Page 5

Chapter Five

C allie

The ceremonial robe refuses to cooperate. It’s intricate, clearly requiring two people to fasten it. Frustration builds as another attempt to secure the back panel fails.

“Here, let me…” Aries’ voice comes from behind, closer than he’s been in years. His hands hover near the fabric, not quite touching. “If you’ll permit me?”

My throat tightens. “Yes. Thank you.” My voice is so stiff, an observer might think I wasn’t a willing participant.

The brush of his fingers against the thick brocade sends a shiver through me.

The fabric rustles as he works, each careful movement deliberate, like he’s defusing an explosive rather than helping with clothing.

The sweet-spicy scent of him—so familiar from that long-ago cell—makes my head spin as intimate pictures flash unbidden in my mind.

“These ceremonial garments are rather complex,” he murmurs, breaking the heavy silence. His voice sounds rough, although he’s forcing casualness.

Each brush of his fingers against the fabric sends electricity racing across my skin.

“The Redemption Committee representative said the complexity is intentional. Something about the couple having to work together from the very beginning. ”

A soft exhale that might be a laugh. “They’re not subtle with their symbolism, are they?”

“About as subtle as being told we have to dress each other for our own wedding.” The word ‘wedding’ hangs in the air between us, making everything feel suddenly, painfully real.

His hands pause at my shoulder. “Callie, are you absolutely certain—”

“Don’t.” As I turn to face him, the gold brocade robe swishes around my ankles. “We’ve been through this. The forms are signed. The Committee is waiting. This is happening.”

His amber eyes search mine, something raw and vulnerable flickering in their depths. The ceremonial robe he wears—all severe lines and metallic threading—makes him look like some ancient warrior-prince. The ram’s horns curling beside his face complete the fantastical effect.

A minute slips by as memories of my older sister’s wedding pull me back in time.

Barely thirteen then, I watched her in awe — a radiant bride in her twenties.

My mind had spun grand visions of my own wedding day, a white dress flowing as I walked down the aisle toward a handsome man who gazed at me the way Travis looked at Megan.

Shaking the thought away, I refuse to dwell on how far this sham of a ceremony is from those childhood dreams. Being abducted into space, living like a pirate, and reciting vows in another language to a horned male from another planet never factored into those fantasies.

At least one thing remains the same — there’s no denying he’s handsome.

“Your turn,” I say, gesturing to the unfastened panels at his shoulders. “Unless you’d prefer to walk down the aisle with your robe falling off.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, but he turns, presenting his back. The powerful muscles there bunch under bronze skin as I work with the fastenings. Five years of carefully maintained distance dissolve with each necessary touch .

“The Committee explained the hand-feeding ritual?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Yes.” My fingers fumble with a particularly stubborn clasp. “We take turns feeding each other ceremonial foods while maintaining eye contact. Supposed to represent trust and nurturing or something equally on-the-nose…” And totally impossible.

“And you’re comfortable with this choice? This level of… intimacy?”

His word choice makes me pause. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low. “I am not comfortable with any of this. But not because…” A frustrated sound escapes him. “Not for the reasons you probably think.”

Really? We’re starting this challenging endeavor with the expectation that I need to read his mind? Before I can ask what he means, a chime sounds. Time to begin.

The ceremony hall is smaller than expected, its ancient stone walls lined with floating orbs that cast everything in soft golden light.

The three Redemption Committee members, crystalline beings of the Fractali species, stand in a semicircle around a raised platform, their faceted forms catching the golden light and scattering it into shimmering rainbow prisms.

Unlike the flowing, organic Sanctorii with their translucent blue skin and liquid mercury hair, these beings appear to be made of living diamond.

Their bodies shift and reshape constantly, geometric patterns flowing like water made of light.

Where faces should be, there is little that is humanoid except for multi-faceted orbs that must be eyes.

When they speak, the sound emanates from multiple points within their crystalline matrix.

“Approach,” the central figure intones, their multilayered voice a hallmark of their hive-mind species .

Each step feels momentous, like we’re walking toward something far bigger than a simple ceremony.

Aries moves beside me, his presence both familiar and strange.

How many times have we strategized battles together?

How many shared meals and holidays of a dozen species?

Yet this feels more intimate than any of those moments.

“Kneel.”

The stone is cold through the ceremonial robes as we face each other on the platform.

This close, I can see the subtle flecks of gold in his stunning amber eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow I never noticed before.

I wonder when he got it, what gladiatorial match, what dangerous undertaking that happened as I studiously avoided him.

“Before we proceed,” the central Committee member announces, their multilayered voice holding ancient authority, “you must understand why these Rites exist.”

The Fractali’s crystalline form shifts and refracts light as they speak.

“Our species has watched as countless civilizations rose and fell.”

Another Fractali begins talking where the other left off.

“Those that practice true redemption—transformation through genuine connection—survive and thrive. Those that rely solely on punishment and vengeance destroy themselves within centuries. Your case will either validate this principle or demonstrate its limits, influencing justice systems across the galaxy.”

Their faceted eyes shift colors as they continue. “We do not seek to deny justice, but to prove that authentic love can heal even the most broken souls.”

It looks each of us in the eyes, then continues, “The Redemption Rites begin with sustenance freely given and received,” the Committee speaker continues. “Who offers first?”

“I do.” The words come out steady, though I’m trembling on the inside.

A server approaches with a tray of small, jewel-toned fruits, glistening with moisture as though freshly picked, alongside a decorative container of thick, amber honey that catches the light, and ceremonial bread that gives off a warm, yeasty aroma.

