Chapter 8
AEBON REXX
Something's wrong.
I don’t hear it at first. I feel it.
That subtle press of air pressure shifting, the hairs on the back of my neck rising like soldiers to a silent alarm.
The conference room is quiet, save for the low buzz of holoscreens preparing the deposition overlays.
My lieutenants are gone. Aria is late. It’s just me, a pair of government clerks, and an atmosphere too tight for its own skin.
I glance at the reflection on the data wall.
A shadow moves—fast, predatory. Another follows, angled low like a beast on the hunt. But there’s no footfall. No heat signature. Cyborgs.
Nar’Vosk isn’t playing anymore.
My voice drops to a low growl. “Clear the room.”
The clerks blink, confused.
“Now,” I snarl.
Too late.
Glass explodes inward. Not from bullets—from shockwave disruptors, tiny, high-frequency bursts designed to liquify bone and fry electronics. The windows spiderweb, rain down like crystalline daggers.
I’m already moving.
My shirt tears open as I roll behind the table, bone spurs erupting from my shoulders in a hiss of white-hot agony. The transformation is always violent. Always raw. It reminds me of what I am beneath the suits and cigars.
Reaper.
I grab the ceremonial glaive mounted on the wall—decorative, they said. For show, they said.
It hums to life in my grip, the sonic edge screaming as it slices through air, hungry.
The first cyborg comes into view—matte black armor, glowing red lenses, dual blasters humming. Precision death. A whisper of his metal heel against the tile is all I need.
I launch.
We collide midair. My glaive bites into his neck. Sparks fly. His head doesn't roll—it shatters, pieces embedding in the nearest wall like metal hail.
The second is smarter. Flanks me. Pulse-blade out. It slices my ribs—hot, sharp, but not deep. My spurs retaliate, catching his arm, tearing through composite plating like parchment.
He tries to scream. His voice is modulated static.
I twist, slam him into the floor with enough force to crater the tile. My teeth find his throat.
Cyborgs don’t bleed the same as organics. Their fluids smell like ozone and rot.
The room reeks of it.
I stand over the wreckage, panting, violet fluid slicking my chest. Emergency sirens wail distantly.
I don’t feel the pain yet.
I feel something else.
Fury.
Satisfaction.
And one sharp thought cutting through it all—Aria.
If she had been here...
They’re escalating. And I’m done playing defense.
There’s no such thing as coincidence.
I know this even before I see her.
The Justice building’s lower archives are supposed to be secure—sealed, shielded, and silent. Yet here I am, skulking through steel halls because something gnaws at the edges of my instincts, a low static hum that prickles beneath my skin.
Then I see her.
Aria. Just stepping into the corridor, oblivious to the danger lurking like a virus in the digital shadows. Her coat flares slightly with her stride, datapad in one hand, her lips pursed in that eternal war against emotion.
And behind her—movement.
Two of them.
Cloaked in phase shimmer, just visible in the refracted light. Fast. Methodical. Not thugs this time. Not meatheads. These are specialists.
My body moves before thought does.
I roar her name, a sound that barely registers over the sudden hiss of energy discharges. Her head turns—and in that instant, the first blast streaks through the air, aimed at her spine.
I intercept.
My forearm takes the hit, the blast punching through flesh and muscle, burning into bone. It hurts like hell. I smell scorched dermis. But it doesn't drop me.
It ignites me.
I slam into the nearest merc like a meteor, body-checking him so hard he ricochets off the steel wall with a crunch that sings in my ears. He crumples, groaning, twitching.
The other fires again.
Misses.
Aria’s screaming now, ducking for cover, the datapad shattered at her feet. Her eyes lock on mine for half a heartbeat—pure panic, pure fire.
I lunge for the second one.
He’s better. Faster. His arm cannon pulses again, searing a groove down my side. I don’t care. Pain is noise. I tackle him, fists full of synthflesh and chrome. I rip. I tear. I break.
Blood—violet and black—sprays across the archive shelves. The scent is acid and oil, vile and sweet.
He gasps something in Varnox dialect.
I twist his head until it pops.
Silence falls like a guillotine.
Aria’s breath is ragged. Her knees buckle, and she catches herself on a desk corner, wide-eyed.
“You’re hurt,” she whispers, voice cracking.
I look down. My forearm is wrecked. Charred meat over fractured exoskeletal structure. It pulses with pain, but I don’t flinch.
“I’ve had worse,” I rasp, stepping toward her.
She doesn’t retreat.
Instead, she reaches out—hesitant fingers brushing against my uninjured shoulder. That touch anchors me more than I expect. I’m still trembling, not from rage… but from what almost happened.
If I’d been late...
If I hadn’t listened to instinct...
The thought is unacceptable.
I cup her cheek with my other hand, letting the clawed edges of my thumb hover just shy of skin. She doesn’t pull away.
“They’re not just trying to scare me anymore,” I say, voice low. “They’re trying to end this. Fast. Dirty.”
She nods. Her breath fogs against my wrist. “I noticed.”
I let out a slow, bitter laugh.
She presses her palm to my chest, right over the place where my pulse thunders like war drums.
“You saved my life,” she says.
“I told you,” I murmur, “you stand close to a Reaper, and he will claim you.”
Her gaze flickers. “And what if I’m already halfway claimed?”
The words taste like a promise.
And a warning.
Either way, there’s no going back now.
Aria’s eyes taunt me as the infernal bloom of a star going supernova. Her gaze lingers, tossed over her shoulder like the carcass of a slain enemy. I’m so enthralled, I fail to register looming shape. One of the attackers survived.
I move fast, yet i know it will not be enough. My forearm blocks the brunt of the cudgel’s impact, but Aria crumples like an accordion.
I don’t even register killing the man. I’m beyond rage, in a place where he is nothing but a threat to be eliminated so i can deal with the real emergency--my mate, my woman, laying in a heap and needing help.
I scoop her up into my arms. It’s as if she weighs nothing. She’s breathing, but pale. Too pale.
“Hang on, please,” I sputter, clutching her to my chest. “There’s a safehouse not far from here. Just hang on.”