Page 54 of Ravaged By the Reaper
“Everything’s too quiet.”
“It’s a military station.”
“Yeah. And soldiers get real quiet before they’re told to die.”
We reach the quarters they’ve assigned us—if you can call a reinforced room with biometric locks and a wall-safe for weapons “quarters.” I sweep it before she enters, not trusting anyone or anything.
When I finally sit, it’s on the edge of the bed, armor still on. I don’t relax. Can’t. My claws drum against my knees. I can’t shake the scent of tension that’s woven into the air like invisible barbed wire.
She watches me from across the room, her expression unreadable. “You think they’ll hit tonight?”
“Iknowthey will.”
Her throat works around a swallow. “Then don’t wait. We hit first.”
I meet her eyes.
That fire in her hasn’t dimmed—not after the extractor, not after the escape, not even now. She’s scared. I can see it in the angle of her shoulders. But she’s not backing down.
“No,” I say finally. “This time… we hold the line.”
She nods, once.
But I still smell blood in the corridors.
What rattlesme isn’t the threat of death. It’s not the fleet bearing down, the interdictors screaming through space on ourtrail, or the certainty of Malem Karag’s slimy voice barking orders across the void.
No. It’s her.
Amara.
She moves through the storm like it was made for her. Like war is an old lover she’s learned how to seduce, manipulate, and outlast.
I’m standing in the background like a fucking statue, muscles coiled, instincts lit like fuses, but she—she’s slicing through encrypted code like it’s silk. The lights from the terminal paint her face in soft golds and blues, her fingers flying across the display, patching into backchannels only ghosts should know exist.
She’s negotiating with three ambassadors simultaneously, juggling languages like juggling knives. Her voice—calm, precise, velvet-wrapped steel.
“No, you’re misreading that clause,” she tells one with a faint smile. “The Alliance jurisdiction ends at Gamma’s orbital plane, not its biosphere. Meaning your threat to pull diplomatic staff is posturing. And sloppy.”
She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t lose her edge.
I would’ve barked. Roared. Broken something.
She’s better than that.
She switches seamlessly to Grolgathian, her tongue wrapping around the harsh gutturals like it’s her native breath. Then again, she was trained for this. Bred for this. But I’m seeing thewhynow. Not as a distraction or ornament or tool.
She’s a fucking strategist.
My heart—the big one, the primal one, not the auxiliary backup most Reapers have—slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break out. Pride claws its way up my chest, not hot like rage but slow-burning. Heavy. I’ve never felt this particular kind of awe before.
She’s not mine to guard. Not some fragile prize to bleed for.
She’s my equal.
And gods, that should bother me. Should stick in my throat like a bone. But instead, it tastes like purpose.
Yentil watches her too, arms crossed, eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. He nods like he’s learning something. Likewe’relearning something.
