Chapter 6 - Kallus
KALLUS
Her breath is still trembling against my chest, even as her lips press kisses along the ridges of my collarbone. Soft. Thoughtless. As if she means it.
She’s still bound—her arms laced behind her in the Reaper harness—but she arches into me like she’s never wanted anything else. The scent of her pleasure lingers in the air, mingled with the copper tang of blood and the bite of cooling steam.
My blood.
Her nails left marks. Her teeth, too.
I smile.
I like that she fights, even in surrender.
One of her thighs is thrown over mine, the angle indecent, her hips rocking lazily like the rhythm of my heartbeat calms her. She's all bare skin and sweat-slicked curves, pressing into me like she's staking a claim. It’s... intoxicating. Maddening.
And completely unexpected.
I wrap an arm around her back, dragging her tighter into me, burying my face in the damp strands of her hair. It still smells like that nectar soap from her quarters on the Grand Lady. That, and smoke. And mine.
“Arassa vel k’han,” I murmur into her scalp, Reaper words rasping against her skin.
She shivers. “What does that mean?”
I nuzzle her ear. “Nothing you need to know. Yet.”
She hums, low and smug. The sound goes straight to my cock again.
Control, I remind myself. She's not ready. I’m not ready.
But fuck, I want her again already.
Instead, I pull us both up. She whines, but I silence it with a kiss. Quick. Rough. Possessive.
“Come.”
“I thought I already did,” she mutters, but she follows.
I pull her by the waist to the low dais again, guiding her to sit on my lap. Her bound arms arch behind her back, pushing her breasts up and forward in a way that makes my cock throb against her belly. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed. She looks ruined. Radiant. Ravaged.
And I’ve barely begun.
“You’re going to ride me,” I growl.
Her breath catches. “I’m still—”
“Sore?” I brush my thumb between her thighs. She’s swollen. Slick. Her pussy clenches instinctively against the touch. “You’re also wet. Soaked for me.”
She doesn’t deny it.
I guide her up, holding her hips. She wriggles, unsure with her hands still bound. I ease her into position, the head of my cock nudging against her entrance. My spurs—sharp, sensitive extensions at the crown—flare slightly. They press against her folds, and her whole body jolts.
“Fuck,” she gasps.
Her cunt is velvet and heat and aching tightness. She sinks down an inch and already she’s panting.
“Slow,” I warn. “You’ll take all of me, little flame.”
She braces, bites her lip—and sinks lower.
My spurs flex and drag along her inner walls, sparking sharp waves of pleasure through both of us. Her moan is half a sob, her body shaking.
“Oh gods, Kallus—”
“You feel it now,” I grunt, holding her steady. “You feel what I am. What no soft noble boy could ever give you.”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t. Her head falls back, her spine arching as she finally takes me to the hilt.
Her pussy grips me like a vice, pulsing around the full length of my cock, the bone spurs stimulating her from within, pushing her further than she’s ever been.
“Look at you,” I rasp. “Fucking made for me.”
Her eyes flutter open, wide and glassy. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
I grab her hips and guide her into a rhythm. She rides me with abandon, her tits bouncing with each rise and fall, sweat trickling down her neck. Her breath comes in sharp gasps, every sound a hymn to pleasure.
My cock drags through her with every motion, the ridges of my spurs teasing her most sensitive places. She cries out, loud and broken.
“I feel everything,” she pants. “Kallus—I’ve never—it’s too much—”
“Take it.” My voice is a growl. “You can handle it. You’re mine.”
She grinds down hard, and I swear I see stars.
I catch her nipple in my mouth, biting just enough to make her yelp, then soothe the sting with my tongue. Her pussy clenches hard around me in response.
Her body begins to tremble. She’s close.
“Come for me,” I command. “Show me who you belong to.”
She comes apart with a scream, her pussy spasming violently around my cock. Her release soaks us both, her thighs shaking, her cries ragged and raw.
But I’m not done.
I flip her onto her back without pulling out. Her bound arms strain behind her, arching her chest up perfectly. I drive into her hard, my cock pistoning in and out, the sound of wet slaps echoing in the chamber.
“Say it,” I growl against her mouth. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” she sobs. “Fuck, Kallus—I’m yours!”
I roar as I spill inside her, filling her with pulse after pulse of thick, hot cum. Her body drinks me in, and I don’t stop moving until I’ve wrung out every last drop.
We collapse, tangled and gasping, the scent of sex and sweat thick around us.
She rests her head against my chest, her breath a soft echo of mine.
“You’re insane,” she whispers.
I stroke her hair, her bindings dissolving with a thought. “And you’re still here.”
She doesn’t reply.
She doesn’t have to.
She’s mine.
I carry her to the bathing basin, still warm from earlier. The glowstones shimmer beneath the surface, casting pearlescent shadows on the obsidian tiles.
She’s trembling, her muscles tired and shaky, but she doesn’t resist as I step into the water with her still in my arms. I ease her down onto a submerged seat. Her thighs float open. Her lashes flutter.
Gods.
I take a deep breath and focus.
I clean her carefully, thoroughly, letting her rest against the edge of the tub. Her arms are still bound, but she doesn’t complain. Not with words. She watches me, eyes glassy, pupils wide.
When I take the cloth over the curve of her hip, her breath hitches.
“You’re worshipping me now,” she whispers.
“Wrong,” I growl, voice thick with truth. “I’m claiming you.”
And I am.
Every slow pass of the cloth. Every glance I drag down her trembling, beautiful form. Every scar I memorize, every freckle, every soft patch of skin.
I own her now. And worse—I want her. More than I should. More than I can.
And that realization? It’s a fucking problem.
