Page 34 of Ravaged By the Reaper
My climax overtakes me like dawn. I shatter into light and sound, limbs trembling, heart thundering. He folds into me—gripping tight, living warmth pressed against fragile surrender.
I press my lips to his chest—bone cold, alive with battle’s memory, but tender beneath my touch. His pulse thunders through me, steady and unbreakable.
We hover there, breath entwined, station hum anchoring us to reality.
“Amara,” he whispers, voice softer than prayer.
“I’ve found us,” I say, voice raw, awe-laced. “Not destiny. Fire. But us.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. And in that single tremor of contact, I know—that’s all that ever matters.
CHAPTER 10
HAKTRON
We emerge from the shuttle like two fledgling storms, carried into the cool shadow of Starbase Gamma’s hangar bay. The corridor air smells like ozone, hydraulics, and burnt resin. My arms tingle from where they held her tight. The heat of our bond still glows in my bones.
Her eyes are distant for a moment—exhausted, dazed, but still luminous. I steady her arm, but she doesn’t pull back. We’re a pair of ragged pieces that just fit together. I’d fight the universe to keep her stitched to me.
I find a locker nook by the hatch. The shuttle’s hull groans behind us—battle scars gape in its plating. Turrets and doors rumble; it’s alive, fighting to remind us of the violence we just left behind. But here: silent. Safe. For now.
Before docking, I have one more act to cement this connection.
I lean in, voice low, “Wait.”
I step aside, planting my boot arch flat on the cold deck. Behind a panel, my hand finds a latch. A compartment slides open with the slick whisper of old tech. Inside lies an object both intimate and ceremonial: a thick collar crafted from Reaperarmor plating—black as void sheen, rigid and cold, lined inside with supple weave to prevent discomfort.
I slide it out. Metal chills my fingertips, teeth of stars caught in forge fire. I hold it up to the flickering lights; channels of crimson wiring pulse faintly within the plating, glowing like embers. It’s not for decoration. It’s claim. Crest. Declaration.
I don’t think how she’ll react—nor do I assume. I trust the current we share will carry her.
She stirs next to me. I drape the collar around her neck. It feels foreign at first. Hard. Ridged. But she softens into it. Her hair brushes welded metal. I adjust the clasp with care—two clicks, heavy and secure. It chimes like low tolling bells.
“So they know,” I rumble, voice gravel-coarse. “Ad Miram Destrier belongs to Haktron Bloodsinger.”
Her eyes go wide—silver flecked with fear, pride, awe. Sparks dance in them like distant suns. She doesn’t jerk, doesn’t throw it off. Instead, she lifts her chin—sharp, beautiful, defiant.
I press my hand against the collared armor—not caress, but reverence. Enough to steady her trembling.
“That’s un…crazy,” she breathes, lips trembling.
“Perfectly sane,” I growl. I step close. Armor and blood, bone and warmth. “You’re mine.”
She tries to speak—but her voice fails. Instead, she just exhales, the collared armor a secret promise and exultation for both of us.
I wrap an arm around her waist—armouring her from threats unspoken, from distances unspoken, from fear she never confesses.
The collar hums faintly—embedded with low-frequency sensors that sync with my vocal chord pulses. Every time I speak her name, it will light. Every time I think of her in combat, the collar will remind the world exactly who holds her.
She leans into me. Wet with sweat, trembling, eyes locked on mine. There’s fear there—but not regret.
“Don’t ever—” she whispers. Her voice breaks.
“I won’t,” I promise—soft, iron-strong. I let my fingers press into the backplate, brushing her spine through the plating. She shivers, but not from cold. From claim. Recognition.
Behind us, the shuttle lurches and docks. The bay doors halt. Alarms reset.
We stand that way—still, conjoined, while mechanics begin to churn. Sparks fall across the deck. Engineers run in low-voiced urgency. Combat crews wheel in plasma rigs to patch the shuttle’s burns.
