Page 33 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

RUBY

I jolt 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 erupts like 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 with improvised weaponry—bicycle pipes, patio furniture—streets echo with random defiance.

Inside, Rekkgar locks eyes with me as the first battered door buckles. He grips the handle, rears up wide as granite, and steps back. Six elites crash through in a wave of gold and coercion.

“Get them,” he growls, voice low as a quake.

He launches forward, steel blade carving arcs of rebellion. I step toward the back wall, thread a hose pipe through a dispenser. I hook up a canister of plasma glaze—sweet, boiling fury. I steady the nozzle.

A grenade bounces at his feet, and he deflects it in one hand, blade flashing in the alarmed glow. Guards open fire—ricochet clatters. He spins, his movement poetry—warrior instinct.

I splay my fingers across the activation lever. “GLAZE!” I shout into the howl.

A pressurized spray of molten sugar rockets across the front window. The glaze cracks on contact, molten explosion of sticky sheen. Blinding flash. Two guards collapse, grenade frizzles like a butchered pastry. The light blinds the rest.

The bakery glows like a beacon of defiance. My heart pounds as I shout: “Hold the line!”

Rekkgar stakes forward, boots pounding sugar-slick floor. He jams the butt of his blade into an attacker’s ribs, spins, slashes. I see sweat rivulets down his neck, stained with blood and sugar. He’s brutal, effective—like a dance partner born in war but now fighting for love.

Lyrie darts by with piping bag, flicking stitches of electrical current into an enemy’s collar—chimera sling of frosting lightning. The man screams and collapses into dough trays.

Vonn fires a repurposed espresso-torch pistol—cookie batter coating shields. She laughs a gravelly roar. “Not messing up my bakery!”

My voice falters. “We—are—coming—for—you-all,” I yell, brandishing a cluster of electric whisks. They hum with blue arcs of static.

Outside, the tide shifts. Citizens pour into the fray, brandishing ours and borrowed pan lids.

The bakery isn’t just a fortress—it’s an idea.

Our people become our shield. I see a teenager fling a burnt baguette at a trooper, provoke him.

Then another swings a rolling pin until sparks fly. A makeshift revolution of pastry.

Inside, I stay busy. I check shields. I grab a laser scoop and flick acidic strawberry glaze at cracks in the door. It melts plating instantly. The thrum of dying metal echoes like victory.

I feel a sudden drag at my dress. I whirl. A sleek Vortaxian scout bursts through—cutting line of defense deep. He’s agile, lethal—made to kill. He lunges for me.

My heart vaults.

But I see a flash of blade across my corner of vision. Rekkgar intercepts. I hear the crack—like bones crushed under artillery. He cries the kind of cry I’ve never heard, half warrior roar, half shattered blister of love.

I lurch forward. Time fractures.

He collapses backward into my arms. Pain fans from a slash across his torso—deep, crimson nectar painting his armor. He slumps into me, chest heaving. The scout staggers before me, sees fear in my stance, and flees back into the fray. I feel the heat of the glaze on my cheek, but I only see red.

I yank at Rekkgar’s armor, applying pressure. Blood seeps between my fingers. My breath hammers. Every instinct screams to heal, to fight—but he looks at me, lifeblood fading.

I cradle his head. “Rekkgar,” I whisper, voice thin rag of terror. “Don’t—You don’t get to leave. You’re mine now. Forever.”

He grips my hand. Weak, but fierce. His cybernetic eye flickers—red dimmed, then bright. That spark tells me he hears me.

The final invader collapses to the ground, illuminated by purple fire bursts. The Vortaxian command collapses. Resistance pushes forward. Citizens rush in, disarming the rest.

The night crackles to silence.

Medics bolt in—fast and efficient. They apply stasis bandages, anti-shock serum, scrub wounds. Rekkgar glances at me—pale, bleeding, temples damp with sweat. I refuse to budge.

My palm drips blood and sugar. I press it flat against his chest. Doctors saw my grip and don’t interrupt. He breathes shallow—pain and survival swirling.

He whispers, once: “You…”

I press closer. “I love you,” I rasp.

Paramedics lift him. They signal soft compliance. I let them carry him, remain kneeling by the door. I taste the glaze dust in my mouth and I don’t care. This night has been pitch-black fire. But within me, my heart pounds victory. Even as everything trembles, one thing stands clear.

He is mine.

They run a final systems check. The bakery floor is glazed in sugar, blood, and love. Amid the ruin, the heart of Earth?Bites still beats.

The night is won—but my warrior is bleeding in my arms. The whir of med pads and orbital repairs hum like lullabies of survival.

I stand, shaky. My voice is a cracked anthem: “We survived.”

The bakery stands. Our bond bleeds true through every crack.

But there is one thing I know: whatever the dawn may bring—including empire, vengeance, love—this fortress of sugar and steel stands on two hearts bound by fire.

And I would rather die than lose him.

He dares not leave.

Because I will never let him.