Page 49 of Ravaged By the Reaper
There’s no lightning strike. No clash. Just slow, reverent alignment.
In her touch, pride melts into tenderness. I’ve never been touched like this—not with such reverence.
Her fingers find my throat.
“Not claim,” she murmurs. “Choice.”
The word settles in me, solid and true. I don’t say anything but yes—with every shuddering breath.
When we crest, it’s not obliteration. It is balance—symmetric, fierce, binding. Release blooms inside me, coraling around bone and blood and breath until I’m undone.
We lay back together, light and gasping—our forms entwined in orbit around our own afterglow. My arms cradle her; she presses in, fingertips trailing sparks up my neck.
She breathes, “I choose you.”
I let the station’s heartbeat echo our own gentle tremor. The world outside continues its ceaseless churn, systems whirring and lights flickering. But inside this quiet sanctuary, I don’t want power. I don’t want control.
I just want to hold.
Because when a Reaper is chosen—not taken—that is everything.
CHAPTER 15
AMARA
The afterglow keeps me light—floating, unmoored, like I’ve shed centuries of armor and stepped into bone-bright truth. I feel both fragile and feral: more exposed, more real than I’ve ever allowed myself to be. Because last night wasn't possession—it was partnership. Shared breath, shared skin, shared surrender and simultaneous ownership. I saw him vulnerable—for a split second, his fangs soft, his spurs gentle, not weapons but stories.
I should be terrified by how much I feel. Love is war without strategy. It latches onto your bones and doesn’t let go. Yet here I am, wrapped in the soft ache of what could be. That’s not weakness—it’s awakening.
So I do something I haven’t done since I came to Grolgath Prime: I let myself feel. I dress finally, tracing the collar’s smooth metal, feeling gratitude pulse beneath it.
Then I reach for the holonet console—light flickers in pale glyphemes—and I read.
My breath tugs jagged.
A Coalition-wide bulletin—my face pressed across holo-panels in every rim-lit feed. Malem’s voice in cold print:Amara Destrier, declared rogue agent. Coalition bounty issued. High-value. Dead or alive.They drone: “Last seen aboard cloaked Reaper shuttle.”
I hold the console until sparks of noise crackle in my fingers. Sweat beads. The room tastes of copper dread. The holo-glass distorts, but I can’t look away. My image: hunted.
My heart hammers wide. The promise of love burns against the shadow of war.
A memory bleeds through: my parents’ faces, smooth and flat, as they signed contracts binding me yet stripping me bare. Now—this. I’m hunted, not worth paid but dangerous.
I taste betrayal and fear in equal measure.
Then I picture Haktron. The way he kneels before me, earning—not demanding. How his arm felt when she pressed into him.
He’s behind me before I even sense it, heavy presence warm in the doorway.
“Situation?” His voice is low-fire, calm-precise.
I hold the holo up. The light washes over his bone-rendered face.
He reads. Fists clench. I feel metal teeth of tension snap.
“They want my death,” I whisper, voice brittle in space.
Malem’s words echo: rogue. Spy. Prize.
