Page 12 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

The Widowmaker’s signal crackles over my console—green tracers of data burst across the screen, alive with encrypted power. I lean forward, knuckles whitening on the controls as the voice I’ve come to trust booms through the speakers.

“Bloodsinger,” Panaka’s tone is amused, cold but grateful. “Looks like you’ve caught your jalshagar. Now keep her close—we rendezvous in five days. Until then, you’re a ghost in Alliance space. Stay low.”

No entering the ship. Just coordinating from here. Grounded by paranoia and protocol. Waiting makes me itch. Waiting is prey behavior. Not predator. But it’s necessary.

The station hums and sighs around me—vent air, distant chatter, footfalls on steel. I breathe deep, tasting burnt circuitry and sweat. My chest heaves, half in frustration, half in fierce, fierce relief.

I rest a clawed hand on my desk and glance to the viewport. Through smoky glass I glimpse her—Amara. She’s watching Gamma’s lights dim behind us; code patterns flashing across her eyes.

The red glow of her collar feels like a second heartbeat in the compartment. Others see it too — not admiration, not fear, but understanding that she is claimed. I feel animals inside me marking turf.

A junior operator pauses by the console, eyes flitting. I bare my teeth just enough—predator, some pulse must know. The operator steps back.

“You’ll accept orders, Reaper?” I mutter under my breath, though no one else is listening. Of course, I will. I’ll follow orders for five days. But they don’t own me.

I turn back to the console as the Widowmaker updates me with coordinates for rendezvous. Sets JSON packets streaming like lifelines. I trace the star-field patterns.

Then Amara’s voice, soft as danger behind me: “Dinner tonight?”

I swivel to see her, collar glowing steady, expression calm like diplomacy purring. “I’ll hold you to that,” I reply, voice tight. Not hungry, but needing.

She nods, stepping closer. The hum of tech, the hum of us—syncing.

I eye the readouts again—five days till rendezvous, sensor caps, clearance routes. My hands work over the console, tense, calculating.

But my mind keeps drifting to her.

Diners lean over tables, normalcy at Gamma feels borrowed. Shouldn’t feel comforting—but somehow it is.

I snap focus back to the console. Five days of patience stretched like wire. My instincts want action. Move. Hunt. Protect. But for once, protection is quiet.

Amara leans on the console beside me, elbow to hip, warmth radiating through the collar patch. She murmurs: “I trust you.”

I let her words lodge where breath pools.

“Always,” I rasp.

She doesn’t contradict.

We sit—the ship’s hum, the data streams, the quiet flesh at my side.

Alliance space is dangerous. The coalition is hunting. But we are ready.

The station is a sliver of serenity after our storm—the lights dimmed in some wards, corridors humming with recycled life. I slip into the shadows of Gamma’s night, boots silent against metal flooring. The air tastes of vent-warmed steel and distant systems pulse like echoes under skin.

Around me, the station pulses with rhythm and precision.

I step into a robotics bay lit by pale glow, and see tiny mechanical limbs stitching circuits, nanobot arms threading wires.

They move with cold rhythm, efficiency crafted into every joint.

I’m drunk on it—this isn’t chaos. It's calculation. It's order.

I run my fingers against a panel, smooth and warm. The station breathes. Every hum a heartbeat. I inhale, trying to draw order into my bones.

But that instinct—that pull—isn't found in tech or circuits. It's across the bay, in crew quarters.

I head that way, steps soundless, shadowed. The closer I get, the more my blood scorches.

I pause at the door.

Inside, Amara sleeps. Pale wattage haloing her—curl of hair loose, the collar glowing faint red against skin. Her breath is slow, steady—soft rise and fall. Her lips part just enough to share air with dream. Her cheekbone catches silver starlight from viewport.

I trace sweat-slick hair from brow to nape, fingertips ghosting scar I used to carve with consent. Her pulse hums in my fingertips. Steady. Fastening.

I kneel beside the berth, breath shallow. Amara’s scent smells of smoke, Earth-leaf perfume, and something tempered now with belonging that both satisfies and gnaws.

Dammit, I’m proud.

Not just of her—of us.

She moves, throat fluttering. Murmurs in sleep, soft names I don’t dare repeat.

I press a kiss on her temple—soft as promise.

The collar is there—not just protection. It was instinct, long ago. Reapers don’t ask. We mark. But seeing her navigate Gamma with that composure... it shifts something in me.

Her eyes open, half-lidded—devastating clarity in silence. She blinks, sees me. No fear.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I rasp. She props up, blinking.

