Chapter 8 - Kallus
KALLUS
The clank of steel echoes off the walls of the lower chamber, syncing with the rhythm of my fists hammering into the slab of synth-stone mounted to the wall. My breaths come sharp. Ragged. I slam again. And again. Until tiny fractures ripple through the stone and my knuckles throb from impact.
The Relentless hums around me—engines groaning in the distance, crew stomping through halls above. But here, in the heart of the ship, there’s only me and the storm in my blood.
Why does she matter?
She’s soft. Human. Unfit to survive the arenas, let alone a Reaper warpath.
My claws flex, ripping grooves into the air as I whirl into a hook-kick that splinters the next training post clean in half. Splinters and sparks scatter across the floor.
Brom would say I’m losing control.
He’d be right.
I shouldn’t have kissed her in front of the crew. I shouldn’t have let her into my quarters, into my hands, into my head. But it’s too late. She’s everywhere now.
I close my eyes and see the glint of light on her hair, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the tremble in her voice when she says my name like it means something.
I hate how much I crave it.
A low growl escapes me.
I force myself still. Standing amid shattered debris and steam rising from the vents, I let the past creep in.
The rite. My first blooding.
I remember standing naked beneath the twin moons of Tyrannus, bone spurs still growing in, eyes unclouded by battle.
The elders chanted as they marked my chest with oil and ash.
They sang the old songs—songs of flame and bone, of mates found in war and bound by it.
One elder whispered, You will not find her until your rage is ripe. Until your soul is ready.
I was too young then to understand. Too proud to care.
Now I understand.
A hiss behind me draws my attention.
Brom steps through the misted archway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “You’re going to crack the hull if you keep hitting things like that.”
I grunt, wiping sweat from my jaw.
He doesn’t move. “This thing with her…”
“Say it.” My voice comes out low. Dangerous.
He doesn’t flinch. “She’ll break you.”
I laugh. The sound is crueler than I mean it to be. “Let her try.”
Brom's eyes flicker with something—respect? Worry? I can’t tell.
He steps closer. “The crew is watching. Some are uneasy. They see you favor her.”
“She wears my collar.”
“They want to see your control.”
I bare my teeth. “They can watch all they want. But if any lay a finger on her—”
“I know,” Brom interrupts. “They know too. But it’s not her safety I worry about. It’s yours. This… pull you have to her. It’s stronger than anything I’ve seen.”
I look at my hands. At the faint shimmer of her scent still clinging to my skin.
“She’s not just mine,” I say softly. “She’s meant.”
Brom exhales through his nose and nods, once. “Then make sure you don’t forget who you are, Captain. Reapers do not worship. We rule.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I murmur.
But deep down, I wonder if maybe, for her, I would kneel.
And maybe I wouldn’t mind.
I find her alone in my quarters, seated cross-legged on the sleeping platform, wrapped in one of my furs. Her hair spills down her shoulders like molten light, and she looks up the moment I step in. No fear. Just that maddening calm she wears like armor.
In my hands, wrapped in crimson cloth, is her gift.
She watches me approach, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to guess what game I’m playing now. I kneel before her, not as a servant—but as a male presenting a treasure to his mate.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes the bundle, slow and careful.
The cloth peels back to reveal a ceremonial Reaper blade—short, curved like a crescent moon, the hilt crafted from bone polished to a soft ivory sheen.
Not ornamental. Functional. Sized for her grip.
Balanced to her weight. Forged by my hands.
She stares at it.
For a long breath, she says nothing.
Then she runs her thumb over the serrated edge, slow. Reverent. “This is... beautiful,” she murmurs.
I nod. “It’s yours. A symbol. Reapers do not give these lightly. Only mates bear them.”
Her head jerks up. “You’re saying I’m your mate now?”
I crouch beside her, the heat from her skin calling to mine. “I’m saying you already are.”
She stares at the blade a moment longer, then back at me. Her voice is soft, edged with something like awe. “You’re not afraid I’ll use it on you while you sleep?”
I laugh—a real one this time. “Maybe you will.” I tilt my head, my grin sharp and unrepentant. “Let’s see if you’re fast enough.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling, even if she tries to hide it behind her hair.
“You’re mad,” she mutters.
“Only for you.”
She lets the blade rest in her lap, her fingers still curled around the hilt like it belongs there. Like she belongs here.
My chest aches with something raw and frightening.
I’ve waded through blood and fire. I’ve ruled by tooth and claw. But giving her that blade—watching her accept it—it scares me in a way no war ever has.
Because this isn’t conquest. This is surrender.