Chapter 27
RYNN
The second we clear the pad, I swear I stop breathing.
Tarek's body shrinks behind us—limp, smoking, unimportant now. It’s the gate ahead I care about. That final arch of reinforced steel, the blinking perimeter beacon, the carved-in scars from shuttles past ripping atmosphere open as they burned skyward.
Vael’s weight is on me more than I want to admit. His arm’s slung over my shoulder, not entirely from affection. The neural disruptor hit him harder than he’s letting on, and I can feel the tremble in his steps like a rhythm out of sync.
But he keeps moving. We both do.
Kael’s stolen ship waits where he said it would—tucked under the old cargo bluff, hull paint scorched, port stabilizers humming like a broken fridge. It’s ugly, half-patched, and probably allergic to autopilot.
It’s perfect.
I punch the access key. The ramp hisses open.
We scramble inside just as the warning klaxons shift octaves again.
“LOCKDOWN INITIATED. ORBITAL DEPARTURE CORRIDORS SEALED IN T-MINUS NINETY SECONDS.”
“Close it, close it, close it,” I mutter, hauling Vael up the ramp.
The door grinds shut with an agonizing delay, like even the ship doesn’t want to be part of this.
I stumble toward the pilot’s seat. The controls are mostly analog, thank all the stars. Digital flight nets would’ve been overridden by now. I scan the panel for power distribution, coax the throttle system online. The engines respond like grumpy mules—sluggish, loud, reluctant—but they respond.
“Main reactors are live,” I pant. “But the nav relay’s jammed.”
Vael slumps into the co-pilot seat beside me, one hand gripping the edge of the console like it’s the only thing tethering him to this reality. “Manual launch?”
“You up for it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches across me and flips three switches in perfect sequence. The console flares to life, stabilizers growl louder.
That’s a yes.
The launch pad opens like a throat — and we shoot into it.
The ascent is hell.
Atmospheric pressure slams us backward. The inertial compensators lag behind, giving us gut-wrenching lurches every time the stabilizers stutter. The ship screams, every plate and bolt arguing with the laws of physics.
Outside the viewfinder, Corven-7 shrinks behind us—a scarred silver mass against the backdrop of midnight, flickering with station-wide alerts.
We barely clear the stratosphere when the AI calls it.
“WARNING: DEPARTURE CORRIDOR SEALED. RE-ENTRY AUTHORIZATION DENIED.”
Vael snarls. “Override.”
“Authorization denied.”
I grab the manual nav stick. “Vael—get to weapons.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Moves like he’s shaking off centuries. Drops into the gunnery chair and yanks the shield array control off safety.
“Ready.”
“Brace.”
I pull us into a spin. Not graceful. Not even close. The kind of maneuver that makes bones want to exit your skin. I catch the blockade grid on the outer edge of our nav arc—just two drone posts, outdated, manned by low-tier command remnants.
Not for long.
Vael fires.
The first pulse lands clean, ripping through the left beacon. The second hits the power bank on the right. Static fireworks dance across our windshield.
The ship jerks, stumbles, catches its balance again—like a drunk finding rhythm.
We break the corridor.
We make it.
The silence that follows is like the universe sucking in its breath.
I don’t realize I’ve stood up until I’m halfway to the medbay.
My legs move without permission, autopilot born from panic. I’m not thinking—I can’t think. Everything that’s happened since I hit the upload trigger just spirals in my skull, looping, no order, no logic.
My boots scrape the floor, the worn rubber treads catching on the uneven plasteel plating as I reach the medbay door.
It’s open.
I step inside.
And everything hits me at once.
Not pain. Not even adrenaline.
Release.
The kind that drags out from your core and leaves you hollow. The kind that doesn't look like victory but like grief in a prettier mask.
The table in the center of the medbay is bolted, old, probably scavenged off a mining freighter. I grab it like I’m falling. My hands slap against its surface, palms wide, fingers splayed. My knees give out just enough for my arms to lock. I lean over it like it’s holding me up.
The hum of the ship surrounds me—soft, steady, almost gentle now. But my heartbeat is still thundering in my ears. My breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps.
I don’t even know what I’m feeling.
It’s not fear. That’s gone. Burned up in the fire behind us.
It’s not relief, either. Too sharp for that. Too tangled.
It’s… everything.
And I can't hold it anymore.
I want to scream, but I don’t. My throat won’t cooperate. My body just starts shaking, a tremble that begins in my shoulders and spreads out, until even my vision blurs.
I try to blink it back. Doesn’t work.
I let my head drop to the cool metal table. The shock of it clears nothing.
I stay there, forehead pressed against it, breathing like it’s the only thing I remember how to do.
Then I feel him behind me.
No footsteps. Just presence.
A warmth that slips into the room, quiet but solid.
Vael.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
His arms slide around me from behind, slow and steady. One wraps across my shoulders, the other around my waist. He’s still trembling too—his strength isn’t fully back—but his grip is firm. Sure.
