Page 43 of Ravaged By the Reaper
Her eyes flicker. “You can’t be undone by instinct. You have to be held accountable too.”
I growl—low, guttural. But the words scrape correctness beneath the weight in her eyes.
She steps closer. “I don’t want apologies. I want you. Controlled.”
That word—controlled—splits me. Not tamed. Not distant—but balanced.
For the first time in my life—voice cracked—I listen.
Her frame stills under my storm. And that stillness unravels me more than any strike.
The tension inside roars. I taste ash, regret, pride, and vulnerability.
She sinks onto the bed, curls into a corner. I close the door—not leaving. Just creating space.
I pace once, then kneel beside her.
Her eyes are so soft. “I’m here,” I whisper.
She nods, shaken smile.
I rest a scaly hand over hers—rugged, scarred. She doesn’t pull away.
I breathe, and something heavier than hate falls away. Strange. Disorienting.
I growl—not in threat, but in fury to contain the storm. For her.
She meets the growl with her warmth. And for once, I see fear under there—mine.
Not a weakness. Human.
And sitting in that rumpled cabin, the hum of Gamma lights outside, something shifts.
Because I listened.
CHAPTER 13
AMARA
Isit rigid on the edge of our berth—barely sleeping in this strange cage of metal and soft lights. The cotton sheets swirl around me, clammy with my sweat, scented with faint trace of Earth lavender—but nothing masks the ghosted memory of pain.
My fingertips trace across my own skin, mapping the invisible wounds the memory-creature embedded. Phantom bruises of light, sharp like frostbite. I can still taste the acid tang of stolen memories—memories I didn’t ask for, but that chased me down in my own flesh.
I taste them again now—the steel scent of blood, the tar-thick longing when my parents sold me, that day I became a commodity. I shiver. The Academy was smooth words, cultured halls, contrived intimacy. They taught me to please. But never to belong.
I close my eyes, memory-loop open like a bleed. Gilded halls. Candlelight coaxing performance. Tutor hands guiding speech, posture, promise. “You are a gift,” they said. A commodity presented, packaged. Never achild.Never allowed to love or belong in return.
My breath catches and I swallow hard. Around me, the cabin hums with quiet life-support noise, warm like a heartbeat. Warm except where he sleeps beside me.
He is a wall. A fortress cradled in muscle and bone spurs. Even asleep, he radiates danger—and safety. I can feel that heat pressed against my hip. Steady, protective. Like armor I didn’t know I needed—but don’t know how to ask for.
I think: I’m not ready to be claimed like territory. Not yet.
I keep tracing those phantom scars—reminders that someone ripped pieces of me away. Now someone bruises edges of me with love and claim, but hush—soft claim. That feels different. Unmarked but echoing.
The hum of his breath deepens as he shifts. His dream-furrowed brow, the twitch of muscle beneath skin—those are versions of him not born in war. I study that, tasting each rivet of softness.
I bite my lip, forcing steady.
