Page 6 of Savage Bond

I suit up fast—black uniform, high collar, boots that don’t quite fit. I tie my hair back so tight it pulls at my scalp. Control. Poise. Even if my guts are doing somersaults.

The command bridge is all cold metal and colder faces. Officers plugged into their stations like they’re part of the ship itself. Screens glow pale blue with nav lines and proximity scans. There’s no banter, no smiles. Just the hum of deep space and the unspoken tension curling around everyone’s spine.

I step onto the bridge and announce myself.

“Junior Lieutenant Ava Marlowe, reporting for duty.”

Serix Vale doesn’t even glance up from his station. “Late. Again.”

Right. Welcome aboard, sunshine.

He waves a hand and flicks a file onto the shared interface between us. “You’ll be overseeing Deck Four security rotations. Prisoner transport priority one. No deviation.”

I nod, scanning the assignment. Then I see it—designation code burned into the header like a warning brand: Species Class: Reaper. No name. Just a list of bio stats and a criminal designation that makes my pulse tick faster.

A Reaper. Alive. Onboard.

Reapers are not like the other aliens the IHC fights. They don’t just kill. They destroy. Body and mind. Ruthless, brutal, unrelenting. The war reports said they were almost extinct.

This one... this one’s a special brand of monster.

I school my face. “Is it secured?”

My voice doesn’t waver, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel steady in my chest either. The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Vale finally shifts his eyes to mine—cold, iron-flat, like he’s trying to decide if I’m stupid or insubordinate.

“There are seven layers of reinforced barrier between that thing and your soft little organs,” he says, voice low and clipped. “The cuffs are rated to hold a cruiser’s engine block. And we’re under lockdown protocol.”

That should reassure me. It doesn’t.

He narrows his eyes. “You’re not being paid to worry. You’re here to watch and report. Nothing else.”

I nod, shoulders squared. “Understood.”

He doesn’t nod back. Just turns to his terminal like I’m a stain on his sleeve. Dismissed.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

I take my post at the secondary console. A side station—low traffic, no major authority. Good. I don’t want to be seen watching the cameras as closely as I am.

I cycle through feeds, rerun system checks, double-tap every lock and seal like my life depends on it—because it kind of does.

Nothing’s amiss on paper. Everything stable.

Except—

Every time the brig feed rolls past, I freeze.

It’s dark in that cell. Not just low-lit, but wrong-dark, like the shadows don’t follow normal rules. I can’t see much—just the vague outline of a figure. Large. Coiled like a predator at rest. It hasn’t moved in hours, but somehow, I feel it. Watching. Waiting. Breathing slow and patient, like it knows it doesn’t have to rush.

A shiver creeps down my spine.

The Reaper’s just a silhouette, but it’s a silhouette that feels too real. Too solid. Like if I reached out, I’d touch something warm and awful that wants to rip my throat out and watch me bleed.

Trying to shake it off, I shift to the diagnostics tab.

Routine check. Just to center myself. Data’s easier than dread.

And that’s when I see it.

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