Page 35 of Ravaged By the Reaper
None of it matters. Not right now.
Here, in the blood-scented echo of engines and the metallic taste of victory, she is exactly where I want andneedher. And she knows it.
I should say goodbye, turn back into the wild—my orders, my bloodlust, my world. But I don’t.
I pull her in closer, jaw brushing her temple. The red sheen of the collar catches the floodlight cast through the docking bay window.
“Whatever we face,” I whisper against her ear. “We face it together.”
She closes her eyes.
The pulse of the collar thrums in time with my heartbeat.
We stay wrapped there—two storm-weary souls who just found what they didn’t know they were searching for.
And the next battle, and all the ones after, she’ll know exactly who she belongs to.
The air crackles once more—this time not with plasma blasts, but with scanners humming and guards flooding the docking bay. The shuttle’s hull groans as we settle into Gamma’s bones. I taste salt and ash and something dull like finality.
I keep my hands relaxed on Amara’s waist—not possessive, just grounding. Her collar glints in the bay light, soft red glowing faintly. I feel every pair of eyes brush past us, judging. But she stands tall.
The station's AI scans us, a hollow voice crawling through speakers recessed overhead:“IDENTITY SCAN: AUTHORIZED. DOCKING SEQUENCE COMPLETE. ENGAGE SECURITY INVESTIGATION.”Sleek panels click open, and half a dozen armed guards march in—rifles cradled, armor gleaming under cold white lights.
I don’t flinch.
At the head of the contingent strides Commander Yentil Goldman—neat, composed, his uniform crisp enough to star in a protocol manual. His grip on decorum is tighter than any weapon.
He fixes his gaze on Amara. The collar—so incongruous on human flesh—jolts his eyes. He shouldn’t see it as a threat, but as a symbol. A boundary. His jaw tightens.
Diplomacy still rules here, even for him.
He clears his throat—dry as battered paper—and steps closer. “Miss Destrier,” he says, voice clipped, practiced. “You appear... intact.”
I sense the question that follows: Are you coerced? Are you a captive?
Amara inclines her head, cool. “Intact,” she agrees. Her voice is steady, implored by no one’s command.
Yentil tilts his gaze from her to me. I shift slightly, claws sheathed under sleeves—but a posture that says,I hold her. She is safe.His eyes flick back to the collar.
He steps closer, whisper-quiet. “May I ask—are you here of your own accord?”
All eyes hang on her.
Her throat moves twice before she answers—a practiced inhale settling a heartbeat. “Of course,” she says—calm, measured. Every syllable carries layers of subtext:I belong. I choose this. This is not coercion.She lets the implication hang.
Yentil considers her with the weight of years in his stare. The corridor hums faintly, the air antiseptic and cold. The hum from the station’s hull underpowering staging lights like a heartbeat gone numb.
He nods slowly. His posture eases—not much. His shoulders relax a fraction.
“Very well.” He clears his throat again. “You are recognized as a voluntary Companion of a Reaper. Harassment or misconduct against you will be considered assault on a station-affiliated citizen.” His words are clinical, but beneath them runs a river of warning to would-be aggressors.
I watch Amara’s expression—a smooth façade. But inside, something claws: pride. Relief. Connection, maybe.
Yentil turns to me. “And you, Reaper?—”
“Bloodsinger,” I supply, voice calm.
He nods. Eyes neutral, but respectful. “You have diplomatic clearance, Captain. But understand—any infractions, and the Reaper Protocol will be invoked. For now, let’s walk.”
