Page 38 of Ravaged By the Reaper
“I—thank you, Commander.”
He nods again. Studying my collar. The red glow flickers dimly in his eyes. “This collar… does not intimidate. It informs. And both actions and alliances here will respect that. You are not wandering. You belong. That changes how we approach you.”
A shiver catches in my chest—not fear. Awe. The gravity of that statement is new air.
“Understood,” I say.
He reaches out, taps my wrist gently. “Use that knowledge to set your terms in this station.”
I breathe the words in. Freedom. Ownership. Levels of power I was trained to command, now validated, protected.
We part. I continue walking—feet brushing across steel grates, echoes in Synced footsteps. I catch a glimpse of reflection in a window—pale face, silver hair, collar glowing. A Companion. A claimed woman. A force.
I find a lounge overlooking void-lit docks—quiet, calm. I sit. My pulse slows. I tuck fingers under the glowing plate at my throat. It’s weight and warmth both, steady as his heartbeat at my nape.
Here, in this station of order, everything is supposed to follow rules. But I don’t. Not anymore.
Diplomacy and grace aren't soft—they are survival.
I whisper, not to the station, not to the shuttle, but to the wild storm inside me:
“I belong here. And to him.”
I move deliberately down the station’s corridors, leather boots whispering against polished alloy floors. Every detail grips me: the scent of hot metal from reactor vents, the faint murmur of conversations behind service ducts, the flicker of lights dancing across the collar at my throat, pulsing softly like a heartbeat in terra firm.
This collar—it binds me to him, and yet, it doesn't steal my agency. If anything, it anchors me in strength. Professional elegance savors control, and I refuse to lose that now.
I stride into Commander Yentil’s office—clean lines, scattered micro-screen panels, and an aura of restraint. He stands, startled to see me unannounced, but his eyes hold that appraisal born of experience: measuring, not judging.
“Commander,” I say, voice even but carrying weight. “I’d like to propose something.”
He inclines his head, eyebrows raised—but not skeptically, more curious. “Yes, Miss Destrier?”
I cross to his desk, lay both hands palm down on its cool surface. “I want to mediate between you and Haktron. Between the base and the Widowmaker.”
He blinks. Not offended—but moved by the audacity. “You’re volunteering...?”
I nod. “Yes. I’m more than a Companion—I’m a bridge. Your world and his world... collide in me. So let me help build the path forward.”
He studies me—for the first time I sense admiration in his gaze. “You’re valuable. Not just as protocol, but as presence.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “I’m worth this—not just because of who he is, but because of who I am.”
He shifts, lean frame dusting holograms with a flick of his wrist. “What do you want—exactly?”
I lean forward, press eyes to his eyes—candor blossoming. “Assignment to his missions. I don’t want to be safe here while he’s raiding, fighting, claiming worlds. I belong with him. But only as equal—not taken, but chosen.”
The words float heavy, sacred in the sparse room.
Yentil exhales, lean fingers trembling just a fraction. “You ask to embed with a Reaper. That is unprecedented.”
“I’m not a soldier,” I say. “I’m a diplomat. A living peace offering. Let me help keep the peace—to temper the fire he brings. If anyone can, I can.”
He nods slowly. Then—he nods again, firmer. “Very well. I accept your proposal. But know this: trouble is coming.”
His words drop like an asteroid. My heart thuds. “What do you mean?”
He gestures to an encrypted screen. Intelligence flickers: images, coordinates, faces too zoomed and too distant. “Coalition data suggests they’re hunting you. You—trained as a Companion, infiltrated Coalition borders, now allied with a Reaper. That makes you... target.” His voice is steady, diplomatic. But the undercurrent is sharp: threat.
