Page 37 of Ravaged By the Reaper
I taste smoke and her scent on my lips. The butterflies I used to scorn dance through my chest. This is peace, and wind, and surrender—alliances forged in bones instead of treaties.
No more threats.
No more claims.
Just this moment of proximity and quiet, where two souls that found each other in chaos cling to the quiet like armor.
I tilt my glass to her. “To balance and to claim.”
She mirrors me. Glass meets glass. The echo rings soft.
She whispers, not looking away, “To all we’ve earned together.”
We lean back into the murmur of the bar, partaking in the imperfect world around us. A Reaper at peace is rare as stars dying quietly.
But right now... I’m staying.
CHAPTER 11
AMARA
Istep off the shuttle into Gamma’s corridors and feel caught between two worlds. On one side, there’s the raw, fierce gravity of him—Haktron’s heat still clinging to my skin, the echo of his bloodlike claim buried under my collar. On the other, these halls—polished stone beneath my boots, protocol droning through speakers in mild authority. Solar-white lights and uniforms, corridors scrubbed of violence, loaded with sterile purpose.
Each breath I take tastes of antiseptic and star-metal, with a lingering flavor of Earth whiskey and someone’s fierce breath in my hair. My training pulls me upright—nape straight, voice measured, eyes composed. I’m a Companion, refined to grace, to decipher hearts with whispers, to disarm with words.
But this collar—it makes me something else. Sharp and unbreakable. A statement brand forged in bone and devotion. The red glow against my throat hums, a low pulse of ownership, and marks me out.
I’m passing security consoles—guards do a double-take. One lowers his rifle just enough to study me. He sees the collar glowing, sees strength in my posture. The hum of speculationcrackles louder than the station’s speakers. I keep pace, steps precise, exhale shallow.
Hallways open into an atrium. Civilians drift like light, whispers chasing shadows. I can hear them—soft words at collar height: “Companion to a Reaper… claimed…”
I feel their stares, cooled by distance but still burning the air around me.
I taste iron. I taste power.
I carry tranquility in my hands, but inside I’m roiling. Loyalty, desire, history of grooming me for diplomacy. Now, diplomacy dances with dread.
I pause before the bar from last night. Flames inside yellow lamps flicker over reminders: Earth whiskey, smooth glasses, territorial grip from him, tempered by something incongruous and fragile. I draw in a breath, the scent like home and memory.
A station aide steps toward me. Polite. Measured. “Companion Destrier, your shuttle repairs are on schedule. You have clearance to rest or meet with Command staff as you prefer.”
I nod, voice smooth. “Thank you.” I turn away, senses alert for his warmth behind me. It’s a tether I can’t cut.
I walk deeper into Gamma’s nerve center. Corridors echo with boots, duty, static hum, oxygen vents. People steer clear. Not insults, not fear. Recognition. A legend realized. “The Reaper’s Companion.”
I reach a window overlooking docking bays. A string of vessels, lights blinking. The hum of craft queued. I put a hand to the glass—cold breaks contact with heat in my palm. Outside the reef of metal, stars pulse and orbit.
A soft voice behind me snaps my attention.
“Miss Destrier?”
Commander Yentil stands tall—uniform as polished as his words—light caught in his eyes, weighed with measurement and something like grudging respect.
I turn, keep composure. “Yes?”
He steps in, pads of boots sound muted. He nods. “Your status… It complicates expectations. But you handled yourself last night. With grace—and power.”
His words taste like breach of form. A compliment, laced with diplomacy.
