Page 40 of Ravaged By the Reaper
I let my eyes drift closed. In the silence, more passes between us than words could hold.
The synth music winds low. Tension coils just under the skin. I step forward, pressing into his arm. Neck to chest. Collar pressing against armor—that surge of red at my throat remains a reminder.
“I want all of us,” I confess, voice soft and fierce.
He stills me with his presence. Scars scattered across his chest appear vulnerable to my gaze.
“Then prove me,” he murmurs, gravel-soft.
A trembling smile breaks free. I lean closer, every breath taut with tension and possibility.
Out there, storms are brewing—intel weighs heavy, agents closing, danger sharpening its teeth.
But here, for a moment, I taste quiet. Discover who he is beyond bone and battle. And I ache to know every fragment of that man beneath the Reaper.
CHAPTER 12
HAKTRON
The Widowmaker’s signal crackles over my console—green tracers of data burst across the screen, alive with encrypted power. I lean forward, knuckles whitening on the controls as the voice I’ve come to trust booms through the speakers.
“Bloodsinger,” Panaka’s tone is amused, cold but grateful. “Looks like you’ve caught your jalshagar. Now keep her close—we rendezvous in five days. Until then, you’re a ghost in Alliance space. Stay low.”
No entering the ship. Just coordinating from here. Grounded by paranoia and protocol. Waiting makes me itch. Waiting is prey behavior. Not predator. But it’s necessary.
The station hums and sighs around me—vent air, distant chatter, footfalls on steel. I breathe deep, tasting burnt circuitry and sweat. My chest heaves, half in frustration, half in fierce, fierce relief.
I rest a clawed hand on my desk and glance to the viewport. Through smoky glass I glimpse her—Amara. She’s watching Gamma’s lights dim behind us; code patterns flashing across her eyes.
The red glow of her collar feels like a second heartbeat in the compartment. Others see it too — not admiration, not fear, but understanding that she is claimed. I feel animals inside me marking turf.
A junior operator pauses by the console, eyes flitting. I bare my teeth just enough—predator, some pulse must know. The operator steps back.
“You’ll accept orders, Reaper?” I mutter under my breath, though no one else is listening. Of course, I will. I’ll follow orders for five days. But they don’t own me.
I turn back to the console as the Widowmaker updates me with coordinates for rendezvous. Sets JSON packets streaming like lifelines. I trace the star-field patterns.
Then Amara’s voice, soft as danger behind me: “Dinner tonight?”
I swivel to see her, collar glowing steady, expression calm like diplomacy purring. “I’ll hold you to that,” I reply, voice tight. Not hungry, but needing.
She nods, stepping closer. The hum of tech, the hum of us—syncing.
I eye the readouts again—five days till rendezvous, sensor caps, clearance routes. My hands work over the console, tense, calculating.
But my mind keeps drifting to her.
Diners lean over tables, normalcy at Gamma feels borrowed. Shouldn’t feel comforting—but somehow it is.
I snap focus back to the console. Five days of patience stretched like wire. My instincts want action. Move. Hunt. Protect. But for once, protection is quiet.
Amara leans on the console beside me, elbow to hip, warmth radiating through the collar patch. She murmurs: “I trust you.”
I let her words lodge where breath pools.
“Always,” I rasp.
She doesn’t contradict.
