Chapter 6 Maximus
Maximus
Ablade whistled past my ear as I ducked and rammed my shoulder into the nearest attacker’s gut. He stumbled back with a grunt, giving me space to slam my sword pommel into his temple. One down.
The remaining four pressed closer, boxing me against the ship’s rail.
Blood and gunpowder saturated the air. Years of Imperial training screamed through my muscles—maintain position, control the space, watch their eyes, not their blades.
My prosthetic leg protested each pivot, the familiar grinding sensation warning me to end this quickly.
A quick count of the spent casings scattered across the deck told me they’d fired at least six shots already. With luck, their ammunition was running low.
Two of them reached for their holsters. No time for luck. No time for mercy.
I dropped and rolled, fighting the split-second delay as my prosthetic caught up with the movement, yanking both pistols free.
The crack of gunfire split the air as I squeezed both triggers.
Two bodies hit the deck. The acrid smoke stung my nostrils—just like training drills on the Eldritch fleet, except this time the targets bled real blood.
The remaining pair advanced with raised swords, forcing me to holster one pistol and grip my blade again.
Steel rang against steel. Sweat stung my eyes as I parried their coordinated strikes.
These weren’t your average merchant aeronauts—their technique spoke of a military background.
The precise footwork, the disciplined formation.
They were ex-Imperial soldiers, most likely.
Boys who’d once stood where I stood, saluted the same flag, sworn the same oaths.
The familiar weight of future sleepless nights settled on my shoulders as I met the taller one’s eyes.
Another face that would stare back at me from the darkness.
He pressed forward while his companion circled to my blind spot, and a prickle of fear bristled the back of my neck.
Then, beyond my attackers, movement caught my eye.
A pale redhead with blood splattered skin.
Ghost. Ghost, charging toward me, sword in hand.
My heart lurched—both from the reckless bravery and the stomach-dropping realization that the skinny stowaway was racing into certain death. What’s possessed him to—
No time to question.
Ghost vaulted over a fallen mast, then a coiled rope, then an unconscious body. His eyes blazed with determination, though my gaze immediately fell on his left biceps, slick with red. He’d been hurt.
I ground my teeth together. Why hadn’t he stayed on the ship like I told him to?
The distraction cost me. A blade sliced across my forearm, drawing first blood. I grit my teeth and fell back another step, my heel hitting the base of the rail. Two against one, with Ghost racing to even the odds—if I could just hold them off a few moments longer.
Ghost landed beside me with a wild grin that stole my breath. His green eyes sparkled with adrenaline, freckled face flushed from exertion. The sight short-circuited my brain for a dangerous heartbeat.
“Mind if I cut in?” He spun to face the shorter of my two attackers, not waiting for permission.
Our opponents split, dividing their attention between us.
Ghost matched his target’s aggressive style with fluid grace, their blades dancing in lethal arcs.
Fine sword work, not street fighting—where had he learned that?
He moved like he’d been born with a sword in hand—our little stowaway had been hiding his talents.
I blocked a vicious overhead strike from my own opponent, using the momentum to drive him back. “I distinctly remember telling you to stay on the ship, Ghost.”
“Trust me, I’d much rather be over there!” His blade sliced across his opponent’s chest. The man stumbled, and Ghost brought his pommel down hard against his temple. One clean movement that would knock the man out, sparing his life.
My chest swelled with something dangerously close to joy. Then my prosthetic leg buckled.
Metal screeched as gears ground together. I dropped to one knee, barely deflecting a strike that would have taken my head. My opponent’s eyes gleamed with victory as he raised his sword for the killing blow.
A wet gurgle replaced the sound of falling steel. The point of a blade erupted through my attacker’s chest in a spray of crimson. Ghost twisted the sword free, and the body crumpled between us.
He stood over me, chest heaving, blood dripping from his blade. Those green eyes met mine, filled with something that made my throat tight.
“Good thing I didn’t say put on The Black Wraith, right?”
He offered me his hand. For a moment, I simply stared at it, before I realized he wanted to help me up.
I gripped Ghost’s hand, calloused palm sliding against mine, sending an unexpected jolt through my chest. His grip was strong—a craftsman’s hands.
Warmth spread from where his calloused fingers wrapped around mine.
