Chapter 14
AEBON REXX
The city sleeps below in muted neon, but I’m wide awake—because I know she’s on the move.
I follow the track: her rhythm; the way her steps tap a certain insistence against glass and steel.
I’ve got someone watching—subtle, discreet, blending into the crowd—but it’s not enough. She’s not just any person. She’s her.
I don’t fucking like it.
But she needs it.
I’ve learned that protecting her doesn’t always mean throwing a fist—it sometimes means watching her back without her knowing. A Reaper’s instinct is to shield. Always. It doesn’t ask permission.
I follow her into the Justice building midday lull. She’s moving like she’s charging uphill—purposeful and tense. My observer tails her at a distance: a nondescript courier, a swivel in his hips, eyes on her shadow.
Good.
But I need close proximity—just in case.
Fucking instincts.
Later that evening, she corners me in the security-locked hallway near her office. Her cheeks are sharp with anger, the form of her as precise as a blade.
“Why?” she spits. “Why do you keep doing this?”
I take a breath. Every inch of me wants to crush the walls around me and her fury with them. But I stay contained—just enough custom suit, enough cold discipline.
“She deserves to be safe,” I say quietly.
“Safe?” Her voice cracks. “Or caged? I’m not some lost child you have to follow around!”
There it is—the old dance.
“I didn’t ask for permission,” I say, venom tight in my throat. “Because I knew you’d refuse.”
She flares—classic Aria. Jaw forward, lips taut.
“Don’t talk to me about choice, Rexx.”
I step in closer. Too close—maybe. But tone demands proximity.
“You were bleeding in my arms a week ago,” I snap. “You think I forgot that?”
Her breath hitches, and I see the instinct flash again—her walls rattled for a moment. But she steadies, voice low and deadly.
“That was on your turf. This is my life. I don’t need you babysitting every step.”
I snarl under my breath. My eyes narrow, bone spur muscles clenching.
“She’s not fragile,” she says. She isn’t talking to me anymore but to herself. A mantra. A blade she uses to hold herself together.
I close my eyes, calm myself.
She’s a damn good reason to be better.
And then I see it—my face in her eyes. Not anger. Hurt.
“You think you don’t?” I hiss. “You were screaming when they hit your spine. Your blood was warm on my skin. You trembled because your chest hurt. Not because of your laws, or your pride. Because your heart was trying to quit.”
She flinches. Can't meet my eyes.
I lean in, voice softer. “Maybe you don’t need my protection. But you need someone’s. And I’m not going away.”
She breathes in—long. Eyes fiery, voice a whisper: “Then step back until I ask.”
The words sting, but I don’t flinch.
“Fine,” I say, quiet. “But I’ll be here. Always.”
We stand there, two warriors at emotional standoff. No kisses. No touches. Just fury and something unspoken—trust? Fear? Need? I can’t name it.
And then she turns sharply and stalks away, shoulders straight, chin lifted.
The corridor echoes with her departure. I stand still, chest tight, burning.
I didn’t push her away. I didn’t move closer.
We both know it was a confrontation that changed us. Not a kiss this time—but a boundary set in blood and silence.
And sometimes that’s more powerful than any taste of lips.
The night air hits me like ice, sharp and unforgiving. My earpiece crackles with static—my tracker blinking frantic red. Her hovercar… ambush. I curse under my breath, my suit sleeves soaking up the rain that’s already begun to hiss.
I arrive to chaos.
A flicker of flame, the stench of ozone, and twisted metal—a hovercar flipped on its roof, lights sputtering like wounded fireflies. My world slows.
By the wreck, two figures lie broken. One still. One moaning.
Aria's face—blood-smeared, rain-streaked—is the only thing that cuts the world in half.
I’m on her before I realize I’m moving. Hands ripping the door open, arms shaking with something raw and rabid underneath the calm. I lift her out, skin slick with blood and rain.
My fingertips find her pulse—it’s weak, but there. Alive.
I carry her to a dry patch of burnt asphalt, rain sizzling back off the scorched surface. Her hair sticks to her cheek, lips trembling.
“Stay with me,” I growl, voice a low rumble. My other hand grips the wreckage; I should be furious at whoever sent that bomb—should be plotting blood and revenge. But all I feel is her.
She coughs, clammy breath fogging the space between us. Her eyes—those damned emeralds—meet mine, unblinking.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Like she’s seeing the storm behind my calm. The animal beneath the gentleman. The man unraveling.
“Why?” she murmurs, voice ragged.
I press my hand to her ribs, chest tight. I taste blood in the air. Scent of rain and burning wire.
“Because I’m here,” I rasp.
She coughs again, then reaches for my cuff. Her fingers squeeze tight—harder than anything else tonight.
“You… saved me,” she whispers.
I swallow the urge to kiss the pain from her. Instead I grip her shoulders.
“Always,” I say. Rage curls in me—the drone’s fizzing remnants, the cost in lives. But deeper than that is fear. Fear that I can't protect her enough.
She nods, eyes half-shut. And then—
She shifts forward and wraps her arms around my neck. Not in fear, but for grounding. I feel the shake of her body, the ragged edge of her breath. She's clinging to me, me.
I hold her tighter. Righteous fury dies in the force of her grip. In the realization that I’m no longer just protecting her. I’m breaking for her.
Rain drums the ruined car. Sirens arrive in distant wails. But in this moment, it’s all silent.
She looks up at me, bruised but fierce. “You hold too tight.”
I swallow. “Better that than letting go.”
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she buries her face deeper, and I rest my cheek against her hair—gritty, damp, utterly hers.
And as the world closes in—first responders, blood, rain—I know one thing:
I am unraveling. And it’s for her.