Page 23 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

And I won’t let empire or prophecy or ego shadow it again.

The prep dome simmers with anticipation.

Aromas of simmered fruit, smoked root, and cream waft between us like our own private stage.

Ruby moves at my side, wrist flicking, hands slicing, plating her heart in four distinct courses—her Earth roots in golden pastry, then the smoky reductive broth to echo my warrior path, the third dish embodying our meeting in vibrant fusion, and the final course—a dessert that tastes like our shared bond, tender and unexpected.

She glances at me when I hand her a spoonful to taste, eyes reflecting flitting cameras and simmering confidence.

Her lips go still, and I know before she says a word—it’s ours.

Her exhalation is fragile, like petals caught in a breeze.

“This… this is us .” She closes her eyes and lets the flavors fold over her, slow and rich.

I feel pride bloom in me—warrior, protector, partner.

She tastes course by course, savoring each emotional beat.

Blessings, doubts, unity, promise—each plated memory carries weight in her expression.

I swipe stray granules of smoke salt from her cheek. “It’s perfect,” I murmur, voice low but fierce, praying she believes me as much as I do. She smiles, trembling.

But the air shifts. I sense it—distance.

I glance at the perimeter monitors and then catch movement in the gallery above.

Aelphus is there again. Leaning forward, arms crossed across his golden chest, that same hungry fixity cooling me from within.

His gaze locks on Ruby—almost possessive, even in the crowd.

My pulse jolts.

Ruby flicks her gaze up too, realises she’s being watched. Her posture straightens, but her hand trembles on the spoon handle. I reach out, clasp her forearm. Not a reprimand—an anchor. A lifeline. She exhales, firming her hold on the spoon.

The cameras flit toward Aelphus like moths to flame. I hear whispered murmurs behind me—“The emperor…”, “Watchful eye…”, “He’s waiting.” Ruby’s breath sharpens, as if he's pulled breath from her lungs.

We push on. The rehearsal continues. The four courses are plated in sequence.

She tells our story without words. I watch as her hands move with precise elegance, as mine mirror and support, retrieving spoons, wiping edges, steadying her wrist. The dome lights flare.

The beast of exposure nearly breaks us, but we hold each other’s shadows steady.

The final plate is delicate—sugar-dusted petals framing a small orb of caramelized fruit, golden veins of sauce spelling promise across the plate. Ruby dips her spoon and brings it to her lips. She tastes, half-closes her eyes. Tears collect at the corner. My heart crashes.

Even now, I feel the bond settle deeper. I reach for her, sliding my hand along her waist. She looks at me with the same glazed heart-joy, vulnerability exposed. I bend and whisper: “I am proud of us .”

She smiles, voice crackling like soft fire. “So am I.”

But the electric charge doesn’t fade. I glance up in fight or flight reflex—and Aelphus meets my gaze. That predator’s satisfaction plays across his gilded features.

I swallow. I flick my gaze back to the final plate. Ruby insists on tasting it again, breathing between samples, affirming its soul. I hand her the tasting spoon almost without noticing.

When she sets it down, she grips my fingers. I feel the tremor beneath her skin—fear, but not just fear: defiance, defiant love. Unspoken message: don’t let him win.

I return her grip. “We’re enough.”

She nods, eyes bright, frost of steel.

We break from rehearsal to breathe.

Back in the hallway, standing beneath dim corridor lights, she spins to face me. “He watched us, Rekkgar. Really watched.”

“Let him,” I say, voice clipped. “He sees what we know.”

She shakes her head, pale under the corridor lumens. “It felt… wrong. Like he expected me to falter.”

I cup her face. “Don’t let it be about him. Let it be about us .”

She exhales, relief shivering through her. I pull her into me—slow, deliberate, vow-laced—until she quiets her irregular heartbeat with mine.

“You feel it too?” I murmur.

She tilts her chin up. “Every course. Every breath.”

I brush her lips. A promise. Not public or performative. Just private. Fierce.

“Then let’s cook our story louder,” I declare.

She laughs—soft thunder—fierce and free. “Let’s.”

He lingers. We’ll see him later.

But for now, apron dust, spice sweat, and hot lights can’t touch what’s been forged here.

We step back into rehearsal. He’s out there—but we have each other—and our story is too real to break.

I guide Ruby up to the upper deck where the simulated ocean hums beneath ambient lights, and salt-kissed mist drifts against my skin.

The horizon shimmers in artificial aqua, but the moment holds a gravity that feels more real than any planet I've trained on or conquered.

