Page 26 of Ravaged By the Reaper
She nods, still without words. She trusts the pull between us.
Pain and adrenaline course through me in red waves. I can almost taste her blood on my lips—salt, copper, human fire. Itshoulddisgust or distract me—but it doesn’t.
Itanchorsme.
There’s no soft landing here. No happy reunion.
Just a battlefield—red, smoky, brutal.
CHAPTER 7
AMARA
Iwake to the sensation of something soft under my shoulder—far softer than the steel table, far more reassuring. My shoulder aches with a deep, raw burn, but the cloth wrapped around it is snug, cooling, familiar. For a horrifying moment, I’m not sure where I am. Then the shuttle’s low drone hums through me like a heartbeat, and the memory of the fight crashes back—harder than any blow.
I lift my head, wool-thick, vision smudged around the edges. The cockpit surrounds me: hard metal, muddled systems screens flickering with static, and the scent of fuel and burnt circuits thick in the air. My throat tastes copper-rust. I shift—careful not to pull at my shoulder—and realize I’m sitting in a battered pilot seat, harness still latched.
He’s there. Huge. Massive. Bone-spurred. A living pinnacle of violence waiting to be unleashed. He’s silent, watching me with something like awe—or whatever his version of awe might be. I expect claws, I expect teeth, I expect, "You're my prisoner now," or something coolly threatening. But what I see is not jagged promise. It’s concern.
His hand moves, offering me something that should be unremarkable—just a chunk of protein ration molded into theshape of a dense bar. But in his palm, it seems like the whole universe is contained. The edges notched where he’s gripped it. His eyes flicker with careful consideration, as though he's weighing whether it’s safe to feed me or whether I’ll bite him—or spill every drop of blood just by accepting it.
I blink. “Thank?—”
My throat cracks. Heat blooms on my cheeks. I attempt to smooth the muscle. “Thanks,” I manage, voice raw, carrying a brittle fragility I don’t like. I force a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, the kind Companions train to perfect, even with their souls bruised.
He watches. Doesn’t move—or pass judgment. Just waits. I tuck the protein ration gingerly into my palm, afraid to break it. The ambient red glow of the console lights dances across his scarred features, shifting shadows and hues. That same ember-hot pull surges in my chest. I try to draw a polite distance between us. Shift sideways in the seat. Keep my posture calm, collected, Companion-calibrated. But the heat of him fills the cabin. Closed space. Shared air. My scent—smoke and iron—mingles with his scent—dry, faintly metallic, like a storm left in the air after it’s gone.
I clear my throat. “I—I didn’t catch your name earlier. You… saved me.” Deserting self-consciousness, I attempt to sound graceful, composed—something that fits me better.
He leans back slightly, arms flexing around the yoke as he exhales. The gesture shifts the console lights, lights up the whites of his eyes, that deep obsidian skin, bone spurs that arc like cruel trophies. He doesn’t answer immediately. I let the silence stretch, humming with tension.
When he finally speaks, his voice is a low rumble, thick with possibility—no echo of brutality, just intent. “Haktron,” he says. “And you’re still breathing.”
I nod. Let out a shaky breath. “Still breathing,” I repeat, softer now. Whether comfort or release, I don’t know.
He stands up from the cockpit seat, huge bulk towering over me. My body jolts with instinct—my legs still weak, my shoulder throbbing—but he doesn’t tower. Heframesme, close enough to feel the leather of his armor shift, far enough to give space for survival. Fear flickers in me, but it’s chased from every line of his stance. He’s not aggressive. He’s gathering himself like tension before a storm cranes forward. Makes space, keeps the air calm.
Every instinct screams to run. Run back to the Academy. Run to safety. But another instinct—the one planted by scars and fire—tells me this is all a beginning. A vow.
I shift to stand. Pain blooms across my shoulder. But I’m upright—legs clumsy, muscles trembling.
He’s suddenly there. No warning. His clawed hand curves into my hair at the nape of my neck—not grabbing, not pulling, just holding with quiet dominance. I freeze in that instant. Heat throbs at the base of my skull.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs. Almost reverent. The press of his palm is not anger. Not coercion. Control runs through bone and muscle, sure and unyielding.
I swallow. The world narrows. Just blood pulsing in my ears, bone throbbing in my shoulder, the hum of shuttle systems, and the low, steady thrum of belonging.
Whispers of doubt crumble. Memories of betrayal slip like shadows in half-light.
He doesn’t tighten his fingers. He doesn’t bark an order. He simply... holds. Like I'm fragile glass and he’s preserving what’s still good.
I don’t break.
I exhale slowly. Find steady breath. I turn my cheek so his fingers graze my neck. I taste smoke in the air, the faint oxidized tang of blood on my tongue.
I should push him away.
That’s what my Companion training slithers into my brain—self-control, measured touch, polite distance. But I don’t. I can’t. Instead, a sharp inhale of breath catches in my throat the moment he releases his hold at the back of my neck, and it tumbles into me like liquid fire.
