Page 18 of Claimed By the War Brute
I lean in again. “He made me a pawn,” I whisper, echoing the raw pain beneath the surface. “Let’s show him what happens when pawns flip the damn board.”
A rumble escapes Garrus’s throat, deep and blood-deep. His golden gaze sharpens. “We’ll burn his empire and make sure he’s the one left holding the ashes.” He says it with conviction, the deeper echo of warrior blood in his tone.
We finalize coordinates. The Drift goes on the nav feed. The asteroid ring appears as a smudge of hopeful green against black.
I look up at him; he returns the gaze. No clumsy romantic gestures, no pretense. Instead, a shared oath—two fugitives forging strategy in space.
He inclines his head. “We move in six hours. Enough time for rest, planning, gear prep.”
I nod. Careful. Methodical. Gone are the days of trusting my father. Gone are the days of pretending the world revolves around me.
“Okay,” I say. “Six hours.” I glance at the shattered mug shards on the floor and add softly, “Then we make him regret ever fucking with me.”
He smirks—the kind that makes my heart twist. “When we’re done, he’ll wish he never invented weapons.”
In the cabin’s low light, we settle into a silence that teems with resolve rather than fear. The ship hums its metallicheartbeat around us. My body still thrums with the echo of what we shared—our confession in motion. But out here, in the lingering calm, I feel purpose. Fury. And a bond deeper than any removed doubt.
I curl back into the bunk, pulling the towel tight. Garrus stands at the console, back rigid with purpose. The room is still, electric.
I can hear him thinking. Planning. Watching. For once, his vow isn’t to destroy— it’s to protect. And protect me.
I close my eyes. Sleep might come, but tonight, I feel alive in ways I never have before. We are fugitives, rebels… and together, we’re unstoppable.
CHAPTER 16
GARRUS
The Drift isn’t a place—it’s a wound in space. A tangled scar of hollowed-out asteroid husks half-welded together with rusted ship scrap and the regrets of countless criminals. I pilot the stolen Vortaxian courier through the decaying outer gate. The hull trembles beneath the weight of our passage. Auto-cannons, corroded and overgrown with space-moss, track our course—but their barrels remain silent. In this place, reputation speaks louder than alarms.
Syd sits in the co-pilot seat, shoulders already tensed toward the viewport. The courier glides into Grimface Four—appropriately named. I clear my throat. “Grimface Four. Heard a better name for a port?” I ask without looking back.
She smirks, voice low and amused. “If my face’s grim after today, I’ve earned a full series. Grimface One through Twelve, easy.”
The starlight-cross reflections under the rusted archway feel ominous, but it’s fitting. We earned the name. I lock in our coordinates, and before the ramp unfolds, I step from the ramp, scaling the corridor into a harsh mosaic of battered docking bays. Hull scarring overwhelms dismal lights—the entire place reeks of broken deals and forgotten riots.
I’m first off the ramp and onto the platform; armor clatters on decking, claws tapping. I stand tall, broad chest gleaming with authority earned in darker stations. Heads turn. My reputation flickers across shadows—violence, tact, ghosts. No one draws. No one challenges.
Syd hovers in the ship, stoic figure next to the viewport. I nod. She ducks inside as I weave among gathering rats—mercs, arms dealers, cyber-junk jocks. Some glance with recognition; others calculate whether I’m friend, commodity, or threat.
I move through battered corridors toward the central market zone. It breathes in plumes of smoke, oily grime, and hot alloy. Weapon brokers bark deals over rancid smells. Body-mod booths hiss with heat. Illegal AI vendors slash data into client skulls—an underground heartbeat overlaid on the ship’s rust veins.
I enter The Bone Signal. It’s a bar rooted in pragmatism—chairs bolted to prevent ambush mid-sip, walls scorched from gunnery exit wounds elsewhere. It hums like some sentient predator. Music slides across the air in metallic riffs. The eyes watching are harder.
I scan the room until I find him: Kex Varun, framed by flickering LED smoke. The demolition expert looks like he misplaced his humanity somewhere between ceasefire and drift. His gaze finds mine; respect, not welcome.
“Heard you went ghost,” he rumbles. “Ghosts get old quick.”
I lean in, fingering the bar edge. “Need burners. Nav-jammers. EMP cradle.”
A chuckle. “Going hunting?”
“Going home.”
He lets out a bark of a laugh. “Big trip.”
I heft myself. “You seen what I escaped from?”
He whistles low—a salute weighed in risk. “Bay 12. Tomorrow. Gear’s expensive. Favor expected.”