He pulls me in against him, my back to his chest, both of us standing there like ruins braced together.
I don’t fight it.
The tears come. Quiet. Not sobbing. Just water. Hot and fast and unrelenting.
He presses his forehead against the back of my neck. His breath is warm.
He doesn’t say you’re safe now. He knows better.
Doesn’t say it’s over, either. Because it’s not.
But he holds me.
His breath slows first.
Not by much—just a small shift, like the tide pulling back an inch from the shore. But it’s enough to ground me. To remind me that we’re still here, still alive, still tethered to something beyond survival.
Vael doesn’t loosen his hold. His arms stay locked around me like the storm might come back any second and try to steal me away. But his heartbeat—yeah. That’s the thing that tells the truth. I feel it through his chest, pulsing steady against my spine.
I let myself lean into him. Really lean. Weight and breath and trust.
Neither of us says anything.
The silence between us isn’t hollow. It’s earned.
After a while, he moves just enough to press his lips against the curve of my shoulder. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… reverent. His mouth is warm, the touch soft. It doesn’t ask for anything.
I don’t move. I let it settle. Let the hush of the ship surround us—vent systems whispering, old wires humming faintly through the walls.
The cot’s too narrow for both of us, but I don’t care. When I turn to face him, our knees bump, and the motion makes him smile—barely, tiredly.
He reaches up and brushes my hair back with one slow sweep of his hand. His knuckles drag lightly across my cheek.
“You still shaking?” he murmurs.
I nod. “Not from fear.”
His gaze lingers on my face. His thumb rests near the edge of my jaw, not pressing, just there. Like he’s holding the moment more than the skin.
“Good,” he whispers. “'Cause I can’t hold you up much longer.”
I almost laugh. “Lie down, then. I’ll hold you up.”
He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself onto the cot like every joint in him has finally given up pretending. I follow, crawling in next to him—awkwardly, a little clumsy in the tight space, but we manage.
His arm slides under my neck. My hand finds his chest.
The scar there—just left of center—is raised and uneven. It used to scare me. Not anymore.
I trace it with the tip of my finger.
He shudders slightly but doesn’t stop me.
“I hated this one,” he says quietly. “For a long time.”
“Why?”
“Because it meant I wasn’t fast enough.”
I lean in and press a kiss to the center of it. Slow. Deliberate.
“You’re here,” I whisper against his skin. “That’s fast enough.”
His hand curls in my hair.
He tilts his face toward mine, and when our foreheads touch, I feel something unspoken settle between us. Not a vow. Not a promise. Just presence.
The kiss we share is not urgent.
It’s not the kind of kiss that starts something wild and loud. It’s quiet. Warm. Like exhaling into someone else’s gravity. His lips are dry, and mine taste like salt from everything I didn’t cry out loud.
He kisses me again, slower this time. His hand finds the curve of my waist and stays there. Not pulling. Not claiming. Just holding.
My palm slides along his shoulder, the edge of another scar peeking just beneath his collar. I kiss that one too. Then the one across his bicep.
Each one feels like a conversation we never got to have.
When I look up, his eyes are closed. His mouth parts just enough to breathe my name.
“Rynn…”
Soft. Like he’s not sure he deserves to say it. Like he’s been carrying it in silence for too long.
I kiss him again before he can stop himself.
It deepens.
Not fast. Not desperate. Just… full.
When his hand moves under my shirt, it’s slow, cautious, like he’s memorizing the shape of something that’s always been temporary.
But this moment doesn’t feel temporary.
It feels like the first real thing in weeks.
Our clothes fall away in pieces. Quietly. No rush. Like we’re undressing grief. Like every buckle undone is another fear we don’t need to carry anymore.
There’s nothing frantic in the way we touch. No hunger, no chasing fire. It’s all breath and skin and stillness.
The way his fingers move down my back—slow enough to remember. The way I press my hand to his chest, over his heartbeat, grounding us.
It’s not the kind of sex you write into a report or recount to a friend.
It’s the kind where the world outside doesn’t matter.
Where my body speaks in sighs and his listens in silence.
Where every movement says I’m here, and you’re safe, and we made it.
He’s warm and solid and human beneath me. His mouth finds the edge of my collarbone and stays there, like he’s not ready to leave.
We don’t talk through it.
We just are.
We move together like we’ve done this a hundred times, but every moment still feels new. Gentle. Careful.
Not because we’re fragile—because this is sacred.
He breathes my name again when we finish—barely a whisper this time. His arms stay around me like he’s afraid I’ll dissolve if he lets go.
I don’t know when we drift.
At some point, our legs tangle, our breaths sync. The sweat cools. The air turns quiet again.
He nuzzles into the side of my neck. I kiss his temple.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I stop bracing for the worst.
Across the hall, Nessa sleeps.
Her tiny breaths carry through the quiet ship like proof.
She’s safe.
We’re safe.
I don’t know what’s coming tomorrow. Don’t care.
Tonight, I sleep with his heartbeat in my ear.
And I’m not afraid.