Page 30 of Claimed By the War Brute
Track the seams. I tell myself. Find weakness. I shift my hips, testing the resilience of the padded table. A slight give. I trace my fingertip along the wrist cuff, feeling for seams, for pressureplates, for circuitry just under the surface. The glow flickers as I adjust. I clench my teeth. I’m searching for safety in adrenaline’s grip.
Lights flicker. I calculate movement—pulse duration, darkness interval. I shift farther: my left wrist flexes deep; I feel the restraint bracket compress. The glow leeches under my bone. A tiny spark of hope.
Adjust again. I force my body into motion—rotate my hip to leverage the panel’s edge. The table creaks. My pulse thumps in my throat. I bite back a cry. I taste copper again. The pain intensifies—but also the clarity.
I listen. The click of the lights going off. A microsecond before the burst of current. My mind loops the rhythm: out… click… in… hum. Frustration twitches in my gut. I pant. Damn the table. It’s not going to break easy.
Start again. I feel the flush of blood under my skin as I contort against the straps, using my memory to predict each flicker. The blue glow pulses with regular certainty. I time it. Flex. Shift my fingertip to the seam at the cuff’s hinge. A faint pop as metal stress. My breath hitches. Yes.
It clicks again. The panel beneath me vibrates—a tiny whine of energy rerouting. The light pulses one second longer before resetting. I grin. Exhausted, half-laughing. I just catalogued the fail-safe on a torture rack built to break stronger people than me.
My hands ache, but I taste victory in that spark. I stand at the edge of unlocking.
Afterward, I listen. No one’s coming to help me. Garrus's voice isn’t in the room. I swirl in the gravity of betrayal: my father has reneged on blood. I’m not safe—not with him, not with anyone. But I’m still alive.
I feel heat in my veins—the kind that builds, not breaks. My senses sharpen: the table hums low, the lights flicker on cadence, the room hums with untapped potential. I close myeyes and map the circuitry in my mind, register the guard schedules from past visits, assign priority to homespun cut-wire alarms.
Garrus may be gone. The only person who promised he'd keep me alive... might be fighting to do that somewhere beyond these walls. But I have what I need now. Tools: my mind. My scars. My resolve. I’m not going to bleed out. I’m going to rise.
And when I walk out of here—midnight scars and all—I’m going to burn his empire down. One blow at a time.
I lean forward, pressing my pulse into the cuff until the metal yields. The seam cracks. I hear it—or something audible under the table’s hum. I push through, wrest the restraint free just enough. I straighten my shoulders and lift my head, scanning the air for movement, for danger. I feel exposed—and more powerful than I have in years.
This is no longer a prison. It's a crucible. And when the doors open, I won't be her father's daughter. I'll be a mark he never saw coming.
This is my war now. And it starts with me—even if it begins alone.
CHAPTER 24
GARRUS
Pain is a constant. It’s the only thing that doesn’t change—the only thing that knows where to land. I don’t remember the crash, the flare of burning metal, or even the savage echo of Syd’s cry. All I know is waking up here: shirtless, strapped to a steel pen like a wild animal on display, my reflexes numbed by drugs, my body battered into silence.
Vakutan honor means nothing in this place. The Vortaxians have stripped me to broken flesh and iron bones, then stuffed me into a cage built for exhibition. I don’t speak anymore. I don’t scream. I just watch. I listen. The clichés of my death are buzzing through the air: “Feral Vakutan. Won’t last a cycle. Let’s see if his fire’s real.” I store each barbaric taunt, each sneer, like fuel. I breathe pain. I chew it. I swallow rage.
When they finally bounce open the pen, I stagger forward—half-conscience, heart pounding like war drums erupting from the core of the arena. The weights on my chest and legs drop, but my bones refuse to comply. Still, I walk out. That, at least, is on my terms.
Through the glass dome I see the stars quivering above. Below, a swarm of Vortaxian swords and brutal-looking mercs with edge-lights on their armor ring the walls. Cameras hoverlike foul birds, encircling prey. Then there’s Aelphus Rex himself, lining his golden skin beneath the lights, his eyes locked on me. We meet once—his golden amber blazing through the spectacle. Then he nods. The kill order is silent; the game begins.
Three guards charge at me simultaneously. And suddenly—something else ignites. Not rage, not agony; something deeper. Fury, sharpened by betrayal and destiny. I meet the first guard head-on: the compound force of my shoulder, fueled by years of war, cracks his armor plating and sends him reeling sideways. He lands against the railing and slides down in a heap, whining in pain.
I spin to the left. Another guard fires a stun rounds—dirt-hot bolts crackling. I catch one in mid-air, bend it, then hurl it back. His shoulders buckle before the blast. He collapses into his shielded cohort like collapsing architecture.
The third guard tries me with a shock baton. I intercept and slash through it like it’s paper, igniting a shower of sparks. He howls and staggers back as I grab him by the throat. His armor rattles like a dying memorial. I throw him aside. His helmet cracks against the rails. He’s out cold before he hits.
I’m surging now—full Vakutan blade. Each movement—each slash, each swing—is a statement.
A fourth guard materializes, large and weaponized. He rushes me with a heavy glaive. I pivot, coil through him, ride his momentum into a twist of my hip. He tumbles and crashes into the floor, a wet crack echoing. No time to pause.
A fifth guard runs with twin knives. I catch his claws in one hand, twist, and rip them out. He drops to the ground, whimpering.
A sixth comes forward—smaller, but quick. We clash: claws and fists slam. He cuts my forearm. I feel the diaphragm sear in my body as it rips open. I crack his jaw, then uppercut into his lungs. He doubles over then collapses.
The arena’s light pulses around us—blinding white and metallic red—but I zone it out. Nothing matters except blood, bone, and each breath. I hear the clang of weapon racks crashing, bodies collapsing midstep, grunts of pain punctuated by my own rasping breaths. Everything else is dust in my rearview.
Aelphus stands, arms uncrossing, eyes locked on me. He looks… intrigued. Respectful. He must have seen something that compels him to study the wreckage, not intervene.
I stand alone at the arena’s center. My chest is a furnace. My blood drips onto the metallic floor below. I don’t even feel the pain anymore. My gaze sweeps across the bleachers. Through the buzz of the cameras, one voice cuts crystalline—but I know it’s her.
