Page 5

AVA

“ N o! No, no, no!”

The pod reeks—scorched plastic, singed ozone, and the sour tang of fear-soaked metal.

The kind of stink that clings to your lungs.

Emergency lights flicker like dying fireflies, sputtering in weak orange fits.

My ears are still ringing from the blast—or maybe from getting slammed like a ragdoll two decks back—but I shove the pain down and zero in on the hatch.

Sealed. Mocking me.

I lunge for the release panel, jamming the control with frantic, stuttering jabs.

“Come on. Come on—come on!”

The console hisses back, weak and useless. The hydraulics wheeze like a dying breath, then fall silent.

I slam my fist into it. Hard. Nothing gives.

“Dammit!”

I grip the edges and try to force it open manually, straining until my shoulders burn and my vision blurs. The hatch doesn’t even creak. It might as well be welded shut. Panic starts to thread into my veins—thin and sharp like wire. I shove again, teeth clenched so hard it hurts.

Still nothing.

Behind me, the bastard shifts. The Reaper.

Alien. Enemy. And—worst of all—still breathing.

He hasn’t moved much since we tumbled in here, thrown together like some twisted cosmic joke.

I can feel the heat of him, even from across the cramped pod.

His silence is louder than the klaxon that should be blaring.

My hands shake. Whether it’s adrenaline or rage, I don’t care.

I whirl on him so fast I nearly lose my footing, boot skidding on the metal floor. “You. You did this. You raided my ship, started a war, and now we’re stuck here.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even twitch. Just tilts his head a fraction, arms folded like he’s watching something mildly amusing. Like I’m a bug crawling toward a zap strip, too dumb to know it’s about to fry.

“You think this is funny?” I snarl, rage clawing up my throat.

“Not particularly.”

That voice. It’s not just deep—it’s rough.

Gravel scraped over steel, low and mean like a warning growl.

Like he only speaks when he has to, and when he does, it's to command or break someone. It slides down my spine like ice water, and I hate how my body responds—tight, on edge, keyed up like he’s flipped some primitive switch I can’t control.

I lunge.

There’s no space in this pod. We’re two animals in a tin can, and the second I move, we crash—shoulder, hip, knees.

I slam my fists into his chest, again and again, no technique, just fury.

He takes it like a wall—barely shifts. My elbows dig into him, fists hammering anything I can reach—collarbone, ribs, whatever I can hurt.

He grabs my wrists. One move. Fast as hell. His fingers clamp around bone and twist until my arms are locked and useless. I snarl, twisting, trying to break free, but his grip only tightens.

I rear back and kick—hard. My boot slams into his shin.

Nothing. Not a grunt. Not even a blink. His jaw stays tight, those unblinking eyes fixed on me like I’m a puzzle that just pissed him off.

“Get your hands off me!” I snap, jerking wildly.

“No.”

The word drops like a slammed door.

“Let me go!”

I writhe harder, half-sprawled, muscles screaming, lungs heaving. The metal walls are too close. The air’s too thin. And he won’t let go. His fingers dig into my skin, unrelenting. One of us is breathing hard, and I think it’s me.

Then I look up—really look.

He’s massive. Towering and carved like something meant for war—broad shoulders and roped muscle packed into a frame that radiates quiet, coiled threat.

His skin is a deep, mottled gray, marked with marbled black and white patterns that shift subtly, like something alive beneath the surface.

Not smooth, but not rough—like heat-polished stone.

His face is cut from angles and shadow—high cheekbones, a strong jaw clenched tight, and deep-set crimson eyes that burn low like embers.

There’s a cruel kind of beauty to it, the kind that lures you in right before it devours.

His lashes are thick, almost deceptively soft, which only makes the way he stares at me—like prey—all the more unnerving.

His hair falls in shadowy cords around his face, thick and tangled, braided with bones, beads, and metal shards that whisper stories I don’t want to hear.

The vest he wears is patchwork tactical gear, sleeveless and stretched tight across his chest. His cargo pants hang low on his hips, scuffed and smeared, and his boots thud like thunder when he moves.

He looks like something that doesn’t belong in a ship like this. Doesn’t belong in a world like mine.

The pod shudders—just once, but it’s enough to knock us both sideways.

The emergency panel flares. My stomach lurches.

“Shit—”

Before I can react, the pod jerks and launches.

We slam against the bulkhead. My shoulder cracks hard into the wall. His body pins mine, and I feel the solid weight of him like a damn forcefield. I bite down on a scream as the pod spins, inertia dragging us through pressure drops and atmospheric shake.

He braces us both, teeth bared.

I dig my elbow into his ribs, shoving back. “You launched us?—!”

“I didn’t—” He ducks as sparks rain from the ceiling. “—fucking touch it.”

My hair whips into my face. The heat spikes. The screen near the console blinks red and glitches. Emergency override. Descent trajectory unstable.

“I’m going to kill you,” I snarl.

“You’re welcome to try. After we don’t die.”

He pushes off me, bracing himself against the control panel, his movements a chaotic dance of desperation.

He stumbles slightly as he tries to regain his balance, fingertips grazing the scorched surface of the console.

The panel’s fried—whatever power we had left is now shorted out, a cruel mockery of our situation.

He punches the panel anyway, the sound echoing in the cramped space, accompanied by a growl that rumbles from deep within his chest, spilling forth in a language I don’t recognize, a guttural sound that seems to resonate with the very chaos surrounding us.

Ignoring the sharp sting of pain lancing through my body, I force myself onto my knees, pushing through the discomfort. “Why didn’t you kill me?” I demand, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my insides.

He freezes at my question, his muscular shoulders tensing in a way that signals something has shifted.

The atmosphere between us thickens, charged with unspoken words.

He doesn’t turn to meet my gaze, his focus locked firmly on the console, as if it holds the answers.

“Too much trouble,” he mutters, his voice low and dismissive, but I can sense an underlying tension.

“That’s bullshit,” I shoot back, anger flaring within me. The truth is, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to his hesitation than he’s letting on. I want to understand, to grasp the motivations behind his actions—or lack thereof.

The pod howls around us, the sound a haunting wail that pierces through the mounting dread.

Wind shrieks outside, a banshee’s scream, and the pressure dials tick upward into the red, warning us that we’re breaching atmosphere far too fast. My heart races, the urgency of our situation crashing down on me like the violent turbulence shaking our fragile pod.

Time is slipping away, and with every passing second, the reality of our impending doom looms larger.

My chest tightens. This is it.

The last seconds of my life are gonna be next to a muttering, arrogant, half-dressed Reaper who won’t even answer a straight question.

Perfect.

“Brace,” he barks.

I grip the nearest rail. He plants one arm over me as if that’ll do anything. And then the world rips open.