Page 19 of Ravaged By the Reaper

AMARA

We limp back to base on thrusters that sound like dying beasts.

Hull groaning. Systems flickering. The cockpit reeks of ozone, sweat, and burnt composites. Warning lights strobe against my skin like heartbeats—too fast, too many.

My hands won’t stop shaking.

Not from fear.

From fury. From the adrenaline still corkscrewing through my veins like liquid fire. From the afterglow of destruction. From the unbearable high of surviving.

Of winning.

I’m still clutching the sidearm, knuckles white, my pulse drumming in my throat like a war drum. My flight harness bites into my shoulders. Every breath I take tastes like heat and ozone and Haktron.

We fought like gods.

And now we’re crawling home like devils.

The shuttle scrapes into the emergency dock with a teeth-on-metal shriek. Pressure seals engage. Systems wheeze. The engines sputter once, twice… then die.

Stillness.

I sit there.

A second too long.

Then I turn.

He's beside me, silent, like a coiled shadow. One hand on the throttle, the other braced against the canopy frame. His jaw is set. Eyes still burning. His armor’s dented, smeared with carbon scoring. There's a gash across his shoulder plate.

He’s alive.

We’re alive.

And the cockpit is too small. Too full of what we did. What we are.

“You almost got us killed,” I snarl, voice cracking on the edge of a growl.

He turns his head, slow, deliberate. A smirk creeps across his face—so calm it infuriates me.

“And you loved it.”

Bastard.

I unclip my harness so fast it snaps. My body still feels like fire and momentum, like I haven’t quite landed yet. My fists are trembling as I slam one against his chestplate—hard enough to make him grunt.

“Asshole.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hit him again.

And then I kiss him.

Hard.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and salt and sweat and sparks, like kissing the mouth of a storm. His hands fly to my sides, dragging me into his lap like gravity lost its mind.

I don’t care.

I can’t care.

Because he gets it. He gets me. The way I burn, the way I rise, the way I tear down gods when they stand in my way. And he met me blow for blow in the black—never flinched.

He didn’t protect me.

He fought with me.

His mouth claims mine with that same heat, the same promise. One hand fists in my hair. The other grips my hip like he’s anchoring himself to this plane of reality through me alone.

The ship creaks around us, and I don’t give a damn.

I want this.

Now.

“Say it,” I hiss against his lips, biting the edge of his jaw. “Say you didn’t want that chaos. That you didn’t love every second of us in that fight.”

He growls low in his throat, lips dragging fire down my neck.

“I wanted it,” he rasps. “Every second. Every kill. Every scream. With you.”

My nails scrape his armor. My body vibrates like a struck tuning fork. There’s nothing polite left in me. Nothing reserved. Just raw heat and hunger and—

The docking hatch slams open with a pneumatic hiss.

We freeze.

A medic blinks at us. Stammers. “Uh—injuries?”

“None,” I snap, dragging myself off him.

Haktron laughs—low, amused, still drunk on the aftermath.

The medic hurries away.

I glance back at him.

His smile’s crooked.

“Next time,” I say, voice steel-wrapped silk, “I fly.”

He arches a brow. “You just want to be on top.”

“Damn right I do.”

And we both laugh.

Because somehow, in the middle of a war, we found this.

Whatever the hell this is.

And gods help the universe if we survive it.

We hit the edge together—like stars colliding, like entire planets cracking under tidal force. The universe narrows to a single heartbeat stretched between us, and when it breaks, it’s not quiet. It’s cataclysm.

I don’t scream. I exhale—sharp, ragged, punched out of me by the sheer violence of release.

My whole body goes taut, locked around him, every nerve lit white as if I’ve been set ablaze from the inside.

His name burns on my tongue, fierce and undeniable, but I don’t speak it.

I live it—etched into every pulse of my body against his.

Haktron shudders against me, his massive frame seizing as though the world itself is breaking inside him.

His head bows, forehead pressing hard to mine, bracing like a warrior who’s just taken the final blow.

His breath rips out in broken fragments, a raw, guttural sound that is nothing like the savage laughter he carried through battle. This is different. This is real.

“Amara…” It’s barely a word—more a groan carved out of his chest.

My hands cradle the back of his neck, pulling him tighter as if I could fuse us together. “I’m here,” I whisper, though my own voice shakes apart in the aftermath. “Always.”

