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The desert didn’t whisper. It screamed. Fine sand hissed against my armor as I crested the dune, scanning the scorched expanse for irregularities.

Nothing but fire and memory. Nothing but heat and echoes.

This wasteland had killed better Reapers than me—and buried technology that should have never been built.

I shouldn’t have been here. This was punishment.

Banishment in a tactical uniform. Still, I did what Reapers do. I patrolled.

Twin suns beat down on my shoulders, their combined heat enough to scorch even Rodinian hide.

My fur bristled beneath my cooling suit, seeking release from the confines of technology meant to keep me alive in this inferno.

House Acinonyx warriors were desert-born, but even we had limits.

Two years on this forsaken outpost had taught me mine.

I flexed my claws inside my gauntlets, feeling the sensors adjust to accommodate the movement. High-sensory warriors were too valuable to waste—even grumpy, insubordinate ones who’d questioned orders. So they’d sent me here, to patrol and report and slowly lose my mind to the emptiness.

The sensor in my gauntlet pulsed once. Faint. Organic.

I went still, every sense instantly heightened. Not an echo. Not a glitch. Something alive where nothing should be alive.

My vision shifted, pupils narrowing to slits as I scanned the rippling heat waves. The desert played tricks—mirages, reflections, hallucinations for the desperate. But my sensors didn’t lie, and neither did my instincts.

Then I saw her.

Collapsed in a shallow hollow between dunes, face-down in the sand, her limbs twisted in the awkward sprawl of heatstroke and desperation. Her skin was flushed, her lips cracked. A human female. Alone. No equipment. No tether. No atmospheric suit.

Impossible.

I approached cautiously, combat reflexes overriding curiosity. No human should have been able to breach the perimeter. No human should have survived the transit. No human should be here, period.

I knelt beside her, running my scanner over her form. Temperature: dangerously elevated. Heartbeat: erratic but present. Dehydration: severe. She’d be dead within the hour without intervention.

Legion protocol was clear. Unauthorized personnel were to be detained, interrogated, then processed according to threat level. But detention required a living subject, and this one was barely clinging to life.

I reached out, turning her gently onto her back.

Dark hair, matted with sweat and sand, framed a face that, despite its current distress, showed strength in its lines.

Her clothes were reminiscent of the primitive gear and style found on Terra Prime—sturdy materials designed for desert exploration, but woefully inadequate for the dual-sun heat of The Burn.

Her eyelids fluttered—a brief, desperate battle against unconsciousness that she was rapidly losing. Her lips parted, cracked and bleeding, forming a word I couldn’t hear.

I cursed the Swarm for creating this scorched wastelane. I cursed myself for not having the necessary resources for a rescue. But I would not leave her, protocol be damned.

Decision made, I scooped her up, cradling her against my chest. She was too light. Overexposed. Her sweat had dried to salt on her skin. How long had she wandered before collapsing? How had she even gotten here?

Her head lolled against my shoulder, her cheek pressing against my chest plate. She moaned something—a name, maybe. Or a plea. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t survive the coming storm, and neither would her answers if I left her to die.

I strode back toward my outpost, trying to ignore how right she felt in my arms. How her scent seemed to intensify with each step, wrapping around me like a physical presence.

These were inappropriate reactions. Unproductive thoughts.

I was a Legion Reaper, not some untrained cub experiencing his first rut.

The desert winds were picking up, carrying the electric charge that preceded the worst of the storms. Sand particles swirled in vicious eddies around my boots, visibility dropping with each passing minute. I increased my pace, unwilling to be caught in the open when the real fury hit.

I reached the protective shelter just as the first lightning bolt split the sky, striking a dune barely half a kilometer away. The static charge made my fur stand on end beneath my armor, but the reinforced walls of the outpost would hold. They always did.

Inside, I carried her directly to the medical bay—a sparse room with basic equipment meant for field triage. I placed her in the medical pod that was reserved for me to use in the most dire of situations.

I hadn’t had to use it in the two years of my assignment here.

The pod hummed to life as I initiated the diagnostic sequence. Its sophisticated sensors would stabilize her, hydrate her, and repair the worst of the heat damage. Whether it could reverse the trauma of whatever had brought her here was another question entirely.

