21. Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

B ecca

The familiar hum of the cooking arena fills my ears as Pyne and I take our place at our station. Though we shared such pleasure in the shower, my heart is now racing in fear as I’m bombarded with reminders of the events that happened earlier in the arena.

Our moments alone in our room distracted me, but now, back in the bright lights and gleaming surfaces of the cooking arena, a new worry gnaws at my gut. My anxiety is banished, though, when all the other contestants, except for the Saurians, clap, bang their utensils against the counter, and let Pyne know they approved of how he handled the situation in the arena.

Breaking protocol, Lyriax strides across the room and gives Pyne the high honor given to gladiators—a fist to the chest. The Iridian takes it a step further, though. He bows deeply, then straightens and says, “How do I thank the male who saved my life? I will be forever grateful.”

“We all came out winners.” Pyne’s tone is humble. “And your fated mate is returned to you.”

“Get to your stations!” Arisha’s face is a thundercloud as she surveys the contestants, her eyes flickering with barely contained rage. “Well, wasn’t the gladiatorial match a thrilling display?” Her voice drips with sarcasm. “But now it’s time to get back to the real competition. And I have a special challenge in store for you today.”

Pyne’s arm tightens around my waist, a silent show of support. I lean into him, drawing strength from his solid presence. I breathe deeply, finding his comforting scent above the spices laid out on every workspace.

“Today’s challenge will determine which teams move on to the final round,” Arisha announces, her lips curling into a smirk. “Only the top five will remain. The rest of you… well, let’s just say your journey ends here.”

Chilly goosebumps spread across my skin, but I force myself to focus on the task at hand. Failure is not an option, not when Pyne and I have come so far. Not when my freedom is riding on the outcome.

“Your challenge is to create a Soaring Snowflake display,” Arisha declares. “Each team must craft a centerpiece of suspended sugar snowflakes, adorned with Krystellian candied crystals and frosted in a gradient of icy hues. Points will be awarded for artistry, technical skill, and overall visual impact.”

I glance around the arena, sizing up our competition. The Iridian team looks shell-shocked, their usual ethereal grace replaced by haunted weariness. The feline team seems energized, their tails swishing with predatory anticipation. And the Saurians…

Klst catches my eye from across the room, his tongue flicking out in a mocking gesture. I suppress a shudder, my hand instinctively reaching for the phantom weight of my knife.

But then Pyne’s fingers lace with mine, warm and reassuring, and the fear recedes. We’re a team. We can do this.

As the timer starts, Pyne and I discuss our design as I sketch a rough draft. Then we fall into a rhythm, our movements synchronized and sure. He’s come so far from those early days of fumbling uncertainty, his hands now deft and confident as he measures and mixes.

We work in comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional murmured suggestion or soft laugh when we bump into each other. Every brush of Pyne’s fingers against mine sends a thrill through me, a spark of connection that warms me from within.

In these quiet moments, stirring, mixing, and shaping side by side, I catch glimpses of the male beneath the bravado—the gentle warrior, the loyal friend, the skillful lover. Each brush of hands, each shared smile, makes my heart flutter in a way I never thought possible.

I steal glances at him as we work, admiring the play of muscles beneath his green skin, the intense focus in his azure eyes. He catches me looking at him and quirks a smile, his tail flicking mischievously.

“See something you like, sugarplum?” His voice is a low, rumbling tease that makes my toes curl. “Didn’t see enough of it in the shower?”

I grin, feeling a blush heat my cheeks. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of this male, but I don’t admit it. “Maybe. But we have a challenge to win before I get a well-deserved replay, gladiator.”

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. “Then let’s show them what we’re made of.”

We pour ourselves into the creation, crafting delicate snowflakes that glimmer like stars, suspending them on gossamer threads of spun sugar. The candied crystals catch the light, refracting it in a dazzling display of color and shine.

Together, we rigged a machine from the seemingly endless supply of items we found in the pantry. The snowflakes now rotate on a motor, like a baby’s mobile. Light reflects off the crystals, bathing the room in sparkling wonder.

As the final minutes tick down, I reach for the last candied crystal, my hand shaking with nerves and exhaustion. The sharp edge slices into my palm, and I hiss in pain, dropping the crystal onto the counter.

“Becca!” Pyne is at my side in an instant, his eyes wide with concern. “Are you alright?”

I nod, gritting my teeth against the sting. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll be fine.” Ridiculous, really, that my little scratch gets so much attention when he was in a death match facing a gleaming sword only a few hours ago.

He takes my hand gently, examining the cut. It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding, a crimson streak against my skin. Without hesitation, Pyne tears a strip of cloth from his apron and wraps it around my palm, applying pressure to stem the flow.

“You don’t have to—” I start, but he silences me with a look.

“Let me take care of you.” His voice is soft as his thumb brushes over my knuckles. “I like to think of it as my job.”

It’s so reassuring to know that he returns my affection. My throat is tight with emotion. We stay like this for a long moment, his hand cradling mine, our gazes locked in a silent exchange of understanding and affection.

Finally, Pyne ties off the makeshift bandage, steps back, and we survey our work. It’s not perfect—a few of the snowflakes are slightly misshapen, the gradient of the frosting not quite as smooth as I’d like. But it’s ours, a testament to our teamwork and determination.

The judges make their rounds, their faces impassive as they examine each display. I hold my breath as they pause before ours, their eyes critical and assessing.

Finally, Arisha steps forward, her face unreadable. “The results are in,” she announces, her voice echoing through the arena. “And the teams moving on to the final round are…”

One by one, she reads off the names, each one a hammer blow of anticipation. The felines, the Saurians, the Iridians, the Hyperions…

“And in fifth place,” Arisha says, her eyes locking with mine, her expression sour, “Banjo and Pyne, the Galactic Love Muffins.”

I let out a breath, my shoulders sagging as relief floods through me. We did it. We made it through to the next round.

Pyne sweeps me into his arms, mindful of my injured hand, and twirls me in a giddy circle. “You were amazing, sugarplum,” he murmurs against my hair. “We make a good team.”

At this moment, the future is uncertain. Who knows what new level of hell Arisha will throw at us? But here, in the circle of Pyne’s arms, with the sweet taste of victory on my tongue and the reminder of his care wrapped around my throbbing hand, everything feels possible.