Page 57 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
CHAPTER 13
RUBY
The prep dome smells like morning and adrenaline—sharp citrus zest, damp flour, the earthy tug of truffled sea salt. I inhale it, steadier than I feel, as I watch Rekkgar move beside me. He’s quieter today, all silent storms rolling in his stance. His jaw juts just the slightest fraction of a millimeter when he reaches for an emerald basil leaf or racks a steaming pan of pugori powder. The cameras creep around us, red lights blinking, but I’m only aware of the space between him and me—an electric current humming with that familiar charge.
We’re up next—a duet titled “Harmony Through Taste.” They say judges want unity of flavor and form, a sensory dialogue across species. What they don’t know is that between us, the actual language is unspoken. A glance, a nod, a subtle shift of hips while maneuvering past each other—it tells the story we built in late-night kitchens, in flour-flecked laughter, in wounded words left unspoken.
I glance at him—reallylookat him. The way his dirt-stained warrior skin softens under the studio lights, the flicker of internal red-eye blade pausing mid-calc, the creases around his ice-blue eye that move when he’s thinking twenty steps ahead. I sense his tension; he’s bracing for something—maybe a judge’ssniff, maybe a camera angle, maybe the unknown. But he’s anchored here, for me.
When the host shoves a platter of alien root ribbons and Earth-style cream brûlée our way and blurts, “Show us your harmony,” I exhale. Together, we step into the ring. All eyes. My hands still shake, but Rekkgar’s palm grazes my back just long enough to steady me. I turn, blink, and find strength in his posture. A protector’s in me blooms.
We unpack. I zest lemon over the brûlée; he drizzles wormwood syrup atop sugar curls. I carve root ribbons; he fans them out like petals. When I reach for a knife, he’s already passed it to me—silent, precise, present. Every gesture is measured, effortless. It feels like dancing. Our breaths sync: inhale, exhale, plate, present. I drop a micro-herb blossom into his soup bowl; he mirrors it with a micro-flower on mine. The audience blurs. The lights glare. I don’t miss a single move he makes—how his foot shifts, how his eyes soften mid-smile, how his body angles protectively toward me across the counter.
“Work together,” one judge hisses through clipped teeth. “Make it sing.”
“Control your components,” another adds, “or it collapses.”
My chest aches. The burning bubble of recognition: we alreadyaresinging. The flavors weave in my mouth: sweet Earth cream, spicy alien root, the faint kiss of fire-pepper beneath the micro-herb. I swirl the spoon for the judge. Rekkgar bows his head, then meets my eyes.
I lift the spoon again, bridge the distance in a single motion, and place it daintily onto the judge’s counter. The judge tastes. Pauses. I feel Rekkgar’s gaze sharpen into something warm, triumphant.
When the judge nods—just once—every cell in me releases.
Backstage, the cameras are relentless, but they catch me in motion: I’m moving through press, through handshakes,through blinking lights, and there—where the chaos thins—he’s waiting. Not stoic. Not distant. Not untouchable. Justhim—nearly silent, nearly detached, except his hand drifts toward mine, fingers curling around mine in front of the rolling lens and globed lights and shouting questions.
I don’t pull away.
And I know—in that breath, that space—that we have crossed from partnership into something sacred.
We’re not just baking together.
We’re living, breathing proof that we belong—side by side—as equals, as allies, as something deeply, irrevocably entwined.
And maybe, just maybe, the world is ready for it too.
I swallow hard. My breath catches in my throat as I whisper, “Rekkgar.”
That’s all it takes.
He crosses the room in three strides, every inch of his seven-foot frame radiating barely leashed hunger. His black scales shimmer under the overhead lights, stripes of red like war paint across his massive arms and chest. When he reaches me, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His hand comes up—so slow, so careful—and cups the side of my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone like I’m made of spun sugar.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, his voice low, guttural, wrecked.
I can’t. I won’t.
Instead, I rise onto my toes and press my mouth to his.
It’s fire.
It’s a growl and a gasp and the heat of a decade of denial igniting in a single kiss. His mouth crushes against mine, his teeth graze my lower lip, his tongue sweeps deep to taste every inch he can reach. I whimper, my fingers fisting in the collar of his tunic, tugging him closer until my chest is flush against the solid heat of him.
Rekkgar groans—low, feral, primal—and suddenly his hands are everywhere. One grips the back of my neck, the other slides down to cup my ass, lifting me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, my skirt rucking up as he carries me to the prep counter and sets me down with a thud that rattles the spice jars.
“You smell like sugar,” he growls into my neck, his nose dragging along my jaw. “Like cinnamon and cream. Fuck, Ruby.”
His claws—gods,he has claws—drag up the back of my thighs, lifting my skirt, baring me to the cool air. I gasp, arching into his touch, heat pooling between my legs as his fingers trace the lace edge of my panties.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his breath trembling.
