Page 42 of Ravaged By the Reaper
Suddenly, movement that shatters peace.
A pilot, drunk on Rank and bravado, stumbles toward her, voice slurred, hand reaching. My limbs seize before my mind can think. Instincts trained on warzones flare:This is mine.
Time fractures.
His hand grazes her shoulder.
I move.
I pick him up as if he’s a babe—not with care but with brutal purpose—and slam him through the table nearest us. Splinters and plates shatter, glasses arc in slow rain. He yelps, cries, collapses. Silence gashes the bar.
I plant one foot on the table, boots scuffed and soaked in liquid. All eyes latch onto me—muscle, bone spurs casting hard shadows.
Amara stands between me and blown-off protocol—silent, steady, fierce. She sees his eyes wide, shame draining him.
Before heels hit metal, she intervenes. Gentle—but firm.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I turn on her, rage churned down tight. But she doesn’t flinch.
“Enough!” she says, voice cold clarity, louder than any screech.
Station security spills in, weapons drawn.
Commander Yentil enters. He stands tall in neat uniform.
His gaze shifts from the pilot—crumpled, bleeding—and lands on me, toes on splintered wood. His jaw tightens.
But then he sees her stance—unbowed. The collar glowing confidently.
He breathes out.
“Bloodsinger,” he says, voice even.
I clamp my jaw closed.
“This…. stays contained,” he says. A harsh breath. Then nods to officers, who lower weapons.
Amara steps forward. “No escalation,” she murmurs. “Let this be dealt with quietly.”
The doctor picks the pilot up. Amara helps steady him. Everyone backs off.
I melt backward as they leave.
I hear whispers in the bar—fear and awe mixed like bitter whiskey. Yet when I look back at Amara, she meets my eyes. No shame. No fear. Just fire.
Later, in our quarters—wood-paneled, sparse, but warm—Amara stands heels ready to speak. She looks at me, tired and trembling.
“You can’t... do that,” she says. “Not like that.”
I inhale a shaky breath. “He touched you.”
“I know. But you nearly destroyed the station's peace for it.”
Her words hit like plucked wires pulling tight.
“Maybe that was the point,” I rasp.
