Chapter 7 - Ayla
AYLA
Iwake alone.
The sheets are still warm from where Kallus’s massive frame lay, but the space beside me feels hollow.
My limbs ache—not painfully, but deeply, like every muscle’s been wrung out and left to dry under alien suns.
I stretch and flinch, catching the sweet, raw throb between my thighs.
A reminder. Of him. Of everything we did.
I should be furious. Should be ashamed. I should feel violated, used, broken. But instead, I feel... electrified. Like my soul’s been shaken loose and stitched back together with silver thread.
And I miss him.
God help me, I miss him already.
The door hisses open with a sharp exhale, and I clutch the pelt draped over me on instinct, sitting upright. A Reaper—not Kallus, definitely not—enters without ceremony, holding something draped over one clawed arm.
“Clothes,” he rasps, tossing them onto the end of the bed like I’m some pampered consort.
I glance at the heap. Leather. Lace. Sheer panels and tight seams. Buckling bracelets and anklets that can easily be used as restraints. The kind of thing a sex slave might wear in a strip-club fantasy.
I arch a brow. “Seriously?”
The Reaper doesn’t answer, already turning and walking out like his job here is done. The door slides shut behind him with a metallic sigh.
I stand, slowly, feeling the remnants of last night shift in my bones, and take a closer look. There's nothing else in the room. No wardrobe. No drawers. Just this outfit—if you can call it that.
I mutter to myself as I pull it on, piece by piece. “Great. High heels in space. That’s exactly what I need.” But it's surprisingly comfortable, hugging me like it was custom made.
The collar’s still around my throat, cool metal pressing softly into my skin. I reach up, fingers brushing the tag hanging from it—etched in an alien script I can’t read.
Mine.
I hear the word in Kallus’s voice. Deep. Dark. Certain. It shivers through me.
Once dressed—barely—I find the door unlocked. A test? Or a trap? Either way, I’m not staying in this room waiting for his return like a good little space bride.
The halls outside are dim and industrial, lit with blood-red lights and the occasional flicker of pale emergency strips. I don’t get far before I feel eyes on me.
Three Reapers lean against a bulkhead at the junction. Watching.
Not subtle. Not polite. Their stares scrape over my skin like knives wrapped in velvet.
“Fresh meat,” one of them grunts, nudging the other.
“She’s tagged,” another warns.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t look.”
I meet their eyes, one by one. My stomach tightens, but I don’t look away. I remember Kallus’s voice again—no one touches what’s mine. The memory steels my spine.
“I’d recommend you keep your tongues in your mouths,” I say calmly, “unless you want them fed to you.”
That earns a low chuckle, but they step back, give me space. Whether it’s out of respect for Kallus or because they believe I might actually make good on the threat, I don’t care. A win is a win.
I wander a little further until a familiar face finds me—Brom, the second-in-command. Larger than most of the other Reapers I’ve seen, though smaller than Kallus. His scarred jaw works as he gives me a once-over, then gestures down the hall.
“This way. You’re expected in the mess.”
I consider arguing—asking why I’m expected anywhere—but decide it’s better not to poke the bear, at least not this one. I fall in step beside him.
“You always dress your captives in lingerie?” I ask, voice dry.
Brom grunts. “That’s not lingerie. That’s a Reaper’s consort weave. It means you’re protected.”
“By dressing me like a space stripper?”
He doesn’t smile, but something twitches at the edge of his mouth. “You’ll be glad for it. Trust me.”
We arrive at the mess, a wide room carved from raw dark metal, with long tables and benches bolted to the floor.
Reapers fill the space, eating slabs of meat I can’t identify, drinking from heavy black mugs.
The air is thick with smoke, sweat, and the scent of seared protein. It smells like a war camp.
Conversations die as I enter, Brom behind me like a silent mountain.
Every pair of eyes turns toward me.
I lift my chin.
Some of them look away quickly. Others linger. I see curiosity, hunger, calculation—but not a single one moves toward me.
I feel like a lioness stepping into a pack of wolves. But oddly... I don’t feel unsafe.
I cross the room with slow, measured steps and slide onto the edge of a bench. Brom sits beside me, shielding one flank. A Reaper woman—tall, deadly, with silver scales at her temples—slides a tray in front of me.
Chunks of meat. Dark bread. Something that steams and hisses slightly in a metal bowl.
I poke at it with a fork. “Is it going to bite me back?”
