Page 129 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
I nod.
“This isn’t about politics anymore.”
“No.” I reach across the gap between us and place both hands on the table, palms down, grounding myself to the moment, to her. “This is about us.”
We’ve called it a partnership. A union. A strategy. A reckoning. But there is still one thing unfinished.
The bond.
The Reaper ritual.
An ancient rite older than any corporate charter, older than governments, older than the Combine itself. It is biological. Literal. A fusion not just of promises, but of flesh and soul. Reapers invoke it rarely, especially with non-Reapers, because its permanence is absolute—and terrifying in its clarity.
I see the question in her eyes before she speaks it.
“Explain it.”
I take a breath.
“It’s not a vow,” I begin slowly, the words careful in the quiet room. “Not in the way people in suits or chapels understand vows. This bond is a synthesis of life—your life and mine. It ties us together at a molecular, neurological level. It means your heartbeat syncs with mine. Your body remembers my touch likeinstinct. Your mind… well,” I let the hint of humor slip through, “your mind won’t ever be alone again.”
She laughs—short, incredulous—but it isn’t disbelieving. It’s processing. Thought turning into acceptance.
“But it’s not dominance,” I continue. “Not ownership. Not servitude. It feels like devotion, like gravity folding in so my weight and yours become one. But that’s the trap word: one. We remain individuals. Distinct. We just… choose permanence.”
She chews her lower lip, thoughtful. “What are the risks?”
“That our bond could outlast wounds the world can inflict on us. That even if the world tries to tear us apart, the link holds. That you feel everything I feel, and I feel everything you feel—not in metaphor, but in visceral, undeniable sensation.”
Her breath catches. Not fear. Not retreat.
“Could I unmake it if I changed my mind later?” she asks.
“No.” My voice is honest, solemn. “Not physically. Not once it’s complete.”
She nods once, as if that was part of the calculus all along.
I wait.
She doesn’t flinch.
“I need to choose this,” she says. “Not because it’s expected… but because it’s real.”
Her certainty hits me like fire meeting storm.
I rise, stepping around the table and closing the distance between us.
Her eyes follow me—not questioning, not wary—just present. That absence of hesitation makes something shift in me. Not fear. Not arrogance. Something deeper. Reverence.
I cup her face gently with both hands—thumb brushing her cheek, warmth radiating under my palms.
“Are you sure?” I whisper, my voice low enough that I’m speaking more to the air between us than to her ears.
She nods.
Not wavering.
Not uncertain.
