Page 28 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

REKKGAR

I sit at the corner table in Earth?Bites, fingers tracing the swirling crema on Ruby’s espresso, but my mind isn’t here.

The station’s hum and warmth seep around me like forgiveness—and yet I’m restless.

Since Aelphus was detained, the station has fallen back into peaceful rhythm; journalists have moved on, the Holonet feed has resumed cat videos.

But the ember of Aelphus’s parting words—“My legions are eternal”—still pulses in my gut like a challenge.

Ruby’s hand finds mine under the table, and she smiles that gentle, determined look. She tilts the little porcelain cup in her grip, and I take in the bittersweet scent of Earth-grown beans—strong, sweet, and hopeful. My chest tightens. Hope, it seems, has a flavor all its own.

Back in Novaria, the bakery bustles. I’m here almost every morning—leaning into rhythm, becoming a fixture behind the counter.

I steam milk now; I fold macaron batter; I take orders in Ruby’s voice, echoing pride and tenderness.

The pastel walls and piping bags feel surreal compared to the clang of dojo steel, but each customer’s smile—especially when they recognize me—reminds me that I’ve found something else to defend.

My true battle begins the day I receive the transmission. I stand in the cluttered prep pantry—scales, bowls, confection molds rattling with the bakery’s midday bustle—holding a small encrypted holo-pad.

The message flickers: Vakutan arms posture, a golden banner of defiance. “Legions regrouped,” it says. “Preparing formal challenge. Public trial of honor for Ruby Adams. Compliance or branding as falsemate. Planetary code enforceable.”

My jaw clenches. My knuckles glow white. My jaw opens to speak—something fierce, protective—but the words threaten to shatter the holo-pad screen. I collapse onto a stool. Chairs scrape. Staff glance. Lyrie steps in, a spark on her scale, concern flowing across her pink features.

“Hot news?” she teases, but I don’t answer. I turn the pad's glow toward her. Her expression falters as she reads.

“Oh holy…” she breathes. “They can’t do that. That’s medieval—even for them.”

I press my palm to her shoulder, voice low as volcanic ash: “They can—and they will. If she refuses, she loses her freedom. Her rights. She becomes a falsemate, unbonded, and exiled to some labor station under Vortaxian law.”

Lyrie’s breath gusts in shock. Vonn emerges with a tray of croissants. She wordlessly hands them to me. I bite into a warm pastry—almond sweet, buttery earth. I close my eyes, tasting safety and sorrow.

“We need to tell Ruby,” Lyrie says.

I nod. My hands shake—not with fear, but with readiness. Preparedness is my armor, and I am not letting this go cold.

That evening, I find Ruby in the back cooling a line of chiffon cupcakes. The bakery smells like vanilla and triumph. I step quietly, my scale-armored glove brushing her apron.

She glances up—soft joy lighting her face. But when my voice comes low, clutching like cold steel: “We’ve got a situation,” her smile falters.

I reach for her hand, guiding her to the prep pantry. Staff look, but Ruby offers them a forgiving nod—they can wait.

I show her the holo. She reads it, eyes narrowing like twin storms. The drama of it all—a trial of honor for her . Not me. Me means nothing unless she consents. But I know what it means: they see our bond as a trophy. Like she’s property to win.

Ruby’s voice is soft as Iolite mousse. “This… this is insane.” She squares her shoulders. “It’s a trap. A public spectacle to humiliate me—or worse.”

“I know,” I say. “They believe they can own you.” I tug her close. “But I won’t let them. Not with spectacle. Not with politics. With honor. And with you at my side.”

She lifts her chin. Tears glimmer, but her jaw sets. “We’ll fight—legally, publicly. If they want a trial, they’ll get one. But it’ll be on my terms. On our terms.”

My chest swells. Relief and pride hit together like victory rush. I cup both her cheekbones. “And I’ll be there. Not at your side—as you want. And demanding justice.”

She closes the distance. “Together,” she breathes.

In the early hours, we meet with Novarian legal counsel—silver-haired human in crisp uniform, backing Ruby’s planetary rights.

She reviews archaic planetary statutes. “They can compell appearance,” she says.

“But you can challenge jurisdiction. This is bound to be the most public trial since the Treaty of Triune.”

Ruby holds her hand over mine across the table. “I want you there.”

I nod, swallowing something primal. “Of course.”

Days later, Nova Tribune headline spins holograms across the station: “Vakutan Challenge: Baker in Trial of Honor.” Aelphus’s face looms golden, defiant. Ruby reads it at the counter, the bakery quiet. She pins down a trembling smile.

“Looks like my debut into political theater,” she jokes, voice calm as chantilly mousse, but I see the tension rippling in her lumbar.

I drag her into an embrace. “You’ll be fierce.”

She laughs softly, tilting her head back to look at me: "Fierce and floured."

We spend the afternoon prepping special “Court Cupcakes” embossed with scale and star. Each bite: vanilla-lavender with bourbon caramel—a declaration of freedom. Customers line up, applause undercut with anxious pride.

By the time she locks up, the station knows. Legal observers, media, a murmuring crowd gather outside. Ruby draws her breath—the cool night air tangles with cinnamon sugar in her lungs.

I wrap my arm around her. “They won’t break you.”

She leans against me. “And I won’t let them. Not this time.”

Together, we walk toward the growing masses. Pastel walls no longer boundary—they’re stage.

That night, as we turn toward the dock corridor, I glance at Ruby’s calm, determined face. The pastel lights cast soft shadows under her eyes, but she stands tall.

I tighten my hand around hers. "You're mine," I whisper.

She smiles, eyes bright with defiant promise. "Always."

I don’t know what will happen in that trial. If the Vakutan courts will honor planetary law. If Aelphus will show his face—or send emissaries. But I do know this: I will stand beside her. I will protect her bond with my life.

We walk into the light of the emerging tribunal. There, the galaxy will bear witness—not to what is forced, but what is chosen.

And no amount of spectacle can overshadow that .