The deck is hushed—only the soft pulse of water and distant murmurs of late-night staff.

I lead her to a bench carved from pale driftwood both real and replicated.

She settles beside me, leaning into my side, and I wrap my arm around her, strong and protective.

She breathes in deep, the mist filling her lungs. I can smell the trace of jasmine from her hair, the lingering aroma of parsnip caramel on her skin. Her shoulder presses into my warmth with quiet desperation.

“Rekkgar,” she murmurs, voice low and trembling. “I’m not lying when I say it feels like they—Aelphus—are circling. Watching too much. It’s unsettling.”

I remain silent, steady. I feel the tension in her body and let my arm tighten slightly—not choking, just enough to steady her world.

“Do you think…” she breathes, pauses, “he sees our bond and thinks he might have found his jalshagar?”

I freeze—fingers gripping the bench. That thought claws through my chest with sharper teeth than any revelation I’d feared. I swallow hard in the stale hum of simulated waves.

“How could he even think that?” I manage quietly, though my heart hammers against my ribs.

She lifts her head, eyes glossy. “You said he believes the prophecy—that the perfect mate is discovered through food. And all his attention… it’s not admiration. It’s something else.”

I close my eyes. In the swirl of Holonet lights and sponsor logos, I’d suspected ambition. Now I realize it’s worse : a man used to taking what he wants, now maybe seeing me as an obstacle—and her as something to claim .

My jaw tightens. I inhale, the mist cold, my mind sharpening. “He’s not thinking he may have found his jalshagar. He’s acting like he already has.”

Ruby’s breath catches. I open my eyes. Her face looks small under the artificial moonscape, vulnerable and luminous.

“I’m not hers,” I say firmly, stepping closer, letting the bond throne in my chest. “I’m yours. I am her jalshagar.”

She turns to me, eyes wide. “Yes,” she whispers, “you—you are mine.”

I press a finger under her chin. The air shifts around us, colder now, tinged with electric clarity. “But this… situation… Aelphus isn’t playing by the rules. He never does.” My tone softens. “He sees you as trophy, Ruby. He sees us as a story he can use—to elevate himself.”

I pause, the words cold knives in my chest. “He’s not interested in sharing your spotlight. He wants to eclipse it.”

Ruby’s head lowers. She presses her fist against the bench, the roses of fear in her voice trembling. “What do we do?”

I cup her face, cool mist chilling my palm. Her breath is misted in front of us, small puffs that disappear quickly. “We don’t let it go beyond this bench tonight. We don’t let his shadow trap us into fear. But we prepare . He’s thrown his first chess piece. Now we need to play our strategy.”

Ruby breathes, draws closer. I kiss her—soft at first, but fierce with intent. My lips mold to hers in slow devotion. When we pull apart, she’s trembling.

“This,” her voice breaks with the strength of tears, “is not comfort. It’s promise.”

I hold her in my arms, the simulated ocean murmuring around us, and I swear thunder rolls through my chest, not from wind but from vow-binding.

He may sit on his golden deck, wine-draped and tempted.

He may send roses and prophecy. But we —we have something far older and deeper.

We have bond and blood, soul-work and sacrifice.

Aelphus can send fleets. I’ll send steel.

If he positions royalty and gold before you, I’ll stand before him with scarred armor and unyielding truth.

I trace her cheek, tasting salt and mint, promise and fear. “You are safe,” I whisper. “I am your blade.”

She closes her eyes. “And I am yours.”

We lean together, the stars above flickering holograms but feeling sacred in their rhythm. We kiss again—this time a sealing, defiant of empire and arrogance.

In the hush, I realize the competition has transformed. It's no longer about plated courses or televised acclaim. It's a battlefield of power, hearts, and futures. And with her by my side, I have everything I need to stand unbowed.

We stay on that bench until the waves fall silent. I don’t let go when the night shifts. Because letting go means exposing her to everything he might throw—glory, threats, seduction.

I cling. She leans. We breathe into each other the truth that carries us beyond this simulated shore.

We stand eventually, grit warmed by defiance. I rack my arm around her again and guide her toward the suite.

“Tomorrow,” I say softly, voice thick with promise, “we win—not just for the chefs' title, but for us. For what’s real.”

She nods, pressing a kiss under my jaw. “Together,” she confirms.

And as we walk away from the deck, the mist, the ocean, and the golden menace of Aelphus’s watching eyes drift into the night.

We are ready.