Page 2 of Claimed By the War Brute
“Not home,” I whisper.
I close my eyes. My shoulder’s bleeding. My mouth is dry. I can feel the press of fear rising in my chest. I’ve playedfor soldiers. I’ve toured during war. But I’ve never been stolen before. Not like this.
And somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach, I know this isn’t random. This isn’t opportunistic.
This is targeted.
They knew who to take. Where to strike. And how to make it clean.
I think about my father.
Walter Malmount.
Galactic arms dealer. One of the biggest suppliers during the Centuries War. I think about how he always said I’d never be worth anything outside his name. That one day, my rebellion would catch up with me.
“Bet you’re real smug now, you bastard,” I mutter under my breath.
The shuttle banks hard. A voice crackles over the intercom—deep, clipped, imperial.
“We approach the Ravager Ascendant. Prepare the assets for presentation.”
The what now?
A shadow looms across the viewport. A massive, angular warship eclipsing the stars. Black metal. Vortaxian design. Predatory and perfect. I stare at it and feel ice crawl down my spine.
This is where the story changes.
This isn’t a rescue story.
Not yet.
This is where the girl gets stolen. Where she sees what monsters look like when they wear crowns. This is where I learn that survival isn’t about how loud you scream.
It’s about how quiet you can plan.
I curl my fingers, testing the cuffs. I feel the rhythm under the hull. I memorize the guard rotations. I taste blood and fury.
I’m not just a captive.
I’m a Mal-mount.
And if they think I’m gonna make a good little prisoner…
They’ve clearly never watched me burn a stage down.
CHAPTER 2
GARRUS
I’m halfway through my fifth rep—the land skimmer’s frame shaking under seven Gs—when the comms relay deadens, then crackles like an ambush. I don’t stop. I never stop mid-rep. My muscles burn, mind focused. But my eyes, just slightly slitted, flick toward the holo-screen. The voice that cuts through is dry steel: General Dowron.
Another personal ping from the Alliance. Not that it matters. I started the night’s workout with three empty cans—the usual fuel. My chest heaves; veins carve dark tracks across slick red scales. Whatever Dowron wants, he can wait until I finish the set.
The skimmer clatters back into its cradle. I let it drop with a growl. A predator doesn’t shift focus mid-strike.
I swipe the call open with one clawed finger. Dowron’s face appears in that cold blue tint—older now, wearier, but with that same uncompromising tension that scratches under my scales. He doesn’t smile.
“Garrus,” he says, voice tight. “We’ve got a situation.”
