Page 86 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
We survive.
We win.
We stay.
Together.
The fluorescent warningbulbs begin to pulse, sensors reevaluate exterior shadows. The floodlights shift to infrared. The walkway hums with locked status.
She lifts her chin. “Ready?”
I give a slow nod. “Always.”
Before me is the door, emblazoned with the glyph. Above it, frosting hearts gleam like battle standards.
Between us, the bond stands stronger than any trial. Our fortress bakes itself around our love.
And when the assault comes—if it comes—it'll find more than a bakery. It’ll find two warriors standing shoulder-to-shoulder, whisk and blade held high.
Let them come.
Because we won't just defend our bond or our bakery. We'll protect our future—with every ounce of this love-forged fortress.
For her. For us. For all the days yet to be flour-dusted and star-lit.
That is my vow.
CHAPTER 25
RUBY
Ijolt awake to thunderous shudders rattling the skylight of the orbital bakery—and my first thought isn’t fear, but the weight of Rekkgar’s arm draped across my waist. I twist toward him in the dim glow of emergency lanterns, heartbeat spinning as amber lights flicker on the pastel walls. He meets my eyes, shrouded in calm determination.
“It’s time,” he murmurs, voice as steady as sunrise. Every syllable hums with promise and steel.
I swallow, more fear than sleep in my throat, yet I rise with practiced motion. We’ve rehearsed this night a dozen times—intellectually—but nothing prepared me for the electric pulse of adrenaline in my veins when it finally erupts in real time.
The sky outside blossoms in violent violet and gold, like cosmic fireworks sliced across Novaria’s low orbit. I catch smoke curling past a window as ships dance overhead, thrumming with gravitic power. A seed of dread blooms.
Rekkgar’s hand grips my wrist. “Lockdown now.”
We move as trained: I sprint to the control panel on the far wall, fingers flying. Emergency shields descend outside, blast panels slide into grooves, power reroutes to defensive circuits.Sparks hum like cicadas. My apron flutters in his breath as he kisses my temple before darting off.
The roar of holocams, alarms, distant explosions—they meld into a rising tide of chaos. The streets below echo with panic. And inside Earth?Bites, something else ignites: purpose.
At the next station, Lyrie and Vonn stand ready at their posts. Lyrie cracks her knuckles with savage grin; pistol-shaped piping bag in hand, she’s flirtatious fury incarnate. Vonn stands rigid in her armored apron, grumbling but unflinching, stubby tail flicking.
“Cupcake bombs are ready,” Lyrie declares, venom-laced sugar in her voice. “Let’s show them sweetness is weaponized.”
Vonn taps her metal apron plate. “Just don’t blow the oven.”
I nod, fists clenched. “We’ll bake our victory.”
Rekkgar positions himself at the front, slicing space between the protective shutters and the reinforced door. His blade glints black as obsidian; aura of unwavering sentinel. I move between stations, shoring up shields, gluing electrified utensils to charging conduits, looping my hands around handheld torch–turned–stun tool. I’m arming my cupcakes with flamethrower glaze. It sounds absurd—chocolate bombs—but absurd is exactly what these invaders need.
The assault eruptslike a macrocosmic pandemonium. Outside, Novarian streets crackle with lights as Vortaxian elite forces drop onto rooftops. They’re golden-skinned, rifles humming graviton bursts, faces masked with imperial intent. Their orders: retrieve the mate. Destroy the bond. Claim honor.
They descend upon our block, faces twisted in patriotic fervor. But Novaria isn’t Mars or Vorta; it’s a multicultural forge with fight in its bones. Torches flicker. Crowds surge withimprovised weaponry—bicycle pipes, patio furniture—streets echo with random defiance.
