Brother Tymar of Indrik steps to the lectern and clears his throat. "I'm not going to waste much more time repeating the things that others have already said, much better than I could have. There's feasting and dancing to be done."

He looks out across the wedding party, at the bride in lacy, low-cut white, and the groom in sleek black, and their friends and coworkers and loved ones who have gathered under the woven scope of the heated tent. Outside, the light of the Southern Aurora dances across the Eqtoran tundra. Inside there's the smell of richly spiced slabs of meat and the dry, crackling warmth of the bonfires and pillar candles. The whispering of friends as they shuffle into place on the carved and ivory-inlaid benches.

There's Ipqen-mek-Taqa and Ruaq in ceremonial onyx furs. Here's Hyax in black-and-scarlet brocade, pretending that she's not holding back tears. Waian's next to her, face shiny. That's Countess Wenzai, and Count Tikani, and their silent, attentive children, and their fidgeting, shifty Lady Lakai. There's the Governess, Qilik-mek-Eqtor, and a whole gaggle of marquesses and carefully selected dignitaries from across the sector.

And at the very back, flanked by two black-and-gold HAK suits, sits Princess Narika of the Glory Banner, in watchful silence.

Nobody here has been to a Maekyonite wedding before, but from the thrumming ecclestiasty songs, and the solemn ceremony, and the snuffling tears of the bride, all of them recognize the gravity of what's about to happen.

"I have a pretty limited frame of reference for how these things are supposed to go," Tymar says. "Grantyde and Sykora sent me a few dozen film versions of these weddings to prepare me, and I've done my due diligence on those, from which I gather that there are commonly massacres or loud objections at Maekyonite weddings. I'm going to have to ask everyone to wait until after the reception if they want to get any massacring in, because I've seen the cake and I can't check out before I've had a piece."

A sweep of laughter through the tent. It manifests solely as a bemused huh in the marine at Grant's side. Ajax of the Black Pike has returned briefly from his extended leave to serve as best man. His breedmate scar peeks up out of his dress uniform's collar. Meena sits up at the front in a drapey emerald dress, beaming and beautiful and just starting to show.

"I asked Grantyde if there were particular denomination's traditions that I should use," Tymar says. "He and I agreed that tradition is fine, but we're out beyond most of it at this point. As so many of you have noted in your speeches honoring this couple, nothing about the love we're here to celebrate today is traditional. Not in how it began, or how it is maintained. The Princess and Prince of the Black Pike have, at every step, refused to take the easy ways or the well-trod paths. They have changed for one another, and when they couldn't, they have insisted that their world change instead. And it's a testament to the overwhelming strength of their love that it has."

Sykora is taking deep gulping breaths as tears carry her dark eyeliner down her face. Vora, her majordomo of honor, passes her a fresh handkerchief.

"But there are some experiences of such weight that language fails us." Tymar grins. "And it's at those moments that a tiny touch of tradition can help us. So. With that in mind."

Tymar rests his hands on the lectern. His uncovered magenta eyes focus on Grant's.

"Do you, Grant Hyde of Maekyon, take Sykora to be your lawfully wedded wife? Do you promise to love and cherish her, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, for so long as you both shall live?"

Grant looks into the beseeching, tearful face across from him. "I do."

"And do you, Sykora of the Black Pike, take Grant to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love and cherish him, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, for so long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Sykora sobs. "I do, I do."

"Then by the authority vested in me by Zithra XIX, Empress and High Majesty of the Taiikari Empire, I pronounce you man and wife, for the second and final time." Tymar steps back. "Kiss him, sister."

Grant's wife leaps into his arms. Her lips crush against his. He catches her and kisses her back, long and fierce and possessive. He takes a couple of tries to finish the kiss off; she keeps gasping against his attempts to retreat and tugging him back against her with her tail. Another ripple of laughter, and Sykora scoffs and finally relents with a parting peck.

"Ladies, gentlemen, friends, family." Tymar spreads his arms. "The Prince and Princess of the Black Pike."

Grant turns with his wife in his arms, and departs the altar down among the cheering crowd, among the people he never thought he would know, his massive, vibrant, exuberant community, which parts for him as he steps across the threshold and into the bright, brilliant rest of his life with the Princess of the Black Pike.

Grant steps out of the shower. He rubs a fluffy fleece towel through his hair. "Jeez. You were right about that stuff."

"The Breedmate's boon?" Sykora calls over the hum of the hairdryer. Her dewy skin, still flushed from the shower, is wrapped in a slight, silky red dress. All lace and brocade and transparent tulle. It's a twin to her wedding dress, but even lower in the neckline and with a frilly little skirt that ends far too short for public functionality.

Not that it matters, she's told him. She's never wearing it again after tonight.

Grant steps across the chilly stone slabs of their suite and onto the thick fur rug. He feels the indulgent plush between his toes. "Yep. It was, uh… dramatic."

"Which part? The taste or the aftermath?"

He sits on the expansive, downy bed. "Both."

