Page 11 of Ravaged By the Reaper

AMARA

Istep off the shuttle into Gamma’s corridors and feel caught between two worlds.

On one side, there’s the raw, fierce gravity of him—Haktron’s heat still clinging to my skin, the echo of his bloodlike claim buried under my collar.

On the other, these halls—polished stone beneath my boots, protocol droning through speakers in mild authority.

Solar-white lights and uniforms, corridors scrubbed of violence, loaded with sterile purpose.

Each breath I take tastes of antiseptic and star-metal, with a lingering flavor of Earth whiskey and someone’s fierce breath in my hair.

My training pulls me upright—nape straight, voice measured, eyes composed.

I’m a Companion, refined to grace, to decipher hearts with whispers, to disarm with words.

But this collar—it makes me something else. Sharp and unbreakable. A statement brand forged in bone and devotion. The red glow against my throat hums, a low pulse of ownership, and marks me out.

I’m passing security consoles—guards do a double-take. One lowers his rifle just enough to study me. He sees the collar glowing, sees strength in my posture. The hum of speculation crackles louder than the station’s speakers. I keep pace, steps precise, exhale shallow.

Hallways open into an atrium. Civilians drift like light, whispers chasing shadows. I can hear them—soft words at collar height: “Companion to a Reaper… claimed…”

I feel their stares, cooled by distance but still burning the air around me.

I taste iron. I taste power.

I carry tranquility in my hands, but inside I’m roiling. Loyalty, desire, history of grooming me for diplomacy. Now, diplomacy dances with dread.

I pause before the bar from last night. Flames inside yellow lamps flicker over reminders: Earth whiskey, smooth glasses, territorial grip from him, tempered by something incongruous and fragile. I draw in a breath, the scent like home and memory.

A station aide steps toward me. Polite. Measured. “Companion Destrier, your shuttle repairs are on schedule. You have clearance to rest or meet with Command staff as you prefer.”

I nod, voice smooth. “Thank you.” I turn away, senses alert for his warmth behind me. It’s a tether I can’t cut.

I walk deeper into Gamma’s nerve center. Corridors echo with boots, duty, static hum, oxygen vents. People steer clear. Not insults, not fear. Recognition. A legend realized. “The Reaper’s Companion.”

I reach a window overlooking docking bays. A string of vessels, lights blinking. The hum of craft queued. I put a hand to the glass—cold breaks contact with heat in my palm. Outside the reef of metal, stars pulse and orbit.

A soft voice behind me snaps my attention.

“Miss Destrier?”

Commander Yentil stands tall—uniform as polished as his words—light caught in his eyes, weighed with measurement and something like grudging respect.

I turn, keep composure. “Yes?”

He steps in, pads of boots sound muted. He nods. “Your status… It complicates expectations. But you handled yourself last night. With grace—and power.”

His words taste like breach of form. A compliment, laced with diplomacy.

“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.

I gasp but hold myself. Systems hum behind us. My throat tastes faintly of his whiskey, the memory sharp and grounding.

“Target,” I echo.

“Yes.” He dims the screens. Wipes the tension from air. “I’ll assign extra protection. But you’re not safe—anywhere.”

I swallow, throat tight—but the collar hisses warmth at my spine. I draw strength from its weight. “I’m not going anywhere. With him—wherever he needs me. I’ll face whatever’s coming… in front.”

He nods. Respect. Maybe something like pride flickers in his eyes.

He steps around the console, firm behind me. “I’m entrusting you with my station,” he says quietly. “But don’t—don’t forget danger.”

“I won’t.” I turn, catch a glance at the collar. It glows softly under the lights. Something primal hums, tethered to his bones and my resolve.

Outside, Gamma’s corridors spin with light and movement—engineers, dependents, life preserving order. And yet, I’m not just an elegant Companion walking these halls anymore. I’m a claimed woman, a diplomat-broker, a warning flare to the Coalition.

I step out, posture regal, face calm. Each breath tastes of ozone, determination, fear—but I won’t flip. I won’t shy. Not when he needs me, not when this brand both binds and empowers me.

I walk forward—mind steeled, heart raw, agency intact.

Soft amber lights cloak the cabin in warmth—steel and stars outside, but here, a fragile hearth built just for us. A distant hum of life aboard Starbase Gamma filters through vents, but inside, it’s quiet—brushed with memories of our fire and claim.

He stands by the viewport, bare chest etched with bone spurs and scars, backlit by drifting starlight. My fingers stay curled on the couch’s edge, fabric warmed from where he lay me down. The scent of sweat and smoke, of intimate aftermath, clings to the cushions.

“Tell me,” his voice rumbles, ragged and curious, “what do you hear in how I move?”

My breath catches. His movement is no longer a predator stalking prey—it’s rhythm, a barely named melody beneath rib and bone.

“I…hear music,” I say, voice fragile as spun glass. “Not literal. Your motion is like an old lyre string vibrating—soft, unexpected.”

He closes his eyes. The beast inside him fights as if edged by chaos, but then stills. Nods once. Enough.

I move forward, drawn by something tender. I trace a fingertip along his collarbone—just near the white ridge of a bone spur. Cold metal under warm flesh. His shoulders stiffen. Embers of steel.

“Sorry,” I whisper, stepping back. “That was private.”

He exhales, relaxed—a predator caged finally soothed. “It’s…new,” he confides.

And that’s enough—no offense meant, no retreat required.

I step to the console, eyes flickering across data streams—shuttle repairs, future operations. Outside, everything waits for him. Yet here, we hover inside a fragile moment. I open a drawer—find an old synth disc, green-glow. “My music,” I say, offering it to him. “Something simple.”

I press play. Light, resonant lyre tones fill the space, weaving between scars and nerves. He steps closer—his breathing deepens, shifting from beast to man.

“In the Academy,” I begin, voice soft, “I studied Earth music. Politics woven with melody. And now…” My heart stutters. This is vulnerability, dipped in want.

He turns fully, flesh and spurs illuminated. I swallow. His scars—etched white lines across his ribs—feel heavy with stories. I breathe them in.

“May I?” I ask, voice a whisper, offering peace.

He gives a faint nod. Drawing courage, I lay my fingers on the cold path of a scar. It doesn’t burn. It hums. His breath hitches, rigid with muscle, but he doesn’t withdraw.

“It’s beautiful,” I admit, voice tight. “Not a wound—but proof of surviving.”

He tenses again—coiled beast—but not furious. A deep pulse trembles through him.

I lean back, waiting for him to guide what comes next.

Instead, he kisses my temple—a press of teeth to skin, not harsh, but warming. Breath rumbles. “You’ve seen monsters,” he growls low, “and still found beauty.”

I let my eyes drift closed. In the silence, more passes between us than words could hold.

The synth music winds low. Tension coils just under the skin. I step forward, pressing into his arm. Neck to chest. Collar pressing against armor—that surge of red at my throat remains a reminder.

“I want all of us,” I confess, voice soft and fierce.

He stills me with his presence. Scars scattered across his chest appear vulnerable to my gaze.

“Then prove me,” he murmurs, gravel-soft.

A trembling smile breaks free. I lean closer, every breath taut with tension and possibility.

Out there, storms are brewing—intel weighs heavy, agents closing, danger sharpening its teeth.

But here, for a moment, I taste quiet. Discover who he is beyond bone and battle. And I ache to know every fragment of that man beneath the Reaper.