He pulled, steadying me as I tested my prosthetic.
His other hand caught my elbow, supporting me with surprising gentleness.
The familiar grind of failing mechanics made me wince.
One of the pebble-grade fluxstones had given out—again.
The leg responded now, but experience taught me this reprieve wouldn’t last. I’d need to replace it as soon as possible.
Our hands remained linked a heartbeat too long, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. The touch burned like lightning, making my breath catch.
I pulled away, deliberately avoiding his eye.
The warmth of his touch lingered on my skin like a brand, unfamiliar and unsettling.
These past years on The Black Wraith, I’d kept everyone at arm’s length—safer that way, cleaner.
No attachments meant no complications, no unwanted questions about my past, and definitely no one getting close enough to notice the ways my prosthetic betrayed me.
But now here I was, pulse racing from a simple touch like a teenager.
It caught me by surprise. Not since Eric—not since before I lost my leg and became the Reaper—had I let anyone close enough to touch me like that, let alone taken anyone to bed.
After what happened with Eric, I’d locked that part of myself away, convinced that desire was a weakness I couldn’t afford.
These impulses needed to stay firmly out of reach, where they belonged. The Reaper didn’t need companionship. The Reaper didn’t crave the warmth of another’s touch.
This redhead with a nice smile would not be my undoing.
I cleared my throat, then forced myself to focus on scanning the rest of the ship.
Around us, the battle had tilted decisively in our favor.
Our crew had the remaining merchant aeronauts cornered near the bow, their weapons lowered in surrender.
Patty and Greybeard were working through securing them, tying them up.
The tang of gunpowder faded on the breeze, replaced by the metallic bite of blood and sweat.
I surveyed our victory, cataloging injuries and damages. A few of our crew sported cuts and bruises. The merchant vessel’s sails hung in tatters from our cannon fire. She’d still be able to limp to the nearest port, though below us was only ocean and wasteland for miles.
Ghost shifted beside me, a slight warmth radiating from him, combating the chilly wind whipping across the deck. He’d proven himself today—saved my life, even. The thought settled uncomfortably in my chest.
Ghost’s gaze drifted to the dead man at our feet, the color draining from his already pale face. His sword trembled as he pressed his lips together.
“First ever kill?”
He nodded, swallowing hard.
My mind flashed back to my own first—a smuggler who’d drawn steel when we boarded his vessel.
I’d been seventeen, fresh-faced and eager to prove myself worthy of the Eldritch fleet uniform.
The memory of steel piercing flesh, of watching light fade from another person’s eyes, haunted me for weeks.
But I’d squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and pretended the weight of taking a life didn’t crush my soul.
The other aeronauts had clapped my back, called me a proper soldier. None saw me cry that night in my bunk.
Ghost’s free hand clenched and unclenched at his side.
“Thank you.” The words came out rough, raw with wonder. This stowaway—this innocent man I’d threatened and berated—had just saved my life. The realization humbled me, cracking through my carefully maintained Reaper facade.
“We’re even now.” Ghost lowered his blade, exhaustion lining his face, but a hint of pride breaking through. “You saved me from becoming Viper’s kraken bait, and I saved you from becoming mincemeat.”
I barked out a laugh, studying his form, the way he held the sword with practiced ease. “If Viper had known you could handle steel like that, he’d never have suggested it. Maybe you should give some of our crew lessons—Butcher could certainly use them.”
A smear of blood marked his cheek, stark against his pale skin. My hand twitched with the urge to wipe it away, to feel if his skin was as soft as it looked. I clenched my fist instead, forcing my attention to the red stain spreading across his biceps.
“Your arm needs attention.”
“It’s nothing.” Ghost shrugged, but the movement made him wince.
“That’s not nothing. You’re seeing Stitches.” The words came out more like an order than concern, and I winced at myself.
His jaw set in that stubborn line I was becoming too familiar with. “I’m fine.”
“Ghost—”
“Really, I’ve had worse.” He rolled his shoulder, proving his point.
Questions burned in my throat. Where had he learned to fight like that? Who had trained him? What other secrets lay behind those green eyes? But before I could voice any of them, Viper’s foghorn cut through the chaos—three sharp blasts that signaled the merchant crew’s defeat.
Ghost’s head snapped toward the sound. “What does that mean?”