Page 27 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

The Widowmaker smells different now.

Not of blood and rust and burned-out plasma coils—though those still linger like old ghosts. But beneath that? There’s a new scent riding the recycled air. Sharp. Focused. Something like lavender and steel. It smells like her.

Amara doesn’t bark orders like a war chief.

She doesn’t need to. She moves through the halls like a force of gravity, bending the atmosphere around her.

The crew shifts when she enters, subtle and immediate.

Raiders who once scoffed at her now listen when she speaks.

They call her “the quiet storm” when they think I can’t hear.

Some of the old guard hate it.

They call her soft. Delicate. Dangerous in the wrong way—like a beautiful bomb they can’t defuse.

Idiots.

Under her influence, our raids are cleaner. Strategic. The kind that don’t bleed needlessly. She plans ops like a symphony—every ship, every blade, every hack timed to the breath. Casualties are down. Hauls are up. Morale, ironically, has never been higher.

And still, one of them tries her.

It happens during the off-cycle. Most of the crew’s down in the galley or drunk in the den. I’m checking Bloodfont’s balance in the weapon forge when I hear the crackle of pain echo over the comm grid—faint, but it snags in my chest like a hook.

Cargo hold. Her biosignature. And another—male. Heavy. Bloodborn Reaper.

I move.

When I reach the threshold, the doors stutter open to a scene that sears itself into my memory.

She’s backed against a crate, stance loose, eyes locked. The bastard in front of her is Gurrak—bigger than me, dumb as voidrock. He’s sneering like she’s prey.

He swings.

She flows.

One dodge. One sharp twist.

She drops him.

Three hits.

First to the throat—fast and brutal. His growl chokes mid-sound.

Second to the knee—precision-strike. His leg buckles like snapped armor plating.

Third to the jaw—an uppercut forged in fury. His body slams the deck with a grunt, blood blooming from his mouth.

She doesn’t even break stride. Doesn’t hesitate.

I freeze.

Not because she’s in danger.

But because she isn’t.

And it slams into me—pride and rage colliding like asteroids inside my chest. Pride that she stood her ground. Rage that he ever thought he could lay a hand on her.

She turns to me, breath heaving, eyes bright with adrenaline.

“You going to stand there,” she says, voice all honey and steel, “or are you going to kiss me?”

Stars help me.

I do both.

I cross the hold in three strides, grip her waist like she’s mine to claim—and crash my mouth against hers. Fierce. Desperate. Not for dominance. For gratitude. For awe. For the raw, blistering truth of her.

She kisses me back just as hard, arms winding around my neck, her body warm and wild in my arms.

Around us, the crew begins to gather.

And cheer.

They howl like wolves, like victors, like believers. Blood pools around Gurrak’s unconscious form and not one of them moves to help him.

She pulls back just enough to whisper, lips brushing mine, “Told you I’d be useful.”

I grin. “Remind me to piss you off more often.”

Later, Panaka summons us.

His private quarters are a mess of old weapon racks, half-drained decanters, and leather seating that’s seen more war than comfort. He doesn’t offer us drinks. Just gestures for us to stand.

He eyes Amara first. Not like prey. Not anymore.

“You’ve turned my raider ship into a damn opera house,” he grunts, voice like sandpaper dragged across steel.

She raises an eyebrow. “Would you prefer a funeral dirge?”

He huffs something that might be a laugh.

“But it works,” he admits. “You’ve kept my kill count low and my vaults fat. I didn’t think it could be done.”

She folds her arms. “You’re welcome.”

He tosses a datachip on the table between us. “That’s command authorization for a ship of your choosing. Yours. Permanently. Full crew. No oversight.”

I glance at her.

She glances at me.

I defer—because this is her war now, too.

She leans forward, picks up the chip, and says, “Only if we choose the missions.”

Panaka grins, all teeth and old scars. “You’re learning, girl.”

And just like that, we’ve got a ship.

Not stolen or temporary. Ours.

We walk out of his quarters side by side, the air around us humming like a charged field.

I look at her profile—the curve of her jaw, the gleam of her collar, the way her fingers curl around that chip like it’s a weapon.

She doesn’t notice me staring.

Because she’s already planning.

Plotting.

Commanding.

She’s not just my equal.

She’s the storm I follow into fire.

And gods help anyone who stands in her way.