12. Draevik
DRAEVIK
Her blood is on my hands. I silence the frantic, discordant howl of proximity alarms in my mind with a mental snarl, focusing entirely on the weight of her broken little body against my chest.
Nyra looks like a small, broken thing against my chest. Her deep brown skin turns ashen, a greyish hue, as the rich warmth of her complexion drains away where the blood leaks out.
Her scent—a sharp, intoxicating mix of grease, spice, and fear—saturates the air with the metallic tang of copper.
My dual hearts hammer in a frantic, echoing rhythm that feels like they could split my sternum.
I lay her down on one of the dais of the Sanctum, my hands trembling with a primal, electric instability.
As a High Commander, I have led legions into the maw of dying stars. I have held the line against entire fleets. Yet, as I glance down at the gash on her wrist, I feel the raw, terrifying weight of her mortality.
"Stabilize the atmospheric pressure." The directive flows from my mind into the ship's circuitry, bypassing the air entirely to pulse through the deck plates beneath my boots. "Increase oxygen saturation by four percent. Initialize the Sanctum’s localized medical field."
The ship’s interface responds immediately, the violet light in the walls gleaming in time with my agitation. "Acknowledged, Commander. Atmospheric pressure stabilizing. Prisoner's blood pressure is critically low. Oxygen saturation adjusting to requested parameters. Medical field initializing."
Reaching into the recessed compartment beneath the dais, I retrieve an airtight canister of Sovereign Weave—a bio-synthetic lattice of nanites suspended in a numbing, nutrient-rich gel.
I have used this to patch warriors on the front lines, knitting muscle and bone back together so they could immediately return to the slaughter.
Using it on a human is risky; their biology is fragile, their cellular walls like wet parchment compared to the fortified structure of my people.
My fingers, thick and calloused from centuries of war, move with a forced, painful deliberation.
I press the canister's nozzle and spray a thick layer of the iridescent gel over the wound.
The nanites instantly ignite. A soft, cool cerulean tinge emanates from the gel, tiny sparks of silver-blue light dancing as the lattice begins to weave itself into her flesh.
Nyra gasps, her back arching off the dais.
"Easy." I let the reassurance roll out in a thick, subterranean growl, the kind that settles in the marrow of the bone. I place my hand over her shoulder, pinning her gently to the black stone. "The Weave is aggressive. It is rewriting the damage. Breathe, Nyra. Let the medicine work."
Watching the wound close, the shredded skin pulls together until only a faint, silver line remains.
But the Weave goes beyond the surface. I can see the faint hue sinking deeper, chasing the damage through the layers of muscle and tendon, reknitting what the ship's teeth shredded beneath the skin.
She whimpers, her fingers curling against the obsidian, and I flatten my palm against her forearm to hold it in place.
"The deep tissue is rebuilding," I murmur, more to myself than to her. "The nerve dampeners will take hold soon. You will not feel the worst of it."
But as I watch, her jaw locks. A violent, unnatural heat suddenly flushes her deep brown skin. She gasps, her back arching off the surface as a sheen of sweat covers her instantly.
Commander, Virex Prime chimes, an urgent, grinding warning in my mind. The human's cellular structure lacks the density to process the Sovereign Weave. Her core temperature is rising to lethal parameters. The nanites will consume her fragile nervous system within minutes.
"It's burning," she chokes out, her eyes wide with panic. "Draevik, it's burning me from the inside!"
I curse in the old tongue. Reapers survive the Weave because our bio-energetic density absorbs the shock. A human body acts as dry kindling to a star's fire.
I freeze, my hand hovering over her hip.
The pulse-pounding rhythm in my chest clashes against the clinical alerts blaring in my tactical matrix.
The Weave has repaired her shredded flesh, but her human nervous system is redlining from the trauma.
The bond—the marker linking us—is screaming.
If I do not ground her rapidly, the shock will fry her fragile biology.
Furthermore, my own matrix is fracturing from the autonomic surge of the rescue.