When I finish, I lift her out, wrap her in a towel that’s soft as spun silk, and carry her to the heat shelf beside the fire panel. She curls up, still watching me.
And I watch her.
I don’t speak the fear gnawing at me. The one that whispers: What if she runs again? What if someone takes her? What if I lose her before she understands what we are?
I never fear. Fear is for the weak. For prey.
But she has me twisted up in ways I can’t explain. Can’t afford.
A knock on the door ruins the silence.
“Speak,” I bark.
It’s Brom. “Captain. Crew’s asking questions.”
I glance back at Ayla. Her eyes are closed, but her lips curl in a sleepy smirk.
Mine.
I step out, pulling a tunic over my head and gripping my belt. I leave the door half-closed. Let them see her silhouette, lounging in my bed, draped in my colors. Let them know.
Brom’s face is tense.
“They think you’ve gone soft.”
“Have I?” I ask, voice quiet. Dangerous.
Brom shrugs, jaw tight. “They’re Reapers, Kallus. You brought a human back. Collared, sure, but...they’re questioning.”
I nod once.
“Bring Mornax,” I say.
Brom’s brows rise. “The brawler?”
“Mmm.”
Ten minutes later, Mornax—seven-foot-five and full of bravado—stands in front of the central mess hall table, flanked by half the crew.
“She’s making you weak,” he sneers. “Used to be, we raided, we took, we bled. Now? You’re...domesticating a pet.”
I step forward.
No warning. No theatrics.
My hand whips out, grabs his wrist—and with a vicious twist, I snap his forearm backward with a bone-cracking shriek.
Mornax roars, drops to his knees.
I don't stop.
I slam his face into the table once, twice, and throw him aside like garbage.
The room goes dead silent.
I wipe the blood from my knuckles on a napkin, then glance around.
“She’s mine,” I say, calm as ice. “Question that again...and I’ll make you watch as I tear your limbs off. One by one.”
No one meets my eyes.
Satisfied, I turn on my heel and return to my quarters.
She’s still in bed. Still watching.
“What was that?” she asks.
“Reassurance,” I reply.
She laughs softly. “For them?”
“For me.”
Because no matter how much I deny it...
She’s in my blood now.
And that?
That’s the most dangerous thing of all.
I crawl into bed with her, our gazes locked. She doesn’t resist as I pull her near.
She’s curled against me like she’s meant to be there.
The collar stays, but the Reaper lingerie is gone—removed with reverence, not haste. I wanted her unbound, unmasked, free to choose if she still wanted to touch me. To press her lips to my throat. To trace her fingers down my chest. To wrap herself around me like a second skin.
She did.
She does.
Ayla holds me like I’m the one in chains.
Her small hand is splayed against my ribs. Her leg is thrown over mine. Her cheek is pillowed against my shoulder, lips parting with every slow exhale. I can feel the curve of her breast where it molds to my side. Her skin is warm. Damp. Real.
And gods help me, I like it.
I’ve had women before. I’ve taken them. Quick, forgettable affairs that ended when the thrill wore off or they became too clingy. But Ayla… clinging to me now? I don’t want to push her away.
I don’t want this to end.
She murmurs in her sleep, soft and broken. Her fingers twitch. Her body shifts restlessly before resettling against me with a sigh.
“Shh,” I whisper, brushing a hand down her back. “You’re safe.”
The words feel strange in my mouth. Heavy. Like old armor that hasn’t been worn in years.
And maybe that’s what this is.
Old armor. Old stories.
Because the feeling rising in my chest—tight, aching, bright—is one I haven’t known since I was a child, listening to my mother’s voice on the long ice-walks.
Singing lullabies in the language of the Ishani.
The days before war claimed us. Before we learned that love was weakness and mating bonds got you killed.
Before I became a captain of the Bloody Talon.
I tilt my head, watching her face in the low firelight. She’s beautiful. No—more than that. Radiant. Lush and defiant and curious and unbreakable. I could look at her for a thousand years and still find something new to crave.
The skin between her brows creases like she’s having a dream she can’t quite escape. Her lips twitch.
I want to soothe her.
No. I need to.
So I hum.
Low. Deep. A tone passed from my father to me, and his father before him. A melody carved from ancient stone and frostwind. A song so old, only mates shared it. Mates and children, and those whose fates were bound by something more powerful than lust or desire.
“Veshka tharnal... eh’draan ishani... su’laa ven...”
She stirs.
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t know the words. I’m sure of that. But her body reacts. The rhythm of her breathing syncs to mine. The twitch of her fingers stills. Her shoulders relax.
Ayla feels it.
Somewhere, deep in her human soul, she knows.
I keep singing, so quietly the ship’s systems barely register the sound. My voice is scratchy. Rusted from disuse. But the words come anyway.
About fire meeting ice. Blood meeting blood. The stars folding over two hearts made whole.
When I stop, the silence rings.
She shifts closer and whispers—barely audible—“That was...beautiful.”
I freeze.
She’s awake.
But she doesn’t lift her head. Doesn’t open her eyes. She just curls in tighter, like my voice is her cocoon.
I exhale.
“It’s a Reaper song,” I murmur.
“I figured,” she says, voice thick with sleep. “What does it mean?”
“Nothing you’d believe.”
“Try me.”
I hesitate. Then: “It’s about... mates. Forever.”
A pause. Her hand tightens against my chest.
“Oh,” she says.
Another pause. Long. Quiet. Dangerous.
Then: “Sing it again.”
I do.
Not because she asks—but because I want to.
The second time, my voice doesn’t tremble.
And when she finally sleeps, completely and truly, her breath warm against my neck and her body molded to mine...
I follow her into dreams.
For the first time in years.