Chapter 3 #2
His boots clattered against the deck plates as he ran.
Junior warriors and crew scrambled out of his path, flattening themselves against the corridor walls.
He didn't see them. He saw Daaynal's hand settling against Emily's waist. The roar of the court, toasting a union that made his vision blur red.
He was the Emperor’s bodyguard.
So why did he want to rip the emperor's throat out with his teeth?
The training deck was three levels down. The air cyclers hummed louder here, scrubbing the atmosphere of sweat and old leather. Better. Cleaner.
A handful of warriors sparred in the center circle. They looked up as he entered, movements stuttering when they clocked the uniform and the promise of violence written in every line of his frame.
He didn't bother with the formalities. He didn't strip off his leathers or wrap his hands. He just stepped into the nearest circle.
"You," he said to the biggest warrior there, a brute from the outer colonies. “In here now.”
Lowering his practice blade, the warrior frowned. "Commander? We were just—"
"I said in here now.” Raaevik shoved him into the circle. "Defend yourself."
He didn't wait for a signal. Launching himself forward, he let the rage take over. Twisted and lashed out. The first hit cracked against the warrior’s jaw. A solid, satisfying impact as the warrior staggered back.
Pain shot up Raaevik’s arm. That was good. Pain was honest… something he could hold onto.
Mine. She is MINE.
The warrior rallied, snarling as he attacked. Raaevik took a hit to the ribs. It knocked the air from his lungs, but he didn't block the next one. He swung back, a right hook that caught his opponent on the side of the jaw and dropped him to his knees.
"Get up," Raaevik said.
The male stayed down, spitting blood. Smart.
"Next."
Exchanging wary glances, the other warriors circled. But they were Lathar, which meant they didn't back down from a fight. Two of them stepped in.
Raaevik let out a short, harsh laugh and beckoned them. "Come on."
He fought like a man possessed. There was no technique, no elite discipline.
This was a street brawl, pure and simple.
He threw himself into the fray, trading blows that would have felled a lesser male.
A fist caught his cheekbone, and a boot slammed into his thigh, but he barely felt it.
The physical pain was a dull throb compared to the noise in his head.
You let him take her. You stood there and watched!
He slammed an elbow into a nose. Cartilage gave way with a crunch and a spray of blood. Spinning, he kicked a knee and got a shout of pain in return. Someone caught him above the eyebrow, and blood dripped into his eye, hot and sticky.
It wasn't enough. Snarling, he reached for the next opponent, his fingers curling into claws…
A hand clamped around his wrist.
"That’s enough."
Raaevik pivoted to strike, his other fist flying. But it was caught in a hard hand, held in place with a strength that mirrored his own.
Thyaar.
His brother-in-arms stood in front of him, his chest heaving and copper hair loose around his shoulders. He looked like he’d sprinted the length of the station.
"Let me go," Raaevik snarled, flashing his teeth.
"No." Thyaar didn't flinch. "Look at yourself, Raae. You’re going to kill someone."
"Then they should fight harder,” He spat.
"They're not the enemy, you draanthing idiot." Thyaar shoved him back, putting space between them. "Everyone out. Now!"
The command cracked like a whip through the air, and the warriors didn't hesitate. They headed for the doors, dragging the wounded with them.
Silence rushed back in.
Raaevik stood in the center of the circle, blood dripping from his chin to the white floor. His hands shook and his chest heaved as he fought for oxygen.
Thyaar stared at him, arms folded over his broad chest. They’d faced each other down many times in the past, but usually it was the other way around. Since when did Thyaar lecture him? Raaevik was the one who hauled his sorry ass out of trouble. Not the other way around.
But Thyaar wasn't smiling. He looked at Raaevik like he was a bomb with a faulty timer.
"What is this?" he demanded. "I’ve seen you take a plasma bolt to the shoulder and not blink. Now you’re down here beating lower-level warriors into paste because... what? You had a bad day?”
“Draanth off, Thyaar."
"No." Thyaar stepped into his space. “This is wrong. You don’t do this. You’re the steady one. You keep me in line. So tell me why I just had to pull you off a male half your weight before you ripped his throat out."
Raaevik looked at his hands. His knuckles were raw and split. When had that happened?
"I needed to train," he said, his voice rough. "Needed to clear my head."
“Cut the trall.”
"It’s been a long day. The shuttle sabotage. The stress."
“Traal," Thyaar repeated. He gripped Raaevik’s shoulder, fingers digging into the leather. "I saw you in the Hall, Raae. I saw you watching her."
Raaevik froze. Avoiding Thyaar’s gaze.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me." Thyaar’s eyes were dark, searching his face. "You looked at that little female like you wanted to eat her." He shook his head slowly. "That’s a dangerous road, brother. That road ends with your head on a spike."
Raaevik jerked away. "I serve the Emperor."
"Do you?"
The question hung in the air, sharp as a blade. Raaevik opened his mouth to recite the oaths he’d sworn a thousand times, but the words died in his throat. They would be lies.
"Leave me alone," he sighed.
Thyaar looked at the blood on the floor, then at the ruin of Raaevik’s hands.
"Fine," Thyaar said as he stepped back. "I’ll go. Clean yourself up. Get your head straight." He turned and headed toward the door, pausing at the panel. "But don't think I’m not watching you, Raaevik. And don't think we’re done with this."
The door slid shut behind him.
Raaevik stood alone. The adrenaline crashed, leaving him hollowed out. He sank onto a bench, burying his face in his bloodied hands.
Mine.
The violence hadn't purged it. The pain hadn't silenced it.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image was still there. Emily’s hand in the Emperor’s.
Thyaar was right. He didn't know who he was anymore.
Mine. The feeling settled, soft now. Almost gentle.
That was worse. He could fight the screaming, but he had no idea how to fight the quiet.