Page 41 of Ravaged By the Reaper
We sit—the ship’s hum, the data streams, the quiet flesh at my side.
Alliance space is dangerous. The coalition is hunting. But we are ready.
The station isa sliver of serenity after our storm—the lights dimmed in some wards, corridors humming with recycled life. I slip into the shadows of Gamma’s night, boots silent against metal flooring. The air tastes of vent-warmed steel and distant systems pulse like echoes under skin.
Around me, the station pulses with rhythm and precision. I step into a robotics bay lit by pale glow, and see tiny mechanical limbs stitching circuits, nanobot arms threading wires. They move with cold rhythm, efficiency crafted into every joint. I’m drunk on it—this isn’t chaos. It's calculation. It's order.
I run my fingers against a panel, smooth and warm. The station breathes. Every hum a heartbeat. I inhale, trying to draw order into my bones.
But that instinct—that pull—isn't found in tech or circuits. It's across the bay, in crew quarters.
I head that way, steps soundless, shadowed. The closer I get, the more my blood scorches.
I pause at the door.
Inside, Amara sleeps. Pale wattage haloing her—curl of hair loose, the collar glowing faint red against skin. Her breath is slow, steady—soft rise and fall. Her lips part just enough to share air with dream. Her cheekbone catches silver starlight from viewport.
I trace sweat-slick hair from brow to nape, fingertips ghosting scar I used to carve with consent. Her pulse hums in my fingertips. Steady. Fastening.
I kneel beside the berth, breath shallow. Amara’s scent smells of smoke, Earth-leaf perfume, and something tempered now with belonging that both satisfies and gnaws.
Dammit, I’m proud.
Not just of her—of us.
She moves, throat fluttering. Murmurs in sleep, soft names I don’t dare repeat.
I press a kiss on her temple—soft as promise.
The collar is there—not just protection. It was instinct, long ago. Reapers don’t ask. We mark. But seeing her navigate Gamma with that composure... it shifts something in me.
Her eyes open, half-lidded—devastating clarity in silence. She blinks, sees me. No fear.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I rasp. She props up, blinking.
“Everything’s safe,” she says, voice husky. “I’m fine.”
But I reach and brush her jaw—the morning velvet of skin. She smiles, one slow curve.
“Impressive creatures,” I murmur, “biomechanics over pleasure.” I gesture to the robotics bay.
She closes her eyes, breathes deep, strips the tension from the air. “Uses precision over you.”
I crack a grin. “I prefer chaos.”
She snorts, soft. Alone with her, I feel like a giant reduced by mercurial grace. Primal biology tethered to diplomacy. It humbles me.
I stand, brushing my teeth in gamma-light. The mirror reveals bone spurs, scars, hunger softened. I lock eyes with my reflection—half monster, half man—but all tethered to this woman.
Out the window, stars drift as we drift. Five days till rendezvous. Five days in this waiting world.
And I’ll wait.
The night hums around us, precise and watchful, and I promise we’ll become something new.
Bar lightshover dim and amber, half-plume, amid low voices and distant laughter. I’m at the corner of the room, perched like a shadow behind Amara, watching the discarded aftermath of alliances and whiskey.
She glows with grace—sonnet swallowed in chaos. The collar pulses beneath her throat, marking her soft throat red against the dim fabric of tension.