I secured the nutrient lines, adjusted the atmospheric settings to compensate for her human physiology, and activated the dermal regenerators for the sun-scorched patches of her skin. Only then did I step back, allowing myself to process what I’d done.

I’d broken protocol. Risked contamination. Prioritized an unknown subject over immediate containment procedures.

The reasons why were beyond anything conscious. It was an instinct, a prime directive I could not ignore, despite what had been trained into me.

It had been the first time in my years of service that I had ever disregarded my training.

As if thinking about them too much called them to me, the communication console chimed. My check-ins. I activated the link to Legion Command, composing my face into its usual stoic mask.

“Reaper Onca reporting. Sector clear. No Swarm activity.” The detail made it the truth—and the omission easier to swallow. “Storm interference expected for the next two rotations. Will resume standard patrols once conditions permit.”

The transmission officer barely looked up from his console. “Acknowledged, Reaper. Maintain position.”

The connection terminated before I could respond. They never expected trouble from my outpost. No one did. That was the point of patrolling dead sites. They were supposed to be inactive and contained.

I returned to the medical bay, watching the pod’s steady lights as it worked to save the human female. Who was she? How had she breached our defenses? And why did her mere presence set my protective instincts on fire?

The storm howled outside, rattling the outpost’s reinforced walls. No answers would come tonight. I decided it would be best to get some rest as well.

My private quarters were in the next room over, close enough to the med bay that I could monitor her condition.

As exhaustion claimed me, my last conscious thought was of her scent—citrus and spice and something I couldn’t name—following me down into darkness.

I saw her like a desert mirage at first, bounding along the ridge of a dune.

Her lithe form cut a silhouette against the dream sky, wild and free in a way no human could move in this world’s crushing gravity.

This wasn’t reality. This was something else—something ancient, instinctual.

The shared space where fate unveiled its design.

She glanced back at me, challenge in her eyes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

She thought she could outrun me. My mate was about to learn otherwise.

She raced ahead, black hair streaming behind her like a banner of conquest. Each movement was an invitation—the sway of her hips, the flash of skin where her shirt rode up, the laughter that carried back to me on the dream-wind. My blood surged hot, a growl of anticipation rumbling in my chest.

If it was a race she wanted, she would be sorely disappointed. I am Rodinian—born to the chase, bred for pursuit. I let her gain distance, allowed her the fleeting thrill of believing she might escape, then unleashed my true speed.

I overtook her in moments, enjoying how her hair whipped behind her like a black silk ribbon. The shock on her face when I appeared beside her turned quickly to delight. I swept her up in my arms and over my shoulder, drinking in her squeal of surprise that melted into breathless laughter.

“Put me down, you giant cat!” she demanded, but her hands were already exploring the fur along my shoulders, fingers digging in appreciatively.

“Not until I’ve claimed my prize,” I growled, carrying her toward an oasis that appeared on the horizon.

She felt perfect in my arms, her soft curves molding against my harder planes as I carried her toward the shimmering oasis that appeared ahead.

The water glistened like liquid sapphires beneath twin suns that somehow didn’t burn but caressed our skin with gentle warmth.

This dream-logic didn’t bother me—nothing mattered except the female in my arms, the one whose scent had called to something primal within me the moment I found her collapsed in the desert.

“You can’t catch me forever,” she teased, her breath warm against my neck. “I’m pretty fast for a human.”

“And I am Rodinian,” I rumbled, enjoying the way her body trembled against mine at the deeper register of my voice. “We do not lose our prey.”

The oasis welcomed us with lush vegetation that shouldn’t have existed in this harsh landscape.

Broad-leafed trees provided dappled shade over beds of soft moss and vibrant flowers whose fragrance couldn’t compete with her scent—that intoxicating blend of citrus and spice that had rooted itself in my consciousness.

I laid her down beneath the shade, watching as she stretched like a pleasure-seeking feline, all lithe limbs and inviting curves. Her skin glowed golden in the filtered sunlight, and her eyes—dark as the space between stars—watched me with hunger that matched my own.