"My honor,” I said gently, tugging my tunic over my head. "She's mine too, Jolie. Both of you are. I will always keep you safe."
Another peal of laughter drifted up from below, and Jolie's eyes went bright with unshed tears—the happy kind this time.
"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the conveyance. "I need to hold our daughter."
We raced down together, barefoot and slightly disheveled, but neither of us cared. The only thing that mattered was the little girl waiting below.
Chapter 19
Jolie
Binwee had taken over the royal barge like she owned the place. The guards, just as she’d predicted, sprawled across the dining hall floor, groaning and clutching their bellies in misery. Tark and his warriors returned battered and bloodied but alive, fur streaked with blood that wasn’t their own. No one discussed what happened to the Kwado scouts, and I didn’t ask.
Lucy perched contentedly on Diarvet’s broad shoulders, babbling nonstop about her grand adventure with Numa and Ceeka. Her laughter rang out clear and bright, oblivious to the violence and danger that had swirled around her like a storm.
With help from the Peecha, we cleaned most of the visible mess left by the barge landing. The landscape would need years, maybe decades, to recover, the wounds too deep to heal quickly. At least the treehouse weathered the chaos mostly intact.
When the arrival of another approaching ship crackled through the ozone, every muscle in my body tensed. Qurbaga might be dead—his corpse stuck only Binwee knew where, probably rotting in some forgotten corner. Yet the Kwado royal family remained as ruthless as ever, and nobody knew how many mercenaries Qurbaga had hired to hunt us across the galaxy. Fortunately, Diarvet quickly recognized the incoming ship’s signature as originating from theBardaga.
The shuttle landed with far more respect for the landscape than the Kwado had shown. It touched down so softlyon the edge of the clearing that it barely disturbed the tall grass beneath, the blades swaying gently in the displaced air. The hatch released with a quiet pneumatic hiss and a moment later a large male appeared on the ramp, moving with measured, purposeful strides.
He appeared striking, with a suede-like pelt in a golden tan color, dark hair intricately braided past his shoulders, and glowing golden irises that seemed to float in a sea of deep cobalt blue. Flowing purple robes enveloped his muscular physique, cinched at the waist with a crimson sash embroidered with silver thread, a mark that indicated his rank as a diplomat.
Another male followed close behind, taller and broader in the shoulders, with darker hair streaked with silver at the temples like frost on midnight. He wore black leather pants that hugged his thighs and a sleeveless vest that revealed his muscular, battle-scarred arms. The body of a warrior, not a diplomat.
A petite human woman appeared next, her pale skin almost luminous in the filtered sunlight, copper curls cascading in loose waves over her shoulders, and forest-green eyes that sparkled with intelligence and warmth. Dressed in a dark green robe with a golden sash tied at her narrow waist, she leaned naturally against the purple-robed male, her hand resting on his forearm with gentle possession, the intimacy unmistakable.
The last was a tall human woman with an athletic frame, dressed in a simple gray tunic and fitted pants. Her straight brown hair fell just past her shoulders, catching the breeze, and her deep blue eyes and scattered freckles across her nose and cheeks gave her an earthy beauty. She moved straight to the leather-clad warrior without hesitation, drawn to him like a compass finding north.
She was unmistakably pregnant, her belly a graceful arc beneath her tunic, a clear promise of new life. My hand driftedreflexively to my own flat belly, fingers splaying across the emptiness. An ache bloomed unexpectedly, sharp and sweet, as I imagined a child with my hair and Diarvet’s eyes. Laughter echoed in my mind, dreaming of home yet unknown filled with love and warmth and light. The flutter in my chest was overwhelming, both wondrous and terrifying, like standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable.
Diarvet’s movements pulled me from my reverie. He slipped his large, calloused hand spanned Lilibet’s tiny waist to lift her from where she perched on his broad shoulder, her tiny hands clutching desperately at the worn fabric of his collar, reluctant to let go. He pressed a tender kiss to her cheek, his lips lingering there for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, breathing in her sweet scent before gently lowering her until her bare feet touched the grass.
“Go play with Numa, little one,” he murmured, each word wrapped in affection. At his words, Lilibet scampered away, her feet pattering toward Numa, who lounged contentedly in a wide patch of sunlight.
Diarvet straightened to his full height, the muscles in his back rippling as he rolled his shoulders and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. Without hesitation, he stepped forward confidently, guiding me with him as we approached the shuttle.
“Ambassador Khaion,” Diarvet said as we stopped at a respectful distance, our feet crunching softly on the scorched grass. He brought his fist to his chest with a solid thump that echoed in the clearing, the gesture executed with military precision. The purple-robed male mirrored the salute, his movements practiced and elegant.
“Captain Diarvet,” Khaion replied, his voice crisp and smooth as polished stone. He gestured with an elegant sweep of his hand toward the leather-clad warrior at his side. “You know Chieftain Charick of theBardaga.”
“I do by reputation,” Diarvet said, offering another chest thump to the warrior. “It is an honor to meet you in person.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Charick rumbled back. He turned slightly, his massive frame shifting with surprising care and gentleness as he placed a protective hand on the pregnant woman’s back. “May I present my mate Willa, and Khaion’s mate Conciliator Emmy.”
“An honor,” Diarvet said, nodding respectfully to both women, his expression warm. I followed his lead, mirroring his nod with what I hoped was appropriate grace, though I wondered absurdly if I should curtsy. “May I present my mate Jolie,” he continued, his face visibly softening with unmistakable pride and affection as he gestured toward where Lilibet spun in delighted circles around Numa, her small arms outstretched like wings. “And our daughter Lilibet.”
Emmy and Willa’s faces melted at the sight of Lilibet, expressions transforming with maternal warmth. Willa’s hand instinctively cradled her rounded belly with a tender, yearning touch. I sensed it in Emmy, too, a wistful sigh escaping her parted lips, her forest-green eyes expressing a silent longing.
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” I said, meaning every word. The sound of someone pointedly clearing their throat with exaggerated emphasis somewhere around my knee level distracted me.
I glanced down to find Binwee standing beside me, radiating authority despite her diminutive stature, plasma rifle cradled casually in her small blue hands.
“May I introduce—” I began, but the Framaddi female waved me off with an impatient flick of her hand. She stepped forward, clicked her heels together with a sharp snap that rang through the clearing, and bowed, drill-sergeant style.
“Ambassador Khaion, I’m Binwee Jazarazant, senior operative for Asad Intelligence,” she announced.
The ambassador’s eyebrows shot up just a fraction, the golden glow of his irises intensifying momentarily. It was the first crack I’d seen in his carefully maintained composure. But he recovered so smoothly and seamlessly I almost missed it. “It is an honor, Operative Jazarazant. I have heard much about you and your invaluable contributions to the Alliance.”
