Page 39 of Ravaged By the Reaper
I gasp but hold myself. Systems hum behind us. My throat tastes faintly of his whiskey, the memory sharp and grounding.
“Target,” I echo.
“Yes.” He dims the screens. Wipes the tension from air. “I’ll assign extra protection. But you’re not safe—anywhere.”
I swallow, throat tight—but the collar hisses warmth at my spine. I draw strength from its weight. “I’m not going anywhere. With him—wherever he needs me. I’ll face whatever’s coming… in front.”
He nods. Respect. Maybe something like pride flickers in his eyes.
He steps around the console, firm behind me. “I’m entrusting you with my station,” he says quietly. “But don’t—don’t forget danger.”
“I won’t.” I turn, catch a glance at the collar. It glows softly under the lights. Something primal hums, tethered to his bones and my resolve.
Outside, Gamma’s corridors spin with light and movement—engineers, dependents, life preserving order. And yet, I’m not just an elegant Companion walking these halls anymore. I’m a claimed woman, a diplomat-broker, a warning flare to the Coalition.
I step out, posture regal, face calm. Each breath tastes of ozone, determination, fear—but I won’t flip. I won’t shy. Not when he needs me, not when this brand both binds and empowers me.
I walk forward—mind steeled, heart raw, agency intact.
Soft amber lightscloak the cabin in warmth—steel and stars outside, but here, a fragile hearth built just for us. A distant hum of life aboard Starbase Gamma filters through vents, but inside, it’s quiet—brushed with memories of our fire and claim.
He stands by the viewport, bare chest etched with bone spurs and scars, backlit by drifting starlight. My fingers stay curled on the couch’s edge, fabric warmed from where he lay me down. The scent of sweat and smoke, of intimate aftermath, clings to the cushions.
“Tell me,” his voice rumbles, ragged and curious, “what do you hear in how I move?”
My breath catches. His movement is no longer a predator stalking prey—it’s rhythm, a barely named melody beneath rib and bone.
“I…hear music,” I say, voice fragile as spun glass. “Not literal. Your motion is like an old lyre string vibrating—soft, unexpected.”
He closes his eyes. The beast inside him fights as if edged by chaos, but then stills. Nods once. Enough.
I move forward, drawn by something tender. I trace a fingertip along his collarbone—just near the white ridge of a bone spur. Cold metal under warm flesh. His shoulders stiffen. Embers of steel.
“Sorry,” I whisper, stepping back. “That was private.”
He exhales, relaxed—a predator caged finally soothed. “It’s…new,” he confides.
And that’s enough—no offense meant, no retreat required.
I step to the console, eyes flickering across data streams—shuttle repairs, future operations. Outside, everything waits for him. Yet here, we hover inside a fragile moment. I open a drawer—find an old synth disc, green-glow. “My music,” I say, offering it to him. “Something simple.”
I press play. Light, resonant lyre tones fill the space, weaving between scars and nerves. He steps closer—his breathing deepens, shifting from beast to man.
“In the Academy,” I begin, voice soft, “I studied Earth music. Politics woven with melody. And now…” My heart stutters. This is vulnerability, dipped in want.
He turns fully, flesh and spurs illuminated. I swallow. His scars—etched white lines across his ribs—feel heavy with stories. I breathe them in.
“May I?” I ask, voice a whisper, offering peace.
He gives a faint nod. Drawing courage, I lay my fingers on the cold path of a scar. It doesn’t burn. It hums. His breath hitches, rigid with muscle, but he doesn’t withdraw.
“It’s beautiful,” I admit, voice tight. “Not a wound—but proof of surviving.”
He tenses again—coiled beast—but not furious. A deep pulse trembles through him.
I lean back, waiting for him to guide what comes next.
Instead, he kisses my temple—a press of teeth to skin, not harsh, but warming. Breath rumbles. “You’ve seen monsters,” he growls low, “and still found beauty.”
