The Space Empress He Craved

Chapter 17

POV: Lyra

Juan thrust out his hand toward Commander Wainwright with that trademark grin of his. "Always stellar [great] to see you, Wainwright."

"Juan, good to see you too, old friend." Wainwright snapped out of whatever shock had frozen him and clasped Juan's hand firmly. The neural recognition between old comrades sparked briefly—not romantic compatibility, just the comfortable familiarity of shared battles.

Hale set her nutrient tray down and crossed to Willa, who'd already risen. They embraced, the kind of fierce hug that only comes from surviving plasma fire together. "Didn't see you at last night's reception. Thought you might've skipped this cycle's Summit."

"Skip this? Never." Willa's smile reached her eyes—genuine, not the political mask we all wore at these gatherings. "Lyra's been keeping us entertained, as always." She shot me a grateful look that made my skin shift to that embarrassing pink.

Stop that. You just helped with basic tactical advice. Nothing special.

Wainwright snorted, his scarred face crinkling with amusement. "Yeah, she's all charm and rainbows until you put her on a battlefield."

Specialist Sylvia joined in, her laugh tinkling through the officers' mess. "Then she transforms into an absolute void-monster [terrifying force]."

I covered my face with my hands, my skin cycling through mortified purples and blues. Great. Let's just broadcast all my flaws to the Emperor.

Juan, never one to let an opportunity pass, added with mock seriousness, "Let's give Lyra proper credit here. She doesn't transform into a monster." He paused for dramatic effect. "Lyra's been a monster since Academy. Remember that training sim where she took down thirty combat drones single-handedly? At age fifteen?"

Laughter erupted around the table. The kind that made the Lyrokan officers at nearby tables turn and stare. My narrowed eyes found Juan's mischievous ones. "I'm getting you for this, Juan."

"Oh yeah? When?" The challenge in his voice was playful, confident.

I let my lips curl into that smile that made experienced warriors nervous. "Tomorrow. Combat training."

His grin evaporated faster than atmosphere through a hull breach. His panicked eyes darted to Hale before he cursed, "Void-scrap [shit]!"

The laughter doubled, echoing through the mess hall's crystalline dome. Even Orion laughed—a genuine, deep sound that sent pleasant vibrations through our psychic bond. I watched him from the corner of my eye, saw how his pathways glowed warmer purple, how his shoulders had lost that Emperor-rigid tension.

He's never had this, I realized suddenly. Never had people forget his title and just... be themselves around him.

The thought made something twist in my chest. Here was the most powerful being in the galaxy, and he looked like a kid who'd just discovered what friendship meant.

Without ceremony or warning, Orion leaned over and pressed his lips to my ear lobe. Neural sparks cascaded down my neck as he whispered, "Thank you, for getting them to accept me."

"You're welcome," I whispered back, unable to stop the shy smile. My skin betrayed me again, shifting to that telltale pink.

This is different, my mind insisted on cataloging. He's different.

With my previous matches, I'd always filtered myself. Calculated each word, measured each response. Even with Juan and Hale—my closest friends, my most trusted sub-commanders—I still ran everything through internal censors. Made sure I wasn't too harsh, too blunt, too... me.

But Orion? He seemed to want all of it. The bitter cynicism, the combat monster, the girl who still checked for escape routes in every room. He absorbed my sharp edges without flinching, asked for more when others would've run.

Stop hoping. Hope is how you get hurt.

"Your Eminence?"

The voice cut through our bubble like a plasma blade. Everyone at our table went silent. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Orion stood slowly, grudgingly, his pathways already darkening as he turned. "Yes, Cummings?"

Defense Minister Alfred Cummings stood there with his son Sebastian lurking behind him like a bad memory. Both bowed—Alfred with practiced politics, Sebastian like it physically pained him. I could feel the jealousy radiating off Sebastian from here, his modified pathways flickering erratically.

Alfred kept his head down, the perfect image of deference. "I wanted to apologize for Sasha's behavior earlier. She got emotional and meant no harm to the Specialist. She wishes to apologize if she's allowed back into the meetings. May she be given a chance to make amends, Your Eminence?"

"No." Orion's response was immediate, final. His pathways pulsed black.

Alfred's head snapped up in surprise. "I beg your pardon, my Emperor? Your Eminence, I can assure you she didn't intend to upset the Specialist. She was simply—"

"The Specialist she insulted is my match." Orion's voice could've frozen stars. "Tell Ms. Cummings to count herself lucky I didn't initiate tribunal proceedings for her behavior toward the future Empress. She was warned last night when I was speaking with Commander Lyssa. I will not have her presence here again."

Future Empress. He keeps saying that like it's fact. Like I won't be rejection number seven.

Alfred looked lost, his political maneuvering failing. His eyes found mine—I kept my expression carefully neutral, my skin forcibly held at silver. Then he played his last card, the desperate move of a losing player.