He trembles, every muscle quaking as if the act of holding back from crushing me is tearing him open. His claws dig just enough into my waist to remind me what he is—what I’ve given myself to—but never enough to wound. The restraint is staggering. Beautiful.

No words. Just heat. Pulse. The undeniable aftermath of something that should have been brutal, terrifying—yet somehow was gentle. Even in its wildness. Even in its fury.

He doesn’t move to leave me. He doesn’t pull back. He holds. One massive arm bands around my back, the other cradles my skull as though I am the only fragile thing in a galaxy made of war.

I sag into his chest, boneless. My cheek finds the curve of his armor, warm now, slicked by sweat and heat, the metal no longer cold but carrying us in its temperature.

My heart is a drum against my ribs, fierce and erratic, and beneath my palm, his twin hearts echo, a deeper rhythm that threatens to drown me.

We breathe. That’s all we do for a long, spinning moment. Just breathe. His chest heaves under me, each exhale rattling like it’s dragged through broken glass, but steadying with mine until our lungs fall into the same cadence.

He tips my chin up, forcing me to meet the blaze of his eyes. “Say it,” he rasps, voice shredded. “Say you’re mine.”

I swallow, lips trembling—but there’s no hesitation. “I’m yours,” I breathe. My words are a vow, a chain, a promise I don’t regret. “And you’re mine.”

He groans, the sound guttural, reverent. His forehead presses harder to mine, eyes clenched shut as though my words are a weight he can’t bear and a salvation he can’t release.

“You’ll undo me,” he mutters, almost broken.

I kiss him, slow and shaking, tasting the salt of us both. “No,” I whisper against his mouth. “I’ll remake you.”

His arms tighten, pulling me impossibly closer, until there’s no space between flesh, scar, or bone. Until even the void outside feels smaller than this moment.

My eyes drift closed, but this time it isn’t surrender. It’s peace.

This chaos, this want, this perfect imbalance—we survived it. We made it through the storm not just intact, but closer. Twined in ways words can’t untangle.

I don’t need him. Stars, I don’t. That’s what makes this so dangerous.

I want him.

With a kind of hunger that terrifies me more than the war ever could.

I shift slightly, feel the brush of his fingers tightening just a fraction at my waist. Still claiming. Still there. He hasn’t said a word.

Doesn’t have to.

We’re past words.

I pull back just enough to look at him.

His face is unreadable—half-shadowed, all thunder. Eyes wild and still lit like he hasn’t quite come back down yet.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

I smirk. “You asking for a performance review?”

He huffs a dry laugh. “Maybe.”

I lean in again, kiss him slow—different this time. Less war. More... thanks.

His lips press back gently, and for the first time in what feels like lifetimes, it’s quiet between us.

Quiet enough to feel safe.

To feel, period.

When I finally peel myself away, my legs wobble when they hit the deck. I curse under my breath and brace against the shelving.

“You break my knees too?” I mutter.

He grins, half feral, half proud. “Only bruised ‘em.”

I start gathering my clothes, piece by piece, from the floor. Armor buckles clatter. A medpack’s been crushed under my boot. My jacket’s dangling from a bent shelf bracket like it gave up mid-battle.

Hair’s a mess. Lip’s swollen. Heart? Still galloping.

I catch my reflection in the tiny backup mirror stuck to the inside of a supply crate.

And damn.

I look like war kissed me and I kissed it back harder.

“Should I be worried what kind of impression I’m leaving?” I ask, smoothing my hair with shaking fingers.

He shrugs. “Depends who finds the closet first.”

I roll my eyes, snort, and zip up my jacket. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re glowing.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

I narrow my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me. I can’t stop the smile. Not entirely.

Because I am glowing.

Not from him. Not from what we did.

From me.

From finally trusting someone not to save me, but to stand beside me when I refuse to fall.

That’s what he did. No hesitation. No doubt. Just fire and fists and teeth bared beside mine.

I slide the door open with a hiss. The corridor’s empty—thank the stars. I pause in the threshold, one last glance over my shoulder.

He’s still there.

Still watching.

Still mine.

“Don’t wait too long,” I tell him.

“For what?”

“To catch up.”

Then I walk away.

Hair wild. Spine straight.

And pride trailing behind me like smoke from a starship burning through reentry.