Page 39 of The First Child
“What happens now?” I ask.
He lifts his head to meet my eyes. “Now we stop pretending we’re just co-parents. Now we become what we’ve been fighting for months.”
“And what’s that?”
“A family.” He kisses me softly. “A real family.”
The simple words hit me harder than any passionate declaration. A family. Something I never thought I’d have, never thought I deserved.
“I love you,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His markings pulse once, bright and warm. “And I love you. More than duty, more than tradition, more than my own life.”
He pulls out of me slowly, and we both shiver at the loss of connection. But when he gathers me in his arms and pulls me against his chest, I feel complete in a different way.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I murmur against his skin.
“Merry Christmas, Hada.” His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back. “Our first Christmas as a family.”
Through the baby monitor, Aniska sighs in her sleep. Content. Happy. Loved.
Just like her parents.
CHAPTER 12
HADA
Christmas morning begins with victory.
“The tribunal has reached unanimous decision,” Elder Lunai announces, her voice carrying across the chamber with the weight of finality. “Based on expert testimony and direct observation of the empathic bond between the child and her guardians, we find no evidence of artificial enhancement or experimental contamination. Aniska Altell will remain in the joint custody of Captain Hada Blaxton and Commander Sylas Ominox.”
The words hit me like physical impact, relief so intense, it makes my knees weak and my vision blur with tears I’m too proud to shed in public. Through our empathic connection, I feel Sylas’s matching surge of emotion—gratitude and joy and something that feels like coming home after the longest journey of our lives.
“Furthermore,” Elder Lunai continues, “the tribunal recommends that future custody decisions involving hybrid children consider the importance of stable empathic bonding in developmental outcomes. The connection demonstrated heretoday represents optimal conditions for healthy growth, and should serve as a model for similar cases.”
We won. Not just custody, but recognition that what we’ve built together represents something worth protecting. Something that transcends legal precedent and scientific protocol in favor of the simple truth that children thrive when they’re loved unconditionally by people who understand their needs.
“Dr. Vasquez.” Elder Lunai addresses the TCA representative whose face has gone pale with what looks like professional embarrassment. “The Colonial Authority’s petition is denied. Furthermore, any future attempts to claim jurisdiction over hybrid children must provide evidence of actual harm rather than theoretical risk.”
“Elder Lunai,” Dr. Vasquez says carefully, “the TCA remains concerned about the precedent this decision might set?—”
“The precedent this decision sets is that families matter more than research opportunities.” Elder Lunai’s markings flare with the kind of bioluminescent intensity that suggests barely controlled anger. “This tribunal will not separate children from loving guardians to satisfy scientific curiosity.”
The finality in her voice makes it clear that the discussion is over. Dr. Vasquez gathers her documentation with the defeated air of someone who’s just watched years of planning collapse in a single hearing, while Dr. Cuzzort approaches our platform with an expression that looks remarkably like relief.
“Congratulations,” she says quietly. “For what it’s worth, I think this was the right decision. Aniska belongs with you.”
“Thank you.” I shift our daughter in my arms, noting how she seems completely unbothered by the legal drama that swirled around her future. “Your testimony made the difference.”
“The truth made the difference. I just presented data that showed what anyone with eyes could see—the child is thriving in your care.” Dr. Cuzzort pauses, studying Aniska’s peaceful expression with scientific curiosity tempered by genuine warmth. “Take care of her. What you three have together is special.”
“We will,” Sylas promises, his voice carrying the kind of absolute conviction that makes promises feel like sacred vows.
As the chamber empties, we remain on the testimony platform, holding each other while the magnitude of what just happened settles into our consciousness. We’re a family. Officially, legally, permanently. No one can separate us now.
“So,” I say finally, noting how the morning light streams through the chamber’s windows with the kind of golden radiance that makes everything look magical. “What do we do now?”
“Now we go home,” Sylas replies, his mental voice warm with contentment that flows through our bond like sunlight. “And we give our daughter the Christmas she deserves.”
