Chapter 59
AMY
The launch of my memoir is more fragile than fireworks.
I sit in my office, the manuscript’s cover glinting under soft lighting, and scroll through reviews—some glowing, many not.
“Brave,” “unflinching,” yes—but also “self-serving,” “na?ve,” “Ataxian sympathizer.” I taste disappointment in each barbed line, but I also taste relief.
The book is out. My voice is alive in print.
Darun’s articles—his blog posts on war, on citizen trauma, on the cost of silence—begin being picked up by fringe networks, small stations hungry for unvarnished truth.
They’re not major networks, far from it.
Some are rebroadcast in hidden corners, online forums. People share, retweet, whisper.
We’re not famous anymore. We’re not even influential. But we are heard. And that feels vital.
I glance up from my holopad. Darun stands by the window, adjusting book spines, leaving little notes with his ink scrawl: “Don’t forget word count for next post.” His face is calm. He turns, eyes meeting me. It’s enough. I exhale.
Next morning, we walk to Libra’s school. The sky is crisp, faint scent of autumn in air: dead leaves, distant wood smoke. Libra holds both our hands—one small, warm, calloused palm beside mine. Darun laughs low at something she whispers. Her chatter is bright, everyday, glorious.
We pass neighbors planting bulbs, mail carriers wheeling carts, the soft hum of hovercars overhead. The street smells of morning dew, warmed brick, fresh coffee drifting from café doors.
A passerby—man in mid-stride—spots us. He stops. Mouth twists. He spits a slur under his breath: “Ataxian lover.” The sound like spit on granite. He strides off.
I don’t flinch. I stand straighter, pull Libra closer. I want to hiss back some defiance, but silence is sometimes louder.
Darun’s jaw tenses. He growls under his breath. His fingers tighten around Libra’s hand. The man vanishes down the block.
Darun looks down at me. His expression shifts—anger, protectiveness, then something gentler. He turns to me, lips curving in a half-smile. “You okay?” he murmurs.
“I am,” I say. My voice is steady, though my heart hammers. I squeeze his hand. Libra tugs forward. We continue walking, together, hands linked. We don’t wave him off. We don’t pretend he didn’t speak. We just keep moving.
That night, dinner finishes. The house smells of roast vegetables, simmered broth, bread crumbs. We linger at the table. The light is soft, warm. Libra runs off to her room. We lean back in our chairs. Silence settles.
I look at Darun. His profile glows in lamplight. Every line of his face reminds me of storms we survived, battles we told, secrets we unraveled.
I ask quietly, “Do you regret any of it?”
He turns to me, chest rising and falling. He stands, approaches me, and kisses my forehead carefully, as though each kiss must earn its place. “Not one word of truth. Not one second with you.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I held. My lips tremble. I fold into him. I lean into his chest, into the warmth, into the living weight. “Then we did okay,” I whisper. The world outside this house hums with noise, debates, judgments. But in this heartbeat, we did okay.
He holds me. His hands circle my waist. The lamp light softens our edges. The silence between us hums with meaning. Outside, wind rustles leaves. Inside, our truth settles, roots digging deep.
We stand there until nothing more needs to be said. The book exists. The articles spread. The slurs flung in the street—they bounce off us now. Because we anchor to something that lasts: honesty, home, love born in smoke and rebuilt in silence.
We turn toward the window. Libra’s nightlight glows beyond—her room dark, safe. We watch the street. Lights pulse. Cars hum. People dream beyond walls. We are here. We remain. We did okay.
He brushes my hair back from my face like I might shatter if he’s too rough, and that alone makes me ache. Darun—seven feet of red-scaled muscle and silent rage—is always so careful with me. It’s not because he doubts my strength. It’s because he reveres it.
I kiss him. Not tentative this time—hungry, hot, and open-mouthed. His tongue finds mine, warm and tasting faintly like the nectar he loves, and I groan into his mouth. His claws don’t scare me. They drag slow along my sides as he lifts my shirt, baring skin to the lamplight.
“Let me see you,” he growls, voice thick, reverent.
I raise my arms. The shirt peels off. He stares.
His golden eyes burn like twin suns, locking on every curve, every freckle, every soft place I tried to hide.
He kneels, reverent as a priest before a goddess, pressing kisses along my belly, my ribs, the underside of my breasts.
His tongue flicks across my nipple and I gasp, arching into his mouth.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, lips brushing the other nipple.
“I want you,” I whisper. “I want your cock in me. I want everything.”
That does something to him. His pupils flare wide. He growls—a sound I feel in my core. His hands move fast, pulling down my pants, stripping me bare. He doesn’t stop to gawk. He watches my pussy like it’s something sacred.
“You’re already wet.”
“Because I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
He hisses through his teeth, like the words burn him. Then he stands, unbuckling his armor, letting it fall. His body is a weapon of war—scarred, corded with muscle, his cock hard and already leaking at the tip. It’s thick, red with ridges along the shaft—alien, but perfect. I want it. I want him.
He climbs onto the bed slowly, his frame dwarfing mine. The mattress dips. The room hums with tension. He presses a kiss to my throat, my collarbone, the space behind my ear. His cock brushes my thigh. I reach down, wrap my hand around it. He groans.
“You’re not afraid?” he asks, breath catching.
“I’ve been through hell,” I say. “I’m afraid of losing you. Not your cock.”
That cracks something in him. He laughs, rough and beautiful, and then he’s kissing me again—deeper this time, like he’s trying to taste my soul.
He slides a clawed finger through my folds, spreading the wetness. I moan, back arching. He finds my clit and rubs slow circles, relentless and gentle. My breath shatters.
“Please,” I pant. “Please, fuck me.”
“Say it again.”
“Fuck me, Darun. I need your cock. I want to feel you fill me.”
With a snarl of need, he aligns himself at my entrance. One hand grips my thigh, the other cradles my head like I’m the most precious thing in the galaxy. Then he pushes in.
The stretch is exquisite. Pain and pleasure tangled together. I cry out, and he stills, giving me a moment. I clutch his arms, breath ragged.
“You okay?”
“Don’t stop. Just—don’t stop.”
He moves. Slow at first. Deep. Every thrust presses against that spot inside me that makes stars pop behind my eyelids. My legs wrap around his waist. My nails dig into his back. He fucks like he was made for me—controlled, consuming.
“More,” I beg.
He growls and picks up the pace. The sound of skin slapping skin, my moans, his deep grunts—they fill the room. I feel full, stretched, owned.
“Mine,” he rasps into my ear. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp. “I’ve always been yours.”
His hand slides between us. He finds my clit again, rubs faster. I explode—sharp, blinding pleasure. I scream his name. My pussy clenches around his cock, and he follows with a shuddering groan, his hips jerking as he spills into me.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays inside me, forehead against mine, breathing hard. My body is shaking, spent, soaked in sweat and heat.
“I love you,” I whisper.
His arms wrap around me tighter. “And I would burn the stars for you.”
Later, we lie tangled together, our bodies still humming from what we shared. Outside, the city buzzes, but in here, it’s quiet. Safe. Sacred.
I feel whole.