"Could she at least attend combat training starting tomorrow, Your Eminence? We haven't uncovered the truth about the Rogue Lyrokans yet, and I wouldn't want her defenseless should we face that threat."

Orion's pathways went midnight black, his voice rising to near-explosive levels. "Cummings, I SAID N—"

I moved without thinking, appearing at his side instantly. My hand found his arm, fingers wrapping around his wrist, using our psychic bond to flood him with calm. "Orion, that would be acceptable."

His head whipped toward me, those purple eyes full of concern and confusion.

"Just training," I continued, keeping my voice soft but clear. "Everyone fights with assigned partners, so she won't have opportunity to cause problems. It'll be fine."

Plus, I want to see her face when she realizes what real combat training looks like. Let her discover what us 'inferior' Kaelari can do.

"Are you sure?" His pathways softened, worry replacing rage.

I gave him a small smile and nodded. Through our bond, I pushed reassurance, calm, and maybe just a hint of my ulterior motive. His lips twitched—he'd caught that last part.

Hesitantly, Orion turned back to Cummings. "You and your reckless daughter better realize her fortune right now. Training only. She's excluded from everything else."

"Yes, I understand, Your Eminence. Thank you." Alfred turned to me with what he probably thought was gratitude. "Thank you, Specialist Lyra. I'm most grateful. I'm sure my daughter will fully appreciate your kind gesture."

I scoffed, letting my natural bluntness surface. "I wouldn't count on that, Minister. But her appreciation isn't my concern. I only persuaded our Emperor to allow it to ensure no innocent Lyrokan or Kaelari dies protecting Ms. Cummings. I was considering the people assigned to guard her, not her. But thank you for expressing your gratitude."

There. Let him chew on that.

Alfred's mouth actually fell open. The great Defense Minister, shocked speechless by a five-foot-one Kaelari from the mining colonies. Behind him, Sebastian's eyes were locked on where my hand still rested on Orion's arm, his pathways cycling through jealousy-green and anger-red.

"If there isn't anything else, Cummings," Orion's voice cut like ice, "you may close your mouth and depart."

Alfred's jaw snapped shut. He bowed stiffly, grabbed his son's arm, and retreated. But not before Sebastian shot me one last longing look that made my skin crawl.

Great. Another problem to deal with.

Orion's muscles remained tense under my hand. Through our bond, I felt his internal debate—should he have allowed Sasha to train? Was he being too lenient? The protective rage toward me warred with political necessity.

I stroked the back of his hand with my thumb, the gesture hidden from onlookers by our positioning. "You okay?"

His anger evaporated like it had never existed. He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to it, sending neural sparks shooting up my arm. "I am now."

I rolled my eyes, but my traitorous skin flushed pink, and he definitely noticed. His pathways glowed with satisfaction.

Stop being charming. I can't afford to believe this is real.

We returned to our seats and continued talking with the others—war stories, embarrassing Academy memories, the kind of comfortable conversation that made time disappear. When people finally started leaving, Orion insisted on escorting me to my quarters.

The corridor was empty, our footsteps echoing off the metal flooring. The station's night cycle had dimmed the lights, casting purple shadows from his softly glowing pathways.

"You helped the Crimson Station," he said suddenly. "Not just last month's Rogue attack, but multiple times over the years."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "They're our allies. Their Commander is... was a friend." I paused, remembering. "Lost him two years ago. Rogue plasma through the chest. His partner leads now."

"You've saved many stations." His voice held something I couldn't identify. "Yet you're never acknowledged in the official reports."

I shrugged. "Mining colony Commanders don't get their names in official records. Bad for morale, apparently. Can't have the Core Worlds knowing they're being saved by Sector Seven trash."

His pathways flared angry black, but before he could respond, we'd reached my door. The bio-lock scanned my signature, the door sliding open with a soft hiss.

I turned to say goodnight, but Orion caught my face between his hands. His kiss was different this time—deeper, hungrier, like he was trying to prove something. Through our bond, I felt it all: desire, protectiveness, frustration at the system that kept hiding my achievements, and underneath everything, something that felt dangerously like genuine affection.

No. Don't read into it. He's just grateful for tonight. Tomorrow he'll remember who you really are.

When we parted, his forehead rested against mine. "Goodnight, Lyra."

"Goodnight, Orion."

I stepped inside, the door closing between us. But I could feel him standing there for several moments before his footsteps finally faded.

I collapsed onto my sleep platform, staring at the ceiling where stars flickered beyond the transparent panels. My skin kept shifting colors—pink from his kiss, blue from anticipated rejection, purple from confusion.

What are you doing, Lyra? You know how this ends. Match number six will leave just like the others. Stop hoping for different.

But as I lay there, I could still feel him through our bond—distant but present, a warm pulse at the edge of my consciousness. And for the first time in six matches, I found myself wanting to believe.

That's the most dangerous thought of all.