Page 23 of Claimed By the War Brute
My teeth catch the inside of my cheek. I smile, but it’s brittle. “Thinking sounds dangerous.”
He finally turns, his golden eyes slow-rolling over me. That look sends my stomach twisting—sharp, not with fear, but with awareness. Want. Not the frantic, adrenaline-jolt kind. This is something older, slower. He doesn’t smile, but the edges of his jaw soften like a promise.
“They weren’t retrieval ships,” he says, voice low as distant thunder. “Those weren’t there to capture us. They were cleaners—designed to erase messes.”
My breath catches. I swallow. “And I’m the mess.” My voice dips into bitterness—bitter like old wine, coughing with regret.
He inclines his head, eyes distant. “We both are,” he says.
The weight of those words breaks something inside me, cracks wide open. I meet his gaze, and it’s like I'm seeing him anew—the bruised ribs outlined under scale gaps, burns near his collarbone that sting to imagine, fingers tip-trembling as if still holding weapons he refuses to drop. He’s wounds and rage wrapped in flesh. And I want him anyway. Maybe because he’s all wreckage—because he’s not perfect, not safe, and still worth every jagged risk.
I draw in a breath, unsteady. “You ever think,” I say softly, “that if we keep doing this… fighting, running, burning every bridge, we’ll have nothing left?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches, humming with unresolved truth. Then his voice comes, low andunshakable. “Maybe.” He lifts a finger to tap the navigation panel, eyes fixed ahead. “But I’ve never had anything worth keeping. Until now.”
My chest seizes. That wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t poetry. It was raw, brutal honesty—and it meant everything coming from him. My throat tightens. I reach for his hand. His thick, scarred fingers tremble against mine but don’t pull away.
“I’m not ready to lose this either,” I whisper. “But if I do… I want it to have mattered.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to protect me with bullshit platitudes. He simply intertwines our fingers, holds my hand like a promise, like Armor he can’t shed. My eyes burn with relief and fear.
The engines shift as damage-control finishes running diagnostics. The ship dips slightly—the hum grows quieter, less agitated. I lean back, resting my forehead on his shoulder for a heartbeat, savoring warmth under his cloak of red dusk scales.
He clears his throat. “We’ll need repairs, weapons, intel.” His words are practical, but softer now—toned by our shared vulnerability.
I pull my hand free and swivel to face him, eyes blazing. “Yeah. And alliances.”
He arches a brow. “You ready to lean into that?”
“More than running.” My voice tastes like gratitude.
He nods. “Alright.” He starts keys clacking. “First thing’s first—recalibrate shields, check engines. Then… The Drift outpost. We’ll rendezvous with Kex.”
I absorb his words, nodding slowly. “Weapons—stealth-grade, heavy ordinance, jammers.” I list it like a mantra.
He flicks confirmation. “We'll get it.”
A moment of silence settles. The cockpit monitors murmur quietly behind us. Outside, nothing but void. I let my other hand brush the side of his neck—feeling tense muscles beneath scale.He inhales sharply, but lets the moment stand. No words. Just silent reconnection.
My mind drifts, flashes of how we kissed—urgent, fierce, raw. Then of war raging in distant corridors, mercenaries hired and bought, alliances forming in whispers. Then to the man seated before me—the one who once fought to forget, now fighting to protect.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
He stiffens but doesn’t pull away. “Me too.”
“But…” I swallow. “I want this. If it’s a war… I want to be in it with you.”
His jaw clenches, gold eyes heavy. Then he gives me this soft nod—deep and old as these voids between stars. “Then together.”
And right there—hot metal and cold steel smelt into a fragile sword of promise.
I take a turning breath. “Tell me what scares you.”
He leans into the console, voice barely above the hum. “My father’s reach… Malmount has resources, connections—he can rend alliances before we even make them.”
I nod, comprehension tightening in my chest. “We build fast,” I say. “Connections are our shield.”
He taps the nav grid, recalculating paths. “We go to The Drift. Kex will supply. Then we move out to frontier systems—publish the broadcast to every Rebel and militia under his radar.”
