Page 4 of Claimed By the War Brute
I test a breath. It tastes like antiseptic and ozone, all too clean, and that’s when I realize the worst of it—this isn’t chaos. It’s control. Even the terror here is curated. The Vortaxians don’tmake messes; they make exhibits. And right now? I’m part of one.
I’m not alone. There are other women. Lined along the walls in neat little rows like dolls someone forgot to unbox. Some are unconscious, their heads lolling at angles that hurt to look at. Others cry, quietly, like they don’t want to give the room the satisfaction. One girl mutters prayers in a tongue I don’t know. Another is shaking so hard, her restraints rattle. I want to comfort her, say something, *do* something, but all I manage is a hissed curse through my swollen lip.
I’m still in my gig outfit—black mesh tunic, shredded leggings, boots—but my holokeytar’s gone. My comms patch too. They’ve stripped me down to flesh and fear. My body aches from the hit I took—something cracked against my temple when the bastards dragged me offstage. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. But I know this: I’m not going down like this. I am not a sob story. I am not a goddamn *damsel*.
The door hisses. The room falls silent.
He walks in like he owns the stars.
Aelphus Rex. I know his name before anyone speaks it. You don’t need introductions when someone looks like that—like power carved into gold and dipped in command. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, gleaming. His skin has this molten sheen, not skin so much as armor that grew on its own. And his eyes… they’re amber fire. Not warm. Not alive. Just hot enough to burn everything down.
He says something in Vortaxian—short, clipped—and steps toward me like a predator circling his least favorite prey. I don’t flinch. I lift my chin. Let the bastard *see* me.
Then he switches to Trade Standard, and his voice is lower than sin. “You are not my jalshagar,” he says, and it sounds like he’s disappointed in the cosmos.
I scoff, wiping blood from my lip with the back of my bound hand. “Oh no. Tragic. You must be heartbroken.”
That almost gets a smile. Almost. But it’s the kind of almost that makes my spine cold. He’s not offended. He’s amused. That’s worse.
He circles again, eyes dragging across me like scanner lines. I realize with a sick drop in my gut that he’s not interested—not in *me*. He’s *appraising*. Not a prize. A product.
He gestures, and one of the guards steps forward. Tall, armor-plated, mouth hidden. They carry a scanner, the kind I recognize from black market auction houses. They sweep it over me. My name blinks on the screen. My father’s name, brighter.
Yago steps in next. Pale and slick like a leech in a business suit. He’s got the sort of face you want to punch on principle.
“This one,” he says, reading the data. “Politically valuable. Walter Malmount’s daughter. Let’s ransom her. A good faith gesture could fund six more operations.”
I don’t react. I won’t. Not until Aelphus steps close enough that I can smell him—something sharp, almost electric, like ozone and smoke.
“You are not chosen, little songbird,” he says. “But you may still be of use.”
He turns his back on me. Just like that.
The guards move in. I snap my attention back to my surroundings. Every detail, every moment. The panel code on the door blinks four digits, then resets. The soldier nearest me has a limp—left leg, slight, maybe a microfracture. One of the cuffs powering the restraints flickers every tenth pulse. Sloppy. Not a flaw. An opening.
I breathe in slow. Store it. Map it.
I don’t know where I am. But I know what I am. I am *not* staying. I’m getting out of this cage, and when I do, I’m going to burn the bastards who put me here.
My father sold souls by the ton during the Centuries War. Built his empire on gunpowder and graves. Maybe he sold mine too. But I’m more than his last name. I’m not some cracked jewel for auction. I’m fire. I’m thunder. And if someone’s out there looking for me, they better move fast. Because I’m already planning my exit.
And I swear on every star I can see—I’m taking a piece of this ship with me when I go.
CHAPTER 4
GARRUS
The Vortaxian warship looms ahead like a cathedral carved from nightmares—obsidian walls gleaming with predatory menace. My Nighthawk drifts in toward the docking bay, thrusters whispering. I cut external weapons feed and broadcast my spoofed credentials: Ruk Talon, Blooddrip Syndicate, close-quarters breacher. Binary lies flicker into Vortaxian coms. No blaring alarms. Nothing changes but the tingling under my scales.
I don’t flinch when they scan us: hull integrity, thermal signatures, even heartbeat pattern. I’ve seen scanners worse, fed scans into voids buried beneath battlefields, disguised myself in dead men’s helmets. This? Mere parlor tricks. But the tension coils in my gut—the kind that says this isn't just a pickup. It’s a setup.
The docking clamps hiss, and I roll my neck. A fighter entering the pit never hesitates.
Inside the hangar, the air is thick with polished menace—guns pointed at my chest before I step from the cockpit. The guards have amber eyes, same as theirs, and the armor reflects the hangar’s blue-white lights. No words. Just rigid formality. Then one with a sunburst pauldron steps forward.
“You fight?” His growl rattles like a low drumbeat.
I bare my teeth. “Point me at something soft.”
