Page 44 of Ravaged By the Reaper
“I don’t—I’m not ready,” I whisper into the thin air. Words written for him, but they drift.
He wakes with a breath too loud—heat and real. His fingers curl around my ribs, careful. “Amara?” His voice is rumble, sleep and concern.
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes like ash. I sit straighter. “Just... remembering.”
He leans into me, jaw brushing my hair. “You don’t have to remember alone.”
I breathe him in: burned metal, sweat, midnight. “I never do now,” I say.
His arm slides under me, moving me back to lie beside him. Soft trap of his body. I rest against bone and fur, his shoulder against my head.
“Tell me,” he whispers.
“You make me feel... something new,” I murmur. “Like I could belong someplace, not as ornament or diplomat—but as person. With you.”
He doesn’t shift. I feel a plaque of love—or that slow forge of it—cool and steady.
“I belong,” he says, and that tremor laces deeper than armor.
I swallow, trembling.
He sighs, low. And sleep returns—steady rhythm beside me. Breathing echoes, heartbeat hums.
I hold that. In the dark hush, I allow vulnerability to bloom.
I’m not ready to be property. Not yet. But I’m ready to bewithhim.
Soft, fierce belonging.
And at last, I let my tears fall—not because I’m broken.
But because breakage is healing too.
I sitat the edge of the berth, air thick with the scent of night—cool recirculated breath, Earth lavender still clinging to my wrist, and something heavy beneath it all: tension.
I stare down at the collar—glowing embers of claim—at his name engraved in protective tech. A symbol, yes. Safety, yes. But lately, the weight of it seems to constrict around me. Will I become a trophy? A caveat in battle? A concubine afloat on the Widowmaker?
I push at the words burning in me.
“What happens after the rendezvous?” I ask quietly—voice curled with fire. He’s raking sleep from his chest across from me.
He opens one eye—dark and startled. “We survive.”
I shake my head, frustration trembling in my teeth. “I meant day after that. Do I... stay? Become some ornament? Made safe in your hold?”
His brow furrows, confusion eating at him. “You're not any of that.”
That enrages me more. Because the question stings—like I’m battling to remain whole.
“What I am isn’t your calm down, or your 'safe'. I’m not decoration. I’m not a prize.” I stand, circling him where he lies ragged and tired. “I want... a future that isn’t just ‘with you’. I want influence, decisions, purpose.”
He moves to sit—towering with bone and shadow—but the calm confusion still shades him. “You already?—”
I cut him off. “No. You don’t get it. You don’t ‘understand’ why that phrase—even if it’s love—makes me feel small again.”
His fingers tense. I ground my voice. “Learn.”
Silence cracks.