“Everything’s safe,” she says, voice husky. “I’m fine.”

But I reach and brush her jaw—the morning velvet of skin. She smiles, one slow curve.

“Impressive creatures,” I murmur, “biomechanics over pleasure.” I gesture to the robotics bay.

She closes her eyes, breathes deep, strips the tension from the air. “Uses precision over you.”

I crack a grin. “I prefer chaos.”

She snorts, soft. Alone with her, I feel like a giant reduced by mercurial grace. Primal biology tethered to diplomacy. It humbles me.

I stand, brushing my teeth in gamma-light. The mirror reveals bone spurs, scars, hunger softened. I lock eyes with my reflection—half monster, half man—but all tethered to this woman.

Out the window, stars drift as we drift. Five days till rendezvous. Five days in this waiting world.

And I’ll wait.

The night hums around us, precise and watchful, and I promise we’ll become something new.

Bar lights hover dim and amber, half-plume, amid low voices and distant laughter. I’m at the corner of the room, perched like a shadow behind Amara, watching the discarded aftermath of alliances and whiskey.

She glows with grace—sonnet swallowed in chaos. The collar pulses beneath her throat, marking her soft throat red against the dim fabric of tension.

Suddenly, movement that shatters peace.

A pilot, drunk on Rank and bravado, stumbles toward her, voice slurred, hand reaching. My limbs seize before my mind can think. Instincts trained on warzones flare: This is mine.

Time fractures.

His hand grazes her shoulder.

I move.

I pick him up as if he’s a babe—not with care but with brutal purpose—and slam him through the table nearest us. Splinters and plates shatter, glasses arc in slow rain. He yelps, cries, collapses. Silence gashes the bar.

I plant one foot on the table, boots scuffed and soaked in liquid. All eyes latch onto me—muscle, bone spurs casting hard shadows.

Amara stands between me and blown-off protocol—silent, steady, fierce. She sees his eyes wide, shame draining him.

Before heels hit metal, she intervenes. Gentle—but firm.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I turn on her, rage churned down tight. But she doesn’t flinch.

“Enough!” she says, voice cold clarity, louder than any screech.

Station security spills in, weapons drawn.

Commander Yentil enters. He stands tall in neat uniform.

His gaze shifts from the pilot—crumpled, bleeding—and lands on me, toes on splintered wood. His jaw tightens.

But then he sees her stance—unbowed. The collar glowing confidently.

He breathes out.

“Bloodsinger,” he says, voice even.

I clamp my jaw closed.

“This…. stays contained,” he says. A harsh breath. Then nods to officers, who lower weapons.

Amara steps forward. “No escalation,” she murmurs. “Let this be dealt with quietly.”

The doctor picks the pilot up. Amara helps steady him. Everyone backs off.

I melt backward as they leave.

I hear whispers in the bar—fear and awe mixed like bitter whiskey. Yet when I look back at Amara, she meets my eyes. No shame. No fear. Just fire.

Later, in our quarters—wood-paneled, sparse, but warm—Amara stands heels ready to speak. She looks at me, tired and trembling.

“You can’t... do that,” she says. “Not like that.”

I inhale a shaky breath. “He touched you.”

“I know. But you nearly destroyed the station's peace for it.”

Her words hit like plucked wires pulling tight.

“Maybe that was the point,” I rasp.

Her eyes flicker. “You can’t be undone by instinct. You have to be held accountable too.”

I growl—low, guttural. But the words scrape correctness beneath the weight in her eyes.

She steps closer. “I don’t want apologies. I want you. Controlled.”

That word—controlled—splits me. Not tamed. Not distant—but balanced.

For the first time in my life—voice cracked—I listen.

Her frame stills under my storm. And that stillness unravels me more than any strike.

The tension inside roars. I taste ash, regret, pride, and vulnerability.

She sinks onto the bed, curls into a corner. I close the door—not leaving. Just creating space.

I pace once, then kneel beside her.

Her eyes are so soft. “I’m here,” I whisper.

She nods, shaken smile.

I rest a scaly hand over hers—rugged, scarred. She doesn’t pull away.

I breathe, and something heavier than hate falls away. Strange. Disorienting.

I growl—not in threat, but in fury to contain the storm. For her.

She meets the growl with her warmth. And for once, I see fear under there—mine.

Not a weakness. Human.

And sitting in that rumpled cabin, the hum of Gamma lights outside, something shifts.

Because I listened.