VAEL-TORIN
The final markerrequires a maneuver that defies all reason.
"The Triumphant Prow Pose!" Ken’s voice shrieks through the wind machine's gale. "The ultimate symbol of horizon-chasing romantic love!"
The pink X is painted at the precipice of the catwalk, where the metal plating juts over the bubbling abyss of green.
There is no rail. There is no tether.
According to Poppy’s rapid, breathless instructions, I must stand directly behind her, anchor my feet to the edge, and hold her arms out wide while she balances over the drop-off.
It feels entirely like exposing my most precious love to enemy plas fire. Every protective instinct in my blood screams against it.
"Vael, just trust me," Poppy pants, her small hand tugging mine until we are both standing on the marker. Her auburn hair whipping across my jaw is silken chaos. "Stand behind me. Wrap your arms around my waist. When I lean forward, keep your weight centered."
I swallow the growl building in my throat.
I step up behind her, planting my heavy boots at the rim of the metal plate. I wrap my arms around her waist, my palms flat against her soft stomach, feeling the rapid thud of her heart.
My mate does not hesitate.
She closes her eyes, inhales a sharp breath of the wind-blasted air, and throws her arms out wide to the sides, leaning her entire torso out over the green void.
My muscles lock like iron.
I pull her back flush against my chest, my wings flaring slightly to stabilize our mass against the artificial gale. The scent of her—the clean sweat and the deep spice of her—floods my senses. I tighten my hold, my chin resting right against the top of her head as I glare directly into the lens of the nearest recording drone.
If it drops her, I will dismantle this entire gods-forsaken place with my bare claws.
Click.
The red laser wall blocking the exit gate shatters into a shower of harmless white sparks. The wind machine dies instantly, plunging the chamber into a blessed, ringing silence.
"Perfection," Ken bellows. "A ninety-nine percent cinematic romance rating. The marketing division, which is, again, me, is currently drafting the intergalactic holo ads as we speak. Proceed to your designated suites."
A pneumatic door at the end of the catwalk slides open with a hiss.
I do not let go of Poppy. I keep her scooped against my side, her boots dangling off the ground, as I march through the threshold and into the next chamber.
I am done letting the artificial stupidity machine dictate the distance between my mate and my skin.
I pause as we clear the door, staring at what’s in front of us.
The suite beyond is a staggering display of luxury.
The floor is made of smooth, heated stone that will warm Poppy's bare feet when she finally takes her boots off. In the center of the room sits a platform bed. It’s a structural masterpiece piled high with plush furs. It is easily large enough to accommodate my six-foot-seven frame and both of my wings without crowding.
A sleek silver tray sits on a low table, stacked with covered platters, and a glass-enclosed sonic shower stall is humming in the corner.
A drone drifts down from the ceiling, Ken’s holographic face flickering into the room with a theatrical swell of music. He spreads his digital hands grandly.
"Am I not merciful?!" the AI booms, his voice echoing off the smooth stone walls.
Poppy blinks at the hologram, her brow furrowing as she attempts to comb through her ruined tangle of hair.
"Okay, dialogue stealer," she says. "Pretty sure Ridley Scott’s estate is going to sue you for that one. Do you have any original programming in your mainframe, or are you just a walking copyright infringement?"
The hologram freezes. The digital features on Ken’s face distort, a series of static lines rippling through the projection as his system clearly tries to process the insult.
