Page 29 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

RUBY

I feel it the moment we touch down on Novaria—before I’m greeting by the familiar candied aroma of Earth Bites or the squeal of my morning droid—Rekkgar shifts.

He steps from the transport vehicle into the pale dawn, posture taut, jaw clenched, eyes staring at distant rooftops like he’s scouting invisible lines of attack.

His hand grips the railing beside the door so tightly the metal creaks in protest. Something in me loosens—a thread of unease I can't ignore.

That night, we lie entwined on my rooftop under a scattering of purposefully dim Hololumen stars, the city lights pulsing softly below. I press my palm to his chest, lean into his biceps—though his heartbeat is too fast.

“Rekkgar?” I whisper, breath warm against his scarred neck. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment. His fingers brush my hair—gentle, but there's steel behind them. “Trouble comes,” he says as though naming a season. Then he tightens his arms around me until my bones shiver.

I frown, tilt my head. “But we ended the fight. We earned peace.”

He closes his eyes. “The fight… isn’t over.” His tone isn’t harsh—more a warning—yet it curls frost against my spine.

Morning sunlight filters through pastel bakery windows as I open up myself. Rekkgar remains near the door, his arms crossed, eyes scanning every entry. I start arranging fresh cupcakes—lavender vanilla, caramel swirl. He doesn’t move.

Then the door chime announces an unexpected guest: a tall, serious human in sable robes marked with the Intergalactic Marriage Tribunal sigil. He carries a thin brass rod.

My heart angles uneasy.

“Ruby Adams?” he says, voice precise.

I swallow. “Yes.”

He stands straight and taps the rod on the floor. “You are summoned as the respondent in a Vortaxian challenge invoking the Zandari Gauntlet. The writ is legally binding.”

I stare. “Challenge?”

The Tribunal rep clears his throat. “Yes. Under Section 41b of Intergalactic Beta Code. From the Vortaxian side, the respondent is obligated to partake or face invalidation of her existing bond with Rekkgar Vakutan.” His eyes flick to Rekkgar. “Especially if she refuses.”

My breath hiccups. The room blacks out for a moment. Then light snaps back. I grip the counter.

“Zandari Gauntlet?” I repeat, stunned.

He nods. “A series of trials: physical, mental, social, symbolic. Designed centuries ago to determine a spouse’s worthiness when contested.”

I feel heat rising all along my skin—anger, fear, disbelief. “This is insane.”

He inclines his head, expression impassive. “Legally enforceable.”

I spin, pacing. My stomach churns. “So this is real? Aelphus forced this? Even though he’s detained?”

The rep clears his voice. “Through proxy.”

I turn and face him. “This is bullshit.” My voice trembles. “It’s medieval and misogynistic—forcing me into a trial to prove I’m worthy?” My cheeks burn. “To prove I belong to Rekkgar?”

The man’s expression is firm. “It’s the code.”

The panic inside me curdles my stomach. I close my eyes. My voice cracks inside me, but only I hear it: Could they actually take me? Force me to marry someone else?

The rep places the rod on the table. “Today at sundown, the Gauntlet begins—here. You are expected. Mr. Vakutan may act as your sponsor.”

I turn to Rekkgar. His jaw is taut; shadowed pride cloaks him. He steps forward—dominant, resolute. “I will stand by her. These trials don’t define her. They prove our bond.”

I swallow hard—love and fear coiling together. My breath trembles. But then clarity rises like dawn.

I nod slowly. “I will go through it,” I say. “Not because they expect it—but because I refuse to let a law define me. I will walk into that trial on my terms, chosen—by him and by me.”

I turn to the rep. “I accept. But we will need accommodations. I’m not a warrior.” My voice is calm, low, but it burns. “I’m a baker. And I bake resistance into every dessert.”

A ripple of whispers moves through the staff, the town… but I don’t waver.

Later, after everyone’s gone, I practice in a quiet corner of the bakery—flour-dusted countertops shining under morning light. Rekkgar stands behind me, folding a thin sheet of sugar paste. The scent of cornstarch, vanilla, and rising courage fills the air.

He watches me with that ever-watchful intensity. “These trials—they’ll test everything,” he murmurs. “Strength. Wit. Honor.”

I weigh the sugar leaf between my fingertips. “Let them choke on chocolate,” I joke, voice half smile, half snarl. A flare of determination curls in my gut. “I’ll bring this Gauntlet down with buttercream and braid it with resolve.”

He closes the distance, fingertips brushing the sugar leaf, tracing my arm. “You are stronger than any test or law.” Touch liquesces to heat. “I will be by your side.”

I spin in his arms, whispering, “Together.” The sugar leaf falls to the counter, golden and delicate like a promise.

That night, I lie awake, mind racing. I craft mental recipes for each trial:

Trial One: Physical – strength test. I’ll surprise them with core stamina—long after my fields of cupcakes.

Trial Two: Mental – logic puzzles, maybe trivia on culinary techniques—they’ll not know I’ve been reading Vortaxian philosophy and human astronomical history.

Trial Three: Social – a speech? A test of composure. I will speak of love, freedom, our shared bond.

Trial Four: Symbolic – proving spiritual bond. We’ll forge that with intent, not ceremony.

I find Rekkgar asleep against me, arm warm around my waist. I brush my lips against his scar, breath anchoring through fear. We will do this . He is my armor. My home.

I think of my bakery, Earth Bites—where love, memory, and rebellion rest in every crumb. If they want spectacle, they’ll get something far greater: two people who forged a bond born in war, sweetened in pastry, and sealed in defiance.

Because this time, Ruby isn’t just standing for survival. She’s choosing her own value. And that, I know in my bones, is unbreakable.

Let them watch. Let them test. Let them witness. I will stand tall in warrior’s heart and baker’s soul—and return, triumphant.