams against my ribs like it wants out. “Gyon,” I start, voice quiet but steady. “There’s something I need—”
My comm shrieks.
Not rings. Shrieks.
An alarm tone I’ve never heard. Sharp. Metallic. Bureaucratic.
My stomach drops.
“Oh gods, what now?” I fumble for the device on the coffee table, hands suddenly clumsy.
Gyon turns slightly. “Liora?” His brow furrows. He knows that sound. Of course he does. Warriors always know the sound of trouble.
I swipe the screen open.
A red banner fills my vision. Government seal stamped in the corner. IHC priority flag. Official notice. The text punches me in the face all at once.
INTERPLANETARY HUMAN COUNCIL NOTICE
NON-CITIZEN REAPER: GYON OF HOUSE RAEKOR
MANDATORY REPORT FOR DEPORTATION PROCEEDINGS. NO EXCEPTIONS.
My breath stops working.
“No,” I whisper. “No. No. No, this isn’t—this can’t—” My hand shakes so hard I nearly drop the comm.
Gyon sets the kettle down so fast the metal clangs. “What is that?” He strides toward me, voice low and edged. “Liora. What does it say?”
I hold the message in my hands like a detonator.
The screen’s glow is harsh in the dim studio apartment—orange street-lights leaking through half-broken blinds, the hum of the image-inducer in the next room, the faint scent of syrup from Pepper’s bedtime snack lingering on my fingers.
I hold it out to him: the official IHC notice I swallowed down over breakfast, the legal hammer waiting to fall.
Gyon stands in the kitchen doorway. Soft light on half his face, half in shadow.
His tea cup still warm in his hand. The steam curls up, making his profile flicker.
I watch his features. His face doesn’t change—stone, impassive—but I see the tension: jaw locked tight, muscles under his skin rippled, eyes like black obsidian.
The green glow of the inducer hum in his peripheral vision.
The world hums with normal suburbia calm. But this moment? It feels seismic.
I swallow, voice thin. “This—this came for you.”
His posture doesn’t shift. He takes the message.
I taste cold inside; the tea behind his glass rim is bitter, metallic.
I think of the rumors on Earth, the paranoia about off-worlders, the centuries of fear and hate.
The Reaper history—etched into war tombs and whispered in nightmares—doesn’t help.
The IHC doesn’t protect him. The planet doesn’t trust him. And neither do I… not all the way.
He scans the notice, the simple red text stabbing at him: report for deportation proceedings. Non-citizen Reaper. The world upside-down.
Then he looks up at me. His eyes are wild but calm—storm-quiet.
“Let them try,” he growls. His voice low. The cup clinks against the counter. I feel the metal’s cold. I freeze.
“But Earth—” I start.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing mine as they still hold the message. It’s an anchor and a warning. “It’s not just about me anymore,” I whisper. My voice cracks. “It’s about Pepper. Our daughter.”
Silence. I see the flicker in his eyes. I should feel triumph—yes, I should—but I feel dread. The headline I imagine hits me like a wave: Alien War Criminal Hiding in Holo-Star’s Home. Child of Unknown Parentage Exposed. I taste bitterness, my throat raw.
He shifts. Steps closer. The faint leather scent of his jacket surrounds me. The hum of the city outside stutters in my ears. I press the message into my palm. “I’m—I’m sorry I’ve kept this from you.”
His teeth show slightly. Not a grin. Not fury. Something else. “I figured,” he says calmly. Then quiet: “But thank you for saying it.”
My knees buckle. The words echo in the room like gunshots. I laugh even though the tears start. Half laugh. Half sob. The weight of years lifts off me in that moment: the lies, the fear, the secret. I exhale—hard—and inhale all the air I’ve been holding.
“Pepper… she’s yours,” I blurt. The words are reckless. The world shifts.
I see the storm flicker in his eyes. The predator shape dissolves into something gentler. I see relief. I see love. I see him. Not the warrior. Not the myth. The man I stood beside on set, the man who held her in craft services, the man who sang a lullaby I thought only I remembered.
He steps into me. I feel his belt buckle press against my stomach. Warmth, safe. I smell ozone and the faint tang of jam from Pepper’s hair. I see his face tilt. Then he smiles—soft, warm, knowing.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he murmurs. “I already claimed you as mine—but if you want official rings and paperwork, fine.”
My breath hitches. I laugh through the tears. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
He lifts a hand, strokes my cheek, palm warm against my skin. I feel the rough callus under his thumb. I breathe it in. I taste salt. I taste hope.
“Then it’s done,” he says. “We’re done hiding.”
The apartment fades around us—lights, city hum, looming IHC storm. It’s just him and me. And Pepper. Our family, forged in war and shadows and secrets.
I wrap my arms around him. He holds me tight. We cling fierce and shaking. My tears soak his shirt. His guts tremble under the armor jacket. We don’t need words. Not now. I breathe his scent, feel his heartbeat. I whisper, “I love you.”
He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes.
“And I love this little part of you,” he says softly.
He lifts one hand to brush a curl behind my ear, his fingers ghosting over the top of the inducer pack hidden in my hair.
“And her.” He glances behind me to where the bedroom door stands ajar, the golden blanket flicker of sleeping child.
“I love you all,” I whisper.
He nods. “Then nothing will stop us.”
My heart coasts. The future looms—hard, relentless. The IHC countdown edge, the studio demands, the image-inducer that still hums like a bomb—it all hangs there. But for now, I lean into him. I let trust settle in my chest like a seed.
He kisses my forehead. “Let’s go home.”
And we move together, quiet and pledged, into the night.