Page 40 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
There’s a strange new feeling humming in my chest. Not panic. Not shame.
Hope.
And maybe—just maybe—it’s not too late.
CHAPTER 9
RUBY
It starts with flour in my eyelashes and ends with a scream I only half regret.
The bakery has never looked like this. There are mixing bowls stacked like barricades on the counter, dough rising in bio-tempered crates along the windows, and an entire crate of Yxari sugar pearls exploding into pastel chaos thanks to a faulty dispenser I swore Vonn fixedlast week. The new triple-burner induction unit hums with anticipation in the corner, preloaded with a tub of Vortaxian chili glaze I’m scared to evensmelldirectly.
Lyrie floats through it all like she’s conducting an orchestra. She’s got a clipboard in one hand, her holographic shades perched on her horns, and she’s already yelled “Eyes on the ganache!” more times than I thought legally possible. Vonn’s in the back grumbling about unauthorized spice storage and muttering curses in Fratvoyan that would make a reaver blush.
Me? I’m halfway through piping chocolate mousse into tiny citrus shells when the door chimes.
And then I see him.
Rekkgar.
In the doorway.
Wearing an apron.
Apinkapron.
Withsparkles.
Lyrie’s doing, obviously. The words “Chef’s Assistant” glint across the chest in bright neon shimmer-font. It's the most ridiculous, most absurd thing I’ve ever seen in my entire baking career—and I’ve seen a Baragon try to deep-fry ice cream with liquid nitrogen.
I choke.
Right on a doughnut hole.
It takes three gulps of water and a firm slap from Vonn to stop hacking long enough to stare at him properly.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t smirk or scowl or even explain.
He just walks in like he belongs, rolls up his sleeves—those strong, corded forearms inked with stories in scars—and washes his hands in the prep sink like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Like hewantsto be here.
Like hechoseto be here.
My voice fails me, so I just blink at him while he grabs a towel, dries his massive fingers, and turns toward me.
“Where do you keep the mixing bowls?” he asks, his voice low and even.
Lyrie snorts from behind her clipboard. “Bottom shelf. But make sure you use the stainless set, not the synth-glass. She’s partial to that for dry ingredient blends.”
Rekkgar nods once. No complaint. No hesitation. Just bends down and starts unpacking bowls.
I glance at Vonn, who’s peeking around the corner like a nervous raccoon.
He shrugs. “Wasn’tmyidea.”
I should say something. Anything.
