Page 17 of Ravaged By the Reaper
Because now they’ve made itpersonal.
Every step I take toward her is carved into the bones of the dead. My boots crunch through bloodied visors, shattered rifles, bits of armor still twitching with residual nerves. My chest burns like I swallowed a black star. My fingers twitch like I could pull reality apart with my bare hands.
This feeling—this call—it isn’t love.
Love is a soft thing. A word whispered in pillowlight. A promise over wine and sweet air.
This? This isneed. Obsession. Raw. Ugly. Consuming. Like her pain ismineand I willunmake the cosmosuntil she is whole again.
I don’t know her name, but I know herscent.I know the shape of her scream. Theflavorof her pain.
She ismine.
I round the final corridor, where the walls bulge inward from the chaos I’ve unleashed. At the end waits a door unlike any I’ve seen in this pit—ten inches thick, silver-steel alloy, lined with high-voltage guards, encrypted twice over. No windows. No air vents. Dead silent.
I know she’s inside.
The scent of her has pooled here. The air tastes like copper and lavender—blood and silk. My throat clenches around it. My stomach flips. Ibreatheher.
“Mine,” I whisper, then louder, “MINE!”
I slam my fist into the bulkhead. The entire wall shakes. I rear back, then throw my shoulder into it—full force. Bone spurs rip through my armor with the impact.
The metal groans. But it doesn’t yield.
“MOVE!” I snarl, pounding again. “Open, you coward’s coffin!”
No response. No voice. Just silence.
Something stirs on the other side. I don’thearit—Ifeelit.
A breath. A flutter. Her.
I press my forehead to the door, panting. My claws leave streaks in the steel as I drag them down.
“I’m coming,” I rasp. “Iswear, I’m?—”
The pain in my chest pulses. Not wound. Not burn.
Yearning.
It claws at me like hunger, but deeper. Old as Reaper myth. My jalshagar is on the other side of this prison andshe’s waiting for me.
I step back. Roll my shoulders.
I grip Bloodfont in both hands and roar as Islamit into the center seam. Sparks burst outward, the chain snapping taut with fury.
Again. And again.
The scythe bites deep, wedges in, tears out cables like veins. I hear the hiss of power fail-safes triggering, the groan of locks giving.
But not enough.
I drop the scythe, plant my claws into the ruptured seam, andpull.
My biceps scream. My ribs flare with the wound from earlier. Blood trickles down my side. But Iwon’t stop.
Not when she’sright there.