“Only if you’re lucky,” the female Reaper says without smiling. She walks off, a tail-like braid swaying behind her.
I try the bread first. Dense. Warm. Surprisingly sweet.
Around me, the room begins to hum again with low conversation. I catch pieces—stories of raids, jests about some crewman who tried to steal a mate and got his face smashed in. Rough, sharp laughter follows.
They’re... joking. Laughing. Talking about family, crew, shared victories. Not all that different from the pilots and officers on the Grand Lady—if you ignored the visible bone plating and the occasional hissed threat.
I chew slowly, watching.
There’s a strange kind of respect here. A hierarchy, yes, but one not just built on strength—it’s built on loyalty. History. Blood and bone.
“Why show me this?” I murmur, not really expecting an answer.
Brom answers anyway. “Because you’re one of us now. You just don’t know it yet.”
I snort. “Right. I’m a pampered noble’s daughter with no combat skills and a habit of mouthing off. Real Reaper material.”
Brom shrugs. “Kallus thinks so. And he’s rarely wrong.”
I look down at the collar again. Feel the warmth it still holds from his skin against mine. It doesn’t feel like a shackle anymore. It feels like a promise.
I’m not sure that’s better.
The laughter and growls of the mess fade, melting into the soundless void of memory.
I see my mother’s ice-pale eyes, narrowed as she inspects the table setting. Four spoons, three forks, seven courses. Not a whisper of warmth between us. Every meal a ceremony. Every conversation a trap waiting to be sprung.
"Sit up straight, Ayla."
"Don’t salt your food at the table, it makes you look common."
"Speak only when spoken to."
Their voices are ghosts now, drifting through the scent of seared alien meat and smoke in this wild place. Here, Reapers shout when they’re happy. They fight when they’re bored. They tear meat with their fangs and slam their mugs down to toast. And they laugh—loud and honest.
My family’s formal dinners were silent performances. This is a feast.
I’m still chewing a bite of something surprisingly spicy when a shadow looms beside me.
"You don’t belong here," a voice snarls.
I look up. It’s one of the ones who stared earlier—jagged bone ridges along his jaw, teeth filed into points, his red eyes narrow and mean. He leans in too close, nostrils flaring like he’s sniffing a challenge.
"Collar or not," he sneers, "you're no better than a ship whore, dressed up for the Captain’s whims."
Brom’s half out of his seat before I can blink, claws cracking.
But I don’t need him.
I stand, lift my tray—and in one clean motion, I smash it against the bastard’s face.
Ceramic shatters. So does his nose. Blood splatters the table, my arm, the floor. He howls, more in shock than pain, but he stumbles back.
Every conversation in the room dies.
Brom freezes. Everyone else just stares.
I don’t flinch. My heart’s slamming in my ribs, but I stare the Reaper down, teeth bared like an animal. "Say that again," I snap. "Go on."
He doesn’t.
The doors at the far end hiss open.
Kallus walks in.
Every Reaper in the room either straightens or backs the hell off. Power rolls off him in waves, thick as smoke, heavy as gravity.
He surveys the scene—blood, broken crockery, me standing with my chest heaving and my arm bleeding from a shallow cut. His crimson eyes glitter.
Brom starts to speak. “She—”
But Kallus lifts one hand, silencing him.
Then he turns his gaze on me. A slow, sharp smile curls his lips.
“My mate,” he says, voice dark silk, “doesn’t need a guard.”
The Reapers laugh—quick, shocked, and a little awed.
Kallus crosses the room, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving mine. When he reaches me, he doesn’t say a word. He lifts me with absurd ease—two hands on my hips—and sets me on the table like I weigh nothing.
My breath catches. His scent hits me—smoke, steel, blood, and something older, wilder.
He leans in, mouth near my ear.
“You are perfect,” he murmurs.
Then he kisses me.
Not soft. Not tentative. No. It’s possession. Heat. Dominance. His mouth devours mine, his hands firm on my thighs. The kiss doesn’t just steal my breath—it steals time, thought, fear. My arms wind around his shoulders before I know what I’m doing. My tongue dances with his.
The mess hall roars again—cheers, catcalls, pounding fists—but it all blurs.
This is my life now.
Among killers and monsters. Collared and claimed. Kissed in public like I’m not a scandal, but a victory.
And Precursors help me... I like it.
No. I want it.
And I’m starting to think I’ve always wanted something just like this.
Even if it took a warlord’s kiss to admit it.