Page 3 of Hunted By the Wraiths
I’d been standing in the room for thirty seconds, maybe longer. Time felt… slow. Mission parameters already felt like words from a different life.
Contact the asset. Warn her. Retrieve manifests. Extract. Serak’s briefing had been clear, precise. Standard reconnaissance and protection. Logical. Necessary.
None of it mattered now. Not with her standing right there.
My Maris.
An age. An age spent surviving Consortium hell by clinging to the memory of her face, forcing myself through agony by believing she’d somehow escaped Kestis Minor.
But the official records had confirmed the worst. Maris Elen. KIA. Ship lost with all hands. I’d seen the sterile casualty report. Processed it.
Buried her memory alongside the part of myself that died with her. Tried to move on. Then, the debrief weeks ago, after Epsilon Facility. Jessa mentioned an old contact, a logistics expert. ‘The Smuggler Queen’ of The Quarry.
Cold, ruthless, brilliant. Built an empire from nothing.
It couldn’t be. But the flicker of impossible hope wouldn’t die.
Now, standing inside, seeing the impossible standing right in front of me... the records were wrong. She was alive.
The bond hit, nearly driving me to my knees.
Pain. Immediate. Visceral. But underneath the agony, a deeper sensation... a low, resonant pull. A physical draw toward her, an instinct so strong it warred with the conditioning. The two signals were a physical conflict inside me.
Worth it. Seeing her upright, breathing? Worth anything.
I took a step forward, boots crunching softly on spilled nutrient pellets or maybe just grime.
The bond pain spiked. Copper taste flooded my mouth, sharp and metallic. Agony threatened to buckle my knees. Focus. The scientists would have loved this data point.
Subject T-7 exhibits extreme bio-physical distress upon proximity to designated bonding partner. Hypothesis confirmed.I could almost hear Dr. Solis’s dry voice narrating my suffering. Bastard.
Another step.
“We’re closed.”
My throat felt fused shut. Words were difficult for me. Always had been, even before. More so now. Pain made thinking slow, syrupy. Still functional. Barely. Need to warn her. Mission.
Another step. Boots grating on the placrete.
“I said we’re closed.” Sharper this time. Annoyed. That was familiar too.
She turned.
Recognition slammed into her. Saw it bloom across her face, replacing irritation with stark disbelief. Face blanking. Shock. Pure, undiluted shock. The glass slipping from her fingers. Falling. Shattering on the floor between us. Neither of us looked down. Couldn’t.
Her eyes locked on mine. And I saw it all. Shock fading into grief. Grief hardening into rage. Relief flickering underneathlike a faulty light. Disbelief warring with the impossible reality standing in her cantina. Years of buried pain hitting her at once.
My whole body went rigid, fighting the instinct to move closer. Pain was like being flayed alive from the inside out. Forced myself to stay still. Stay upright. Don’t move. Don’t push. Give her space. The mission. Protect her. Warn her. Consortium. Coming now.
But she was right there. Alive. Real. Mine. Still mine, after everything.
The bond screamed. Proximity. Touch. Claim. Agony warred with primal instinct. My body didn’t care about the pain. My body wanted its mate. Demanded reconnection.
Stayed where I was. Braced against the agony. Let her decide. Shoot me? Listen? Fair either way. I’d earned the rage.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Voice a thread, barely audible over the station hum. Hoarse.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