"That's why I only had one slice of cake." Sykora puts her hair dryer aside and joins him. "I understand that it's not exactly mood-setting. But we're both squeaky-clean now, and it'll give us energy." Her tail guides him onto his back. "And keep us both, uh—cleared out. There'll be no getting up to use the bathroom or stopping for a breather. Give me your wrist, dove."

He holds his wrist out. "We can't take breaks?"

"You're not going to let me," she says.

"I promise I will. If you need them."

She retrieves a ribbon from the supplies on the nightstand: a first-aid kit, a six-pack of water bottles. "You won't, dove. Not if the nectar does what it's supposed to." She ties the intricately-beaded ribbon to his wrist. "That's okay. It's right. There's no stopping it when it starts. No going back. Now the other."

He watches her nimble fingers tie the second bow. "What are these?"

"These are lover's shackles," she says. "A holdover from the ceremonies of old, when the man had to be chained to the wall so his breedmate could escape if she wished. We're using the collar, of course."

"Right." He retrieves it from the bedside and clicks it around his neck. "You wanna test it?"

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"I trust it," she says. "But if you'd like to—"

"Lonesome," he says, and a tingling pulse radiates out of the collar. His muscles lock up. A few seconds of bizarre, painless paralysis, and then his limbs suddenly obey him again. He rubs his arm. "Goddamn."

"No hesitation." She laughs. "That's such a boy thing. I'm glad it's true for Maekyonites, too."

He grins. "I was curious."

"If you're—" She bites her lip.

He gathers her closer into his arms. Her little galloping heart is beating so fast.

"I know you had that experience." Her voice quivers. "Of losing control. And I can't even begin to imagine. If you want to do this in some other way—there's drugs that will let me ovulate and conceive without the bite. I just want to check. One last time."

Grant sighs and shifts. He doesn't think about Chassak often. He doesn't feel ruined or wounded. Just tender, sometimes. Now and then, he's quietly asked Sykora to erase all compulsions on him, like she did back then. Not because he suspects anything. It's just that sometimes there's this tiny scratching feeling in the back of his brain, around where his imprisoned agency was clawing at him. And bathing in Sykora's flash, knowing he's safe, shuts it up. It's his version of the way she needs him to squish her sometimes, he guesses.

He's been working it out with Oryn, Vora's psychologist husband aboard the Pike. Apparently that's a common reaction to adversarial flashing, and it'll fade with time and trust. And there's nobody he trusts more than Sykora.

He rests a hand on her cheek. "I can't think of anything I want in the entire firmament more than this."

She nuzzles into his hand. "I can't, either."

There's a clattering sound coming from her hoop-festooned ears. "You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm—" She swallows. "I'm just a little overwhelmed. That we're finally here."

"Are you afraid?" He scratches behind her ear. "We can just do it normal tonight. Maybe the bite happens on the Pike, or we can use actual restraints. I don't mind."

"No. I want it like this. I don't want it sterile and safe." She rests her forehead on his, nuzzles the tip of his nose. "I want you to change me tonight," she whispers. "I want to be bred."

He slips his thumb along her jaw. The reality of their different sizes is nesting in him. His big hand, her delicate neck. She vents out a nervous giggle as he cups her cheek. "You are so big," she says, as if she's thinking the same thing he is.

"I'm sorta overwhelmed too," he says. "I, uh. I don't want you to get hurt."

She shakes her head, the laugh still on her lips. "I'm not afraid of some rough handling, silly Maekyonite. Taiikari girls are made for this." She pats her butt. "Why do you think the Gods of the Firmament saw fit to grace me with these hips?"

He rests his hands on the hips the Gods gave her. His thumbs trace circles across her inner thighs.

"It's just… this is it." She rubs his forearms. "There's no going back. After tonight I belong to you."

"We belong to each other," he says.

"Of course," she says. "And we did already, of course. But it's about to be real. Biological." Her hand rests on her stomach. "Permanent."

His breath thickens. The dark excitement she's drawing out of him closes his grip further on her.

"I know it's not how you see us, but…" Her face glows with her blush. "I guess it's my Taiikari brain. Looking for something. To be claimed."

He scoots her closer. "Well, if my commanding officer insists."

She laughs and lays her hot palm on his sternum. "You can't feel guilty about what you're about to do to me. Okay? I'm aware of it. I accept it. I'm excited for it. This is everything to me, Grant." Her hand closes into a fist against the drumming of his heart. "This is everything I thought I'd never have."

He nods. "Promise you'll use the collar if you need it."

"I promise."

"Okay, then." He takes a stabilizing breath. "What do I do?"

"Just… be tender with me for a moment, Prince Grantyde," she says. "Be tender now, because when we start, you won't be."

She tilts her head. His lips meet hers. Their hesitation dissolves in the warm sweetness of their kiss. Two snug minutes and she breaks away, breathing hard, her lips shiny and dark. Under the plaited silk of her bodice, he sees the dark blue of her nipples, firm and peaked.

He cups a breast, caresses it over the lacy red corsetry that houses it. "Do you want me to warm you up? Maybe give you one on your own first?"

