Page 52 of Claimed By the War Brute
He doesn’t need my signal. He’s ready.
I press my back to the metal vent shaft hidden behind a cargo crate. Sweat beads my forehead despite the chill whipping the desert. My fingers tremble—not from fear, but from adrenaline coiling inside me like a predator. I unzip the vent, breath rasping as I slide in, sand-muffled. Every step is silent; I can feel the shifted weight of gravity, the meager gravity here on Varka-Ten practically gravity-free, but it doesn’t slow my pulse.
The vent walls vibrate with the auto-drones overhead. I whisper under my breath, “Time to burn this hive.”
It smells like burnt oil and old machinery—nothing like home, but right now I own it.
Twenty meters in, the assassin-sketch of the command relay chamber comes into view—crates of hardware, cables trailing like weed under alien lighting. I cross-check my wrist-HUD: three guards on patrol, all facing away. Perfect.
I arch to the console, whip out the virus chip from my jacket—my father’s commodity-tracker code twisted against him. I surround the patch with a quick holo-sequence:
“Load suit. Overwrite logs.”
“Confirm.”
I swallow hard. His bloodline built this digital fortress. My code will tear it apart.
“Execute.”
Light blooms around the console—green, then red. Sparks pop, hot smells swelling. The device hums and shuts down. All the shipment logs, credit trails, contract chains—erase into digital ash.
“Done,” I breathe.
I climb back out of the vent with grit in my teeth, sand on my palms. Garrus is waiting, flask in hand.
“Water?” he says, tone low but warm.
I drink deep, the cool liquid searing down my throat. God, I needed that.
“They’re done,” I say, sweat trickling into my eyes.
He nods solemnly. “You did it.”
I turn, sand-worn, hair plastered to my scalp, feeling the weight of what I just did. “We did,” I say. My voice trembles. “But mostly me.”
He grins—a rare wide curve of jaw and pride. “That’s fair.” His grin makes my pulse bite through my veins.
We stand at the storm’s edge, stars leaking through the haze. I giggle softly—relief and triumph.
“I don’t know if I feel like a rebel,” I admit. “More like... a leader. Someone who takes control.”
His voice is soft, gravel-deep. “You are.”
The next moments unfold like soft crystallized mercy. We walk toward the Vigil’s End, boots crunching against the crusty sand. Garrus loops an arm around me, skin warm through layers.
And I realize something new: I’m not just the girl who escaped a father’s empire. I’m someone with agency. A weapon. But also—deep down—a home.
I lean against him, inhale his scent—starlight and gunmetal, something unbreakable.
He tugs me close and says quietly, “So… what next?”
I reach up and brush my thumb over his scarred cheek—my cheek, too, salted with dust and sweat. “We hunt the rest of them. We finish what we started.”
He nods, lips grazing my temple. “Your ops, your rules.”
I tip my chin up to face him, halogen sandlight sputters across his golden eyes. “And maybe... after?”
He raises an eyebrow.
