Page 24 of Claimed By the War Brute
I manage a nervous chuckle. “Mass bombing runs and black-market parties. Very us.”
He smirks faintly. “We do what works.”
Time passes in silence. We sit shoulder-to-shoulder at the console, hands close but not touching. Waves of memory and want echo between us. I feel the ghost of that kiss again—violence and warmth mixing in my blood.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For every time I doubted you—your vision, your anger.”
He shifts. “I don’t ask for apologies.”
“But you deserve them.”
He glances at me, that unshakable gaze. “And I deserve this.” He slides his hand over mine again. “We do this. Together. No regrets.”
I smile—a fierce upturn of lips pooled with tears. “No regrets.”
I lean forward, thumb brushing across the console, backing up encrypted intel packages and shield schematics. Around me coils anticipation, adrenaline fading into electricity. He leans over the screen to help, our shoulders brushing—sparks in every touch.
I turn to him. “What about… after?” My voice wavers with hope. War won’t last forever. Something here makes me ask despite myself.
He hesitates. Then answers, voice low: “We build something worth staying for.” His tongue touches the corner of his mouth as he says it—rough, uncertain, hopeful.
My breath catches. Heat blooms beneath my ribcage. “Okay.”
He lets go of my hand and pulls me toward him. We stand in the cockpit, silent and resolute. The hum of the ship is a lullaby mixing with quiet promises.
I rest my forehead against his chestplate. “Let’s do this.”
He inhales and nods. “Let’s.”
The drift of quiet between us isn’t empty. It’s charged with intention. Outside, silent stars hum in unclaimed space—but in the cockpit, the gap narrows until it’s shared breath.
We're fugitives. We're lovers. We're forging a rebellion on hope and blood. Every touch, every whispered plan, every fold of data—it’s weapons-grade emotion and intent.
Victory isn’t certain. Danger still hides in the shadows of The Drift and beyond. But for this moment, breathing together, revolutions humming under feet?—
We’re home.
And whatever comes, this moment matters.
CHAPTER 20
GARRUS
Ifeel it before I see it—a subtle tremor beneath the fingers twitching at the console, a low hum beneath my scales that sets my instincts on edge. Something is wrong. I slide into the comms bay, cables coiled like tortured snakes under dim overhead lights, screens flickering with incoming logs. I didn’t wake Syd—she’s resting in the cabin, and this storm’s mine to hold. The hum turns to silence, an empty vacuum where the chevrons of code should have been predictable. Diagnostics flicker. Sensor arrays whisper. Then: anomaly.
I fire up the outbound logs from the last twelve hours. Routine chatter: engine pings, drift-frequency checks, stray mining echoes. But then—buried within mundane transmissions—a tiny outbound packet. Too small to register since it wasn't part of any routine handshake, too clean to be accidental. No acknowledgments. It's a beacon. Encrypted. Widely old-school: the kind used by arms traffickers, covert network runners, Alliance off-book ghost channels. There’s only one plausible explanation: someone planted it deliberately.
My hand tightens on the console, burning through gloves. This isn’t casual sabotage: it's betrayal. From us. They trusted us. Syndicate ghosts—maybe Kex, maybe someone else. Hell.Malmount's reach could have slithered through Kex’s back channels. The packet didn’t just verify location—it contained metadata, log IDs, nav snapshots, and a credit slippage. Someone wants her gone. Not hostage. Elimination.
I punch the jagged panel. Sparks hiss, but I keep it gentle. Don’t wake her until I’m ready. I breathe, deep and steady. I load the full outbound comms into a decryption loop. Layers peel away. Mostly turbulence, interference—garbled Drift station echoes—but one thread snaps clean: a ping response from Telar-9’s orbiting station. Known as “Neon Sink” by shady operators. Not random. It carries a bounty. On Syd. Price in credits—enough to make her death a profitable bounty-hunting sport.
My chest tightens. This isn’t just self-preservation or revenge. This is about protecting her from a galaxy gone violently mad. I lean back, stare at the echo packets blinking red, then breathe through the rage. Logic returns. Strategy.
I cross to the blueprint console, gather evidence: trace addresses, tag account numbers, time stamps. The deeper I dig, the clearer the tide of betrayal grows. Malmount’s reach extends far beyond fancy boardrooms. He’s planting predators—mercs, trackers, sealed contracts? The contact originates from the station’s main relay array. He intends to watch us die.
With grim resolve, I wake her. No tenderness—just sharp authority.
My voice cuts: “Syd.”