"I'm not worried about cumming, dove. God knows. I need to conserve every bit of energy." Her thin scarlet panties rub up against him. He feels the need underneath, warm and inviting and unashamed. "I'm hoping to stay awake the whole time, but if I don't, you keep going, okay?"

"Are you sure?"

"I am. I mean, you'll keep going, regardless." She kisses his chin. "But this is my consent."

Another kiss on his cheek. Then she's nudging against his mouth again, and he lets her tongue mingle with his. The roughness of it, the texture. The deep purr from her chest. Her wagging tail. This strange, sacred thing about to happen with his alien wife.

How often has he held her close and kissed her like this? Often enough that it's become a little less miraculous. But this feels different. A gentle nip of her lower lip, a silky moan. His heart hammers in his chest. Her breath is sharpening. She feels it too. The same gravity. A baby. Babies. They're about to make babies.

He tastes a tang of sweetness, and his smile separates them. "Is that the nectar?"

She chuckles shyly. "My fangs are… pretty eager."

"I guess it's time."

"I guess it is." She takes his face gently, turns it to the window. "Look out there." The pinprick stars gleam in the crimson oceans of his wife's eyes. "The world we won. The first great piece of our legacy. By the time its sun rises, we'll have another." She cups his ear, whispers into it: "You're about to make a mother out of me."

His spine tingles at her scratchy voice. His heart races at the words it says.

Her chin rests on his shoulder. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready," he says. "I love you."

"I love you too." A tear cuts down her face. "I love you so fucking much, Grant Hyde."

She nuzzles his neck. She kisses it.

Her mouth opens wider than he's ever seen it. Her fangs drip with neurotoxin.

They sink into his flesh.

The Grant of daytime looks at Sykora and sees his best friend and the love of his life. This Grant, the Grant with Sykora's nectar flooding his brain, sees prey.

His mind contracts like a hunter's pupil.

He sees a tiny, blinking female, tiny but grown. He smells her musk. Smells the fruitfulness clinging to her. His simplified mind knows exactly what to do to a curvy little thing like this.

"Grant?" A nonsense sound comes out of her. "Are you—"

He tackles her onto the bed and yanks her hips against him. He snarls to see the flimsy red lace in his way. He shreds it from her. She lets out a yelp as he shoves her ankles up to her ears and exposes her, trembling and blushing and wet and so achingly ready. Her eyes are wide with shock and lust. There's that meaningless squeak from her again, that "Grant—" as she realizes what is about to happen to her.

--Content omitted--

Dawn's breaking.

She's in his lap, eyes lidded, tongue lolling, her drool a wet spot on his chest. Her head bobs as he grinds her hips on him. His fingers swim in the black river of her hair, to the back of her head. He holds it still, cradles it. His climaxes are dry, now. He's spilled every drop of himself into his wife.

Wife. That's right. This is his wife. He's been throwing his wife around like a rag doll for hours.

He manages his first actual word since the beginning of the night: "Batty."

She shivers out of her fugue. The peach glow of the artificial sunrise shines across her sweat-drenched face. "Grant?" She nuzzles into his neck. "Are you back?"

"I—" His voice is as dry and cracked as old leather. "Yeah. Think so. Yeah."

She kisses his jaw. "Hi."

He tips backward and lays in the bed. "Hi."

She drapes herself on top of him, moaning gently as their worn-out bodies press into one another.

"You know what you just did?" she whispers. "You just knocked up a Princess, Grant Hyde."

He aches thunderously. He feels like he got hit by a pickup truck.

"Poor boy." She strokes his heaving chest. "You did so good."

She rolls off of him, lays next to him, and plucks the water from the nightstand with her tail.

She nudges his lips. "Open up."

"I can get it myself."

A little rattling laugh from her. "Can you?"

He raises his arm and watches it wobble. He's fried, he realizes. He feels as if he just ran a marathon.

"Rest your body, Prince. Mine will take it from here." She takes his hand and lays it on the hot griddle of her stomach. "Mine knows what to do now," she whispers.

He thinks of the life beginning beneath their touch. His fingers twitch.

"Enjoy these abs while you can, dove." Sykora giggles. "This waistline is going away for a few cycles. Your fault."

He imagines the warm stomach below his palm growing as the cycles pass. He imagines rubbing his wife's tired feet, and bringing her breakfast in bed, and feeling those first kicks with her. He imagines holding his children in his arms, their little faces and their little tails. He imagines how it'll sound, the first time he hears dad.

He sniffs. Then he sniffs again, harder. "We're gonna have kids," he whispers.

Sykora buries her face in his hair. "We are."

An uncertain breath forces its way out of him, on the edge of a sob.

She coos and curls him into her. "Seven cycles, Grant," she whispers. "And you'll be a father."

Grant takes this as his cue to shake apart.

He weeps into Sykora's chest, unrestrained and full-bodied. Tears of exhaustion and joy, of relief and disbelief that they're okay, and together, and their impossible dream is coming true. He clings to her and kisses her and feels her small, strong arms wrap around him, her graceful fingers caress him, her tears join his. His Princess. His wife. His family.

They hold one another in the gathering light.

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