I pull back, my chest heaving as I look down into her face.
"The Weave accelerates cellular regeneration exponentially, but your human nervous system lacks the grounding capacity to handle the bio-electric output," I explain, my dual hearts thundering as her skin temperature climbs.
"Without a conduit, the nanites will fry your internal organs before they finish healing the tissue. "
She blinks, the haze of adrenaline clearing into sharp confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"In Reaper physiology, our shared mark evolved to solve this.
" I hold her gaze, letting the raw reality of the biological imperative sink in.
"Physical integration merges our neural networks.
Once the connection is absolute, my body will act as your grounding wire, absorbing and dispersing the fatal thermal overloads generated by the Weave.
To survive this, we must biologically integrate. "
She stares at me through a haze of fever, catching her breath as she puts the desperate pieces together. "You mean... sex? I have to sleep with you so I don't burn up?"
"It is a biological imperative to save your life," I state.
"You have got to be kidding me," she groans, turning her face away, her body seizing with a violent tremor. "Don't touch me. You are not my cure."
"If I do not, the Weave will fry your internal organs, Nyra!" I gently rub my hand to her cheek, the heat radiating off her terrifying me. "Your logic is irrelevant. Let me save you."
She bristles, fighting the overwhelming fever, but the pain and heat become unbearable.
Her body betrays her logic, turning her blood into a cocktail of fire and terror.
She twists beneath me, her breath splintering into short, desperate gasps.
Recognizing she has no other choice if she wants to live, she braces her healthy hand against the surface.
"Do it," she grinds out through clenched teeth, her eyes shutting tightly against her own reluctance. "Just do it and get it over with."
"Do not be mistaken. I do not 'get it over with,' Nyra," I say, the sound a low vibration against her skin.
With deliberate, unhurried movements, I go for the seal of her flight suit. My large, trembling hands strip the heavy material from her frame, pulling the tunic over her head until she lies entirely bare against the dais.
The sight of her naked skin stops the breath in my lungs.
She is a masterpiece of biological refinement—lean and wiry from years of manual labor, her body a map of resilience.
I trace the faint scars across her arms and collarbone with my gaze, my heart thundering in absolute awe.
The rich, deep brown of her skin poses a stunning contrast against the black stone, and her dark, tightly coiled hair spills like silk around her head.
I release the seals on my armor and tactical harness, casting the heavy plating aside.
It clatters onto the floor as I expose my chest to her.
The mark of the Sovereign Legion on my sternum flutters in time with her heartbeat.
I move over her, my large body looming, the veins in my skin blazing so brightly they cast her in gold.
She reaches for me, her good hand trembling, but she hisses through her teeth as her Weave-sealed wrist protests.
I catch her injured arm with extreme care, pressing it gently back against the dais.
"This hand stays here," I command, pinning it softly above her head.
"You don't get to tell me which hands I use," she growls, though her voice lacks its usual bite. She is rigid as a board, bracing herself for an invasion.
She expects the cold, competent transaction of a warlord. I will give her something else entirely.
I lean down and capture her lips in a kiss that is a universe away from our first frantic collision.
It is slow, tender, and impossibly gentle for a creature of my bulk.
I taste the salt of her tears and the sweet, living heat of her breath, coaxing her mouth open with profound reverence.
My free hand glides down the curve of her waist, mapping the dip of her hip and the soft swell of her thigh, easing the rigid tension from her muscles.
I stroke the sensitive skin of her stomach until her sharp, defensive breaths melt into soft, yielding sighs.
The stiffness leaves her body bit by bit, her rigid reluctance unwinding into a liquid, desperate heat as she realizes I am here to worship and elevate her.
I spend an eternity worshipping her with my hands and mouth.
I want her so sensitized that she forgets her own name.
I lave my tongue over her sensitive peak, listening to her breath stutter into frantic, shallow gasps.
I use my fingers to stretch her, feeling the incredible, scorching heat of her interior.