Page 47 of Ravaged By the Reaper

I snap the compad dead. Silence folds darker than any night.

I stand slowly, circling the shaft room. My armor throbs against plasma coils. The station’s hum buzzes faint overhead. I can feel my claws trembling—something between hunger and need.

Outside, the floor panels clink as boots move. I want to stalk her, catch her voice in soft. Listen. Understand.

She shies from submission—even to me. Not fragile. Fierce. I’ve broken steel, shattered shields—but never faced this fire: defiance—not born from fear, but from self-worth.

I sheath Bloodfont, heavy and sacred. My bones growl with… pride? Uneasy revelation.

I navigate corridors, following the hiss of vent air. I find her in the lounge—quiet, face turned to Earth-viewports. The starlight paints her silver hair.

She senses me before I speak. When she turns, guard rises in his eyes—something wild and proud.

“I’m not taking you,” I say low, voice rough as thunder. “I’m choosing you.”

She studies me. I can’t read her face. Not yet. But the tension trembles in the air.

“I don’t want pats on the head,” I growl. “I want... to earn you.”

She breathes out, weight shifting. “You don’t have to—just… start.”

Her words are small, like embers.

We stand, starbase hum pressing us.

And I realize, I’m ready to learn.

Now.

Steam lifts from the cooling lines. Sparks rattle in my palm as I sharpen Bloodfont in the engine room—each metal rasp a savage hymn. Oil and spent fuel oil mix into the air, thick and clinging, and every inhale tastes of war and machine empathy. My fingers are bruised but precise, forging edge and temper as I drive deep into gunmetal blues.

Never told no.

Not to clients, not to captives, never to a battlefield that bent under my claws. Authority has always been my bone and spine.

But Amara, her refusal wasn’t recoil. It was calibrated, like a blade spun by intent.

That truth rips deeper than any scar. A cut I didn’t ask for, but can’t ignore.

She refuses ownership. She wants to be chosen. Delicious chaos. I taste the terror of that, curiosity coiling in marrow.

The station’s hum thrums through my metal floor panel—cold, invisible vines of gravity.

I sheath Bloodfont, exhaling carbon-black breath. There’s no armor deep enough for the ransom her words demand.

I surge up the maintenance ladder. Sweat-slick skin against humming conduits. I want to understand that choice. To earn it.

We find her in the reading alcove—darkened, and still. The glow of holodiscs spills across her features. Her eyes trace words in some language, curiosity anchored to decay.

Light whispers across bone spurs. She looks up, startled—unsure—but doesn’t retreat.

I step in, the air thick with metal-lips and distant engines.

“I don’t know—” No. She doesn’t want comfort. She wants honesty.

I kneel. That’s new. Terrifying. Even the floor drops to cold panel beneath my knees. I kneel like offering—not submission, but truth.

She stills, thin line of tenderness flickering on features carved by prophecy.