Page 38 of Claimed By the War Brute
He glances over his shoulder. His golden eyes are steady. “I’ve stopped expecting normal. But… us? That’s worth something.”
I feel something inside shift and warm. I punch lock-down. “Then it’s worth fighting for.”
Silence. Then: “Together?”
“Together.” I thread my hand through his. “Always.”
He leans in, forehead resting against mine. Our breaths mingle in the undercurrent of warp drive. Cockpits smell like ozone and promise.
He grunts softly. “Let’s break something else.”
I smile—a crooked, fierce line. “Let’s break everything that ever forgave him.”
The jump hits us like a wave. Lights blur. Sensors collapse and rebuild. Stars stretch into lines.
And below that shifting cosmic script, I know it’s true now:
We’re more than fugitives. We’re architects of retribution.
We’re on fire.
CHAPTER 30
GARRUS
The encrypted ping lands like a stiletto in my gut—sharp, deliberate, impossible to ignore. It hums across five proxy relays, each bounce stripping away traceability. Myla Vox, disgraced Alliance agent turned ghost-contact, delivers the message herself—no chatter, no fluff.
I tap the receiver. She appears in flicker-green holo: dark eyes, sharper than any blade, mouth set in resolve. “Summit on Carthis Prime,” she says quietly. “Minimal security. Only insiders. No press. Off-grid. You don’t get another chance.”
My claws clench around the console, metal biting under pressure. A summit means power consolidation. It means leverage. It means vulnerability. Exactly what we need.
“We go in clean,” I say, voice low. “Fake IDs. Civilian shuttle. Blend in.”
She arches one brow, amusement flickering across her eyes before she masks it. “You mean wear clothes without weapons in them?”
I stare at my reflection in the holo-scanner—suit stiff, tailoring too sharp. “Weapons come in different forms,” I say, dry.
“Charm’s a weapon too,” she retorts. “Maybe try that?”
I simmer. Serious matters don’t permit flirtation. Except they do—with Syd. I switch off the holo call. After a breath, I say, “Syd?”
She steps into the cramped cabin, coat swirling like controlled storm. “I heard,” she says, voice quiet but fierce.
I hand her the data pad. “Intel. Carthis Prime. Summit in two hours. Malmount as emcee.”
She scans. Face hardens. “He’s consolidating allies—bankers, warlords, corporate heads—nothing emotional. Just profit.”
I lean closer. “Means he’s comfortable. Unarmed. We get him admitting contracts and payoffs.”
She meets me with that look—fury contained in velvet. “Let’s go bury him in it.”
An hour later, we step off the civilian shuttle onto Carthis Prime’s icy tarmac. The cold hits like a blade—frozen breath, metal paneling whistling in the wind. We’re dressed formally: I in a charcoal suit hiding tempered muscle; she in high-collar silk, ice-blue thread to match her fire.
We breeze through customs—no guards bother with us. Official observer badges, trade-union letterhead. The Spire rises ahead: an obsidian tower slicing through a frozen sea. Light from within glitters like a promise—and a lie.
Inside, our footsteps echo on polished marble. I taste stale perfume and muted power—scent of accolades and alliances. Waiters glide by, carrying crystal glasses of dark wine. Syd’s shoulder brushes mine. I catch her sharp inhale —watching. Calculating. I grit my jaw.
We reach the banquet hall. Malmount stands at the head of a long ebony table, back straight, chin raised like a crown. Silk suit tailored to his ego. He addresses the room with ease—political smiles, corporate jargon as soft as velvet cloaks.
