Page 166 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

Anita looks at me.

The choice is immediate, brutal, and clear enough to be kind.

If I attack Rolaev now, the field may destabilize before Anita secures anything. If I defend the chamber, Rolaev may still trigger erasure. If I protect Anita alone, the archive may be lost. If I protect the archive alone, I become the sort of man who uses love as a speech and abandonment as a tactic.

So I choose the only path that belongs to me.

I step beside Anita instead of in front of her.

She notices. Her eyes widen.

“I will hold them,” I say.

“No.”

“I will hold the chamber while you secure what can be responsibly carried.”

“No, that sounds exactly like farewell poetry with tactical accessories.”

“It is not. Brakk will keep the route open. Sira will guide the archive copy. You will decide what leaves this place. I will prevent the Choir from interrupting you.”

“And Rolaev ?”

I look at the Odex priestess. “She is part of the interruption.”

Rolaev lowers her hand slightly, and the destruction key spins faster. “Do not force this into violence.”

Ghar—myself, whole enough now to own my name—bares my teeth. “You brought soldiers to a chamber full of civilians and ancient records. Violence arrived with you.”

Another impact shakes the terraces. Dust explodes from the upper rings. The preservation barrier around us weakens, then reforms in unstable sheets.

Sira’s voice turns urgent. “Anita, now.”

Anita grabs my arm before I can move away. Her grip is fierce. “You come back to me.”

“I will try.”

“No.” Her eyes blaze. “Do not give me noble uncertainty. Give me something better.”

The old me might have promised victory because warriors comfort with impossible declarations before battle. The broken me might have refused because honesty can become cruelty when wielded without tenderness.

The man choosing her gives the truest promise he can.

“I will fight to return,” I say. “Not to destiny. Not to glory. To you.”

Her breath catches.

Then she rises on her toes and kisses me.

It is not careful. There is no room left in the universe for careful. Her mouth finds mine with salt from tears, heat from fear, and a fierce, shaking claim that has absolutely nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with being alive while the world tries to end around us. I bend to her, one hand at her waist, the other still gripping my weapon because romance and tactical reality are apparently now sharing accommodations.

When she pulls back, her eyes are wet and furious. “Good.”

“Yes,” I say, my voice rough. “Good.”

Brakk yells, “I support this emotionally but object to the timing!”

Sira, astonishingly, says, “Seconded.”