Page 131 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
Her body bearing the mark—subtle, sacred, undeniable—proves what our bond really is.
And in that moment, as I rest my forehead to hers, I think not of ownership, not of conquest?—
But of unity.
“What now?” she breathes.
I smile. Slow. Deep. Certain.
“Now,” I answer, voice soft as skin, “we build something no one can ever take from us.”
And she smiles back—tired, triumphant, eternal.
Two bodies, two wills, one unbreakable bond.
CHAPTER 25
YARA
The first time I walk into the new CY8 Ethics Wing, the air smells like fresh paint and ambition—an odd combination I almost come to like. It’s early morning, still cool enough that the polished marble underfoot shines like a promise instead of a battleground. My reflection follows me across the glass walls like a silent partner, every step echoing with whispered versions of who I used to be.
But that woman isn’t here anymore.
I pause at the entrance to the Ethics Control Hub—an entire floor devoted to internal vetting, employee protections, compliance safeguards, and a distrust of shadow contracts so thorough it makes a lawyer weep with joy. This isn’t just bureaucracy with flair. This is institutional backbone. This ispurpose with teeth.
The screens lining the walls pulse with data flows and audit trails for initiatives already underway. A team of analysts in muted-blue uniforms work at angled stations, eyes flitting between graphs and flagged alerts like they’re conducting a digital symphony.
“Chairwoman Greenfield.” One of them—the lead, Mara Kehl—looks up, expression a mix of relief and respect, the waysomeone looks at a lighthouse they thought had gone dark. “Good morning. We’ve already quarantined three suspicious contract attempts. Something about offshore tech shell proxies in Solara that didn’t match licensing.”
I nod. “Good. No loopholes unsealed. No backdoors unexamined. I want us to be the fortress everyone else thinks is just a filing cabinet.”
She smiles—that quick, tight professional one. “Already ahead of you.”
I breathe in the sterile air. It doesn’t smell like victory. It smells like work. And that’s fine.
By middayI’m in my office, feet up against the corner window ledge, sunlight washing my boots in gold. My datapad buzzes, not just with scheduling, but with alerts—board motions, compliance reports, community outreach statistics. The veterans’ initiative is finally hitting its stride. We’ve secured housing credits, employment partnerships, and mental-health wings supported by CY8’s new ethics foundation.
And yet…
There’s a tension that threads through it all, like a note just slightly flat in an otherwise perfect chord.
Someone doesn’t like the changes.
I don’t flinch when the first threat arrives. Not the email—cloaked, half-laced with humor, a joke about “playing house with ethics now that you’ve burned the real players”—nor the second one, more direct, threatening exposure of “past skeletons” if I don’t reverse certain protections.
Whoever it is has a flair for theatrics. And thankfully, no clue.
I read the latest message—again—and lick my thumb to flip to the next screen. The air in the office brushes past me with a hint of ozone and coffee grounds from the machine in the corner.There’s comfort in that ordinary scent, like gravity holding me where I stand.
I tap the message into the trash.
That’s when Grau enters.
He doesn’t knock. He never does. He justis, leaning against the doorframe like a shadow folded into substance.
His presence shifts the room’s energy—not loud. Not dramatic. Just calibrated. Like gravity adjusted itself to better suit human weight.
“You okay?” he asks, eyes on the discarded message.
