Page 17 of Claimed By the War Brute
I release the tension I'd been holding in my ribs and exhale—just a slow fog of hot breath. Syd leans forward to plot salvage options for weapons caches, coded hidden panels, fuel rations. I watch the starplot scroll beneath her fingers and remember that first glance we shared in the medbay—her eyes wild, defiant. It’s a memory I let burn in sharp focus.
I won’t let her down. Not now. Not ever.
Twenty minutes pass that feel like years. We share nothing but the hum of systems and each other’s presence. I feed coordinates, she calls out supply caches. I categorize threats, she codes communications codes. We move forward in sync—a deadly duo set loose in the void.
At last, she closes the console lid and meets my gaze. Her smile is crooked, soft, bloodied in the best way. “That’s our backup plan sorted.”
I nod. “Your call: safe planet or hot dust run?”
She locks eyes with me. “Safe place to breathe. We’ll burn dust another day.”
The simplicity of that sentence shifts my chest. Breathing, not fighting. Paused or pitched—but with her. I scoot the pilot seat forward and wrap an arm around her shoulders. She leans into me. I taste salt in her hair.
“This time…I’ll fly us through whatever.” My voice is quiet steel.
She presses her palm to my chest, near the heart ridge. When she pulls back, she looks me in the eyes, amber against gold. “And I’ll be right here.”
She taps my helmet console with a gloved finger. Navigation engaged. Engines steady. The drift route holds. Time to breathe.
In my mind, I hear a ticking. It’s not Vortaxian tech. It’s the heartbeat of promise—and reckoning. Whatever comes next—retrieval teams, black-ops units, the weight of Malmount’s empire—it won't break us.
We’re fugitives, lovers, soldiers. And this silence? The universe holds it for us, just this once.
I nod once. Alert. Position set. Fury caged.
“Let’s get home,” I whisper. “Together.”
CHAPTER 15
SYD
Isit cross-legged on the floor of our cramped crew cabin, a ragged towel wrapped around me, damp hair dripping onto creased laminate beneath my legs. The cabin smells like hot metal and faint ozone, a lingering ghost of Garrus’s systems checks earlier. I cradle a steaming cup of something vaguely caffeinated—burnt, sweet, and necessary, shaking slightly in my grip.
On the far side, Garrus paces like a jungle beast trapped in a too-small cage, scaled chest heaving under plate armor, claws clicking on the floor as he shifts from direction to direction. The silence between us isn't awkward. It's charged with tension, anticipation, something taut and ready to snap.
Finally, he stops and faces me, eyes golden embers in the dim console glow. "They’re coming," he says softly, words measured and cold. "Your father is sending a retrieval unit. Labeled it as 'neutralize potential threat.'"
I don’t react. At first, I just stare into my mug, watching the coffee surface ripple as if it’s the punchline to a twisted joke. Walter Malmount—my father—corporate warlord, guns-for-hire tycoon, and frequent child role-player. He once hauled me towarship unveilings like they were theme-park launches. Now? He’s literally giving orders to kill his own daughter.
I lift my gaze slowly, voice flat as dry earth. "So that’s it. Daddy Dearest won’t pay a single dime to get me back, but he’ll send someone to erase me."
He says nothing. His silence hits harder than any confession. It's his answer—a reflection of how far we’ve fallen from whatever illusion I'd held.
I stand. The towel slips one shoulder, but I don’t bother to fix it. There’s nothing left to preserve. I set down the still-warmed mug and watch it shatter against the wall in slow motion. Deep cracks spider outward before fragments tumble to the floor. That crash is the sound of every trust-fund illusion I ever swallowed, breaking.
Garrus leaves the console and steps forward, but I hold his gaze. Not out of anger—out of clarity.
“We’re not running anymore,” I say, voice crystalline. “Not just this—to hell with escape. I want to burn him down.”
His eyes narrow, calculating. He steps closer, calm in his intensity. I can almost feel the flicker of restraint behind his facade. Then he nods. “We do it your way,” he says, voice low. “Smart, strategic. No blind fury.”
We huddle over the navigation console. It hums lightly between us, a neutral grid ready to be mapped. I plug in old access codes— pirate comms, smuggler nets, off-grid havens. Codes from the days before trust funds— before I realized war could be merchandised. Lines of data crawl beneath my fingers as I search for somewhere Malmount's reach doesn’t stretch.
Garrus follows, leaning over one shoulder. His scaled arm brushes mine in the low light; I’m struck by the contrast—my skin, soft and vulnerable, against his armor-wrapped, battle-worn arm. I shiver, but not from cold.
I bring up The Drift—a neutral asteroid ring where smugglers, exiles, black-market arms brokers, and mercs thrive. Malmount's influence there? Minimal. Its asteroid belt dotted with hidden launchpads, refit docks, and weapons caches. Dangerous? Hell yes. Perfect? Even more so.
He taps a waypoint. “Fuel, supplies, intel—this place has all of it,” he murmurs, fingertip sliding off the screen backlight. I watch neon tones flick across his rock-hard chin.
