Page 33 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
I move to the sink, wash my hands even though they’re clean. The hot water scalds, but I need the burn.
“Do you evenknowwhat they expect on that show?” I ask, quieter now. “It’s chaos. Fire and blenders and judges who spit things out dramatically. It’s not me. I bake for comfort. Forpeace.”
“You bake forhealing,” Vonn says from behind me. “And this ain’t about proving yourself to judges, cupcake. It’s about proving toyourselfthat you ain’t done dreaming.”
The words settle around me like powdered sugar—fine, soft, inescapable.
Because the truth is, Ihavestopped dreaming. Somewhere between the war and the loss and the daily ritual of smiling for strangers, I tucked all my hopes into little pastry boxes and handed them away one by one.
Maybe it’s time I kept one for myself.
“What’s the deadline?” I murmur.
Lyrie’s grin is slow and wicked. “Already passed. They chose you, Rubes. First challenge is in three weeks.”
My mouth opens. Closes.
Vonn ambles over, pats my shoulder like I’m a nervous steed. “We got your back. I’ll run the shop with Lyrie while you’re gone. Already been training her not to burn the marshmallow glaze.”
“Once,” Lyrie protests. “I set it on fireonce.And you called it ‘smoked sugar fusion.’”
“I called itsinful, because it tasted like regret,” Vonn mutters.
I turn to face them both, tears suddenly stinging the corners of my eyes. “You really believe I can do this?”
Lyrie’s smile softens, her glittering eyes uncharacteristically earnest. “You survived a war, an arranged marriage, ten years of unrequited love, and a failed attempt to teach me how to temper chocolate. You’reunstoppable.”
I laugh again, and this time, I let it echo.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe this isn’t just a distraction. Maybe it’s a doorway. To something bigger than the ache inside me. Bigger than what I’ve lost.
A new dream.
I reach out, tap the compad screen again. My photo blinks to life. The headline flashes once more.
The War Orphan Who Bakes Like Heaven.
I’m not just that anymore.
I’m Ruby Adams.
And I’m going to cook like hell.
CHAPTER 8
REKKGAR
The wind rolls through Novaria like breath from some ancient, wounded god. It tastes of copper and low-hanging citrus blooms, humid with dusk dew and the throb of a city that never quite sleeps, only simmers.
I walk it anyway. Street after street. Pavement humming beneath my boots like heartbeats I can’t match. The chill creeps in around my shoulders, but I don’t notice. My thoughts burn hotter than any wind.
She’s free.
She told me she’s free.
And I left her.
