Page 67 of Ravaged By the Reaper

“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, butcloser. Twined in ways words can’t untangle.

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

Iwanthim.

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’squietbetween us.

Quiet enough to feel safe.

Tofeel, 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.”