Page 36 of Ravaged By the Reaper
He gestures down the corridor to processing bays and barracks. The guards part, rifles lowering, but alert.
I slip my arm around Amara, palm flat across her hip. She doesn’t stiffen. That makes me… proud. In silent acknowledgment, I touch the collar again.
As we walk, I feel the weight of her trust settling into me. Not tied by chains, but by intent.
Amara whispers low: “That could have gone sideways.”
I give a short chuckle, no humor, just fierce warmth. “You wore the collar,” I say. “Not everyone has the courage.”
She rolls her eyes, but the curve of her lips betrays a smirk. “I did. For us.”
We walk in tandem—spurs tapping on steel floors, duty behind us, an entire station now the backdrop.
Diplomacy won, for now.
And I feel… something close to reverence.
We slip into the bar by the repair bay, the door hissing shut behind us. The air changes immediately—wood, smoke, polished stone, a hint of spilt liquor. Conversation flutters like fireflies in the dim, amber glow. The hum of ship systems recedes. Right now, there’s just us, and something fragile simmering between our breaths.
Amara eases onto a stool, her shoulders still trembling ever so slightly. I slide in beside her—quiet, solid, a black spire of presence. Bodies brush between us, but I’m not looking; I’m focused only on the faint rise and fall of her collar and the soft rise and fall of her chest.
She holds her glass of Earth whiskey like a trophy, cool strength wrapped in flame. She sips it without crumbling. I inhale its heady scent—vanilla, oak, and fire—like something warm in a cold world.
A station assistant drifts over, eyes flicking between us. She doesn’t say anything, but I can sense the unspoken thought: “Watch these two.”
Commander Yentil returns—quiet stepping, observant pulse. He approaches, hands folded behind his back. I sense a challenge in his posture—forged not in threat, but in authority carried by protocol.
Yentil leans closer. His voice is dry as sand in his throat. “Captain Bloodsinger.”
I nod once.
He glances at her, amber glass cradled in her palm, and then to the collar still faintly glowing. He says, “Station regulationsask me to remind you—this is a civilian environment. Any disturbances, and security will act accordingly.”
I bare my teeth—lightly, not a snarl, but clarity. “We won’t. Interference earns consequences, for all parties.”
Yentil’s gaze lingers on our linked forms, then he nods. “Let’s hope that’s fair.”
He retreats. The murmurs restart, as if a tide pulled back then rushed in.
Amara sets down her glass with soft precision. “That was… unnecessary.”
I shrug. “Necessary.”
She rolls her eyes at me, fierce and amused. “Your brand of hospitality fills quotas.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Your brand of diplomacy saves worlds.”
She cracks a smile—tight and beautiful, shaped by grit and grace. I let my hand brush hers against the countertop. The contact crackles like live wire.
We sit in silence that hums. The whiskey glows between us. The station’s life pulse—voices, distant steps, recycled air—buzzes in the background. But here, with her finger brushing mine, time bends.
I clear my throat. Lean closer. “Your whiskey choice?”
“Earth reserve,” she says, voice low, rimed with warmth. “As heavy—smooth—as this moment.”
I trace a fingertip over her hand. “Good choice.”
She laughs—soft, genuine, and it shapes the air into something fragile and strong all at once.