“Remember,” another Committee member adds, “you must maintain eye contact throughout. Brief physical contact is allowed. This represents the trust and openness required for true redemption.”

Picking up a piece of violet fruit, I raise my hand to Aries’ lips. The deep plum color contrasts with his bronze skin as my fingers hover before him. His gaze locks with mine as he takes the offering, the brush of his mouth against my fingers sending electricity arcing up my arm.

His lips are softer than I remember, warm and surprisingly gentle for someone so powerful. When they part, the tip of his tongue grazes my fingertips, leaving a trail of heat that makes my skin tingle long after the contact ends. The unexpected intimacy of it makes my breath catch.

The fruit’s sweet scent fills the air, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building in his eyes.

Something molten and primal flickers there, breaking through his careful control.

His eyes darken from amber to a deep gold, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains.

My pulse quickens in response, my heartbeat a thundering rhythm I’m certain he can hear in such close quarters.

His turn comes next. Large, careful hands select a piece of bread, his movements deliberate as his fingers tear off a perfect morsel.

He dips it in honey, and I watch, transfixed, as golden droplets cling to the bread and threaten to fall before he catches them with a practiced twisting motion. He brings it to my lips.

The moment stretches, heavy with unspoken words and emotions.

I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, smell the faint spice-and-sun scent that is uniquely his.

As the bread touches my mouth, my lips part instinctively.

The honey hits my tongue first—sweet and floral—followed by the bread’s hearty texture.

His thumb brushes my bottom lip, seemingly by accident, and a small sound escapes me before I can stop it.

His pupils dilate at the noise, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales sharply.

Back and forth we go, each offering becoming more charged than the last. A piece of golden fruit leaves sticky sweetness on my fingers, juice running down to my wrist in a thin rivulet, which he chases with his tongue before I can pull away, his gaze never leaving mine as he takes his time, the heat of his mouth leaving my skin feeling branded.

In some perverse form of retaliation, I let my lips brush his knuckles as I accept the next morsel, deliberately allowing them to linger as I take the food, my teeth grazing his skin ever so slightly.

I watch as a shudder subtly runs through him, a muscle in his jaw tightening as he fights for control.

By the time we reach the seventh exchange, the ritual has become something else entirely—a dance of desire conducted through fleeting touches and burning looks.

When he feeds me a honey-dipped berry, I allow the sweetness to linger on my lips before slowly catching a drop with the tip of my tongue.

His breathing grows audibly heavier, his massive chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the pulse I can see beating at the base of his throat.

By the final exchange, we’re both breathing harder, the air between us charged with electricity.

The simple ritual transformed into something far more sensual than either of us expected.

My hands tremble as I offer the last piece of fruit, a deep red berry that stains my fingertips like blood.

His hands aren’t entirely steady either as he accepts it, his fingers briefly encircling my wrist before releasing it, maintaining that searing eye contact that makes me feel as though it’s not the food, but me that’s being devoured.

“The physical bond is sealed,” the Committee speaker declares. “Now begins the spiritual joining. ”

They circle us, chanting in a language that bypasses my translator chip. The floating orbs vibrate in rhythm with their words, casting strange shadows.

“For the duration of the Rites, physical intimacy is prohibited,” one member states. “Your connection must be built on deeper foundations before the physical may be explored.”

The tension in Aries’ shoulders eases slightly at these words. Something twists in my chest—relief? Disappointment? Both?

“Know that these trials cannot be falsified. Our species exists partially in the psychic realm—we perceive emotional resonance as clearly as you see light. Deception is impossible, but the heart’s evolution remains its own mystery.”

Another member continues, although their voices sound exactly the same. “Many have tried to deceive us—their failures were… immediate and final. True redemption requires true connection.” Their multilayered voice holds no room for doubt.

My eyes fly wide as my stomach bottoms out.

They couldn’t have shared that information before we completed the bond?

“Powerful perceptive abilities” sounded like they were really good at reading body language and facial clues.

Now that we’ve committed ourselves, they tell us they’ll be able to psychically suss out if we’re truly committed? Truly in love ?

What have we gotten ourselves into?

“You will be escorted to your assigned dwelling,” another adds.

“From this moment, all contact with others is forbidden unless explicitly approved. You have ninety days to prove your bond genuine through the completion of assigned trials. Failure means death for Aries Dravek Zavalon. Success means life and freedom to choose your path forward.”

He motions for us to rise. “As we said, our telepathic abilities allow us to sense genuine emotional connections. The energy fields we generate can detect physical contact at the molecular level. These cottages exist in a dimensional pocket where we monitor all activities through quantum resonance. Attempting to manipulate or deceive the trials will result in immediate detection.”

“Now, you will face your future together.”

We turn toward the door that will lead to our shared isolation. Ninety days to convince everyone, including ourselves, that this is real. Ninety days to either heal what broke between us or watch him die.

The memory of those boar-faced Urlut guards shoving food through the cell bars feels distant now, belonging to a different lifetime. A different us. Back then, we could barely look at each other as we ate our meager rations. Now…

“This isn’t going to be like that cell,” he says suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. His voice is rough with emotion. “I won’t—” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “I am not that person anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

The door opens, revealing a path that will either lead to his redemption or his execution. To the healing of old wounds or the creation of new ones. The lingering sweetness of honey and fruit mingles with the spicy scent of his skin, making my head spin with possibilities and fears.

Together, we step through.