Chapter 15 - Ayla
AYLA
It’s the stillness that wakes me.
That thick, unnatural hush. The kind that doesn’t belong in the jungle, not even before dawn. No wind. No birds. No buzz of insects. Just silence. Wrong silence.
My skin prickles before my eyes even open.
Kallus lies beside me, heavy arm draped over my waist, breath deep and even. Still asleep. Still mine.
But I can’t shake it.
That feeling.
I lift my head slowly, careful not to wake him. The furs are warm. His scent clings to my skin. My thighs are still sore from the night before—in the best way. I should feel safe here, wrapped in him.
Instead, dread pools in my gut like spoiled wine.
I slip from the bed and pad to the balcony, bare feet silent against the floor. The air smells… off. Heavy. Tinted with ozone and copper. I grip the railing and scan the trees.
The jungle’s alive with color—but not motion.
Nothing moves.
No swaying branches. No morning birds darting between the canopy. Just stillness. And watching. I don’t see anything, but every instinct screams.
We’re not alone.
My pulse kicks up. I turn—
A shriek rips across the sky.
Not natural.
Mechanical.
A sonic boom echoes over the valley. I spin, eyes wide as clouds split apart—and something invisible punches through the sky. It doesn’t shimmer like a ship. It just isn’t there—until it is. Metal blossoms into view like it’s being born midair.
Drop pods.
I know the tech. IHC elite stealth entry systems. The ones they only use for high-value targets. They’re here for something important.
Or someone.
My breath catches.
“KALLUS!”
He’s already on his feet. Weapons locker open. Growling like a beast as he straps on his gear.
“Inside!” he snaps.
Another pod hits just beyond the tree line—then another. The whole jungle shakes. Screams echo from below.
The stronghold’s under attack.
Reapers are already mobilizing, snarls and roars filling the air. The scent of blood floods the breeze—hot, sharp, metallic. Kallus grabs my arm, shoves a blade into my hand.
“You run. If they get close, you run.”
“No,” I choke. “I stay with you.”
His red eyes blaze. “Not this time.”
I want to argue. But the look on his face freezes my heart.
The door to the chamber explodes inward.
They’re here.
Black armor. Visors glowing. IHC elite. Two of them move fast—too fast—snagging Kallus in a net charged with white-hot energy. He roars, ripping it apart, but it slows him just long enough.
I bolt.
Down the back hall, through the auxiliary passage I saw on the maps. My bare feet slip on the stone, heartbeat pounding in my ears. Another explosion. I flinch, duck, run harder.
A hand grabs me.
I scream—kick back—connect with something metal. But another hand closes around my wrist.
“Target acquired!” someone yells. “Noble cargo secure!”
A syringe jabs into my neck.
The world tilts.
And everything goes dark.
I come back to myself in pieces.
First, the ache. A deep, chemical ache behind my eyes, like someone stuffed cotton and broken glass into my skull and then shook it. My tongue feels thick, useless. My mouth tastes like antiseptic and metal.
Then the cold.
Not jungle-cool. Not stone-cool. This is clinical—air scrubbed of scent, temperature dialed to a setting that doesn’t care about comfort. My skin prickles, nipples tightening painfully against fabric that isn’t mine.
I try to move.
Pain lances through my wrists.
That’s when panic hits.
My eyes snap open.
White. Everywhere. Walls, ceiling, floor—gleaming, seamless white panels that reflect light so brightly it feels like I’m being interrogated by the room itself. The air hums softly, a constant vibration that settles into my bones.
Orbit.
I know this feeling. Artificial gravity just a hair too perfect. No sway. No breath of a world beneath it.
I’m on a ship.
“No,” I croak. My voice comes out shredded. Wrong. Too small for the scream building in my chest.
I tug at my arms.
Restraints bite into my wrists and ankles—polymer cuffs, Alliance-standard, shock-lined. My hands are secured above my head, spread wide, my ankles locked to the base of a narrow bunk bolted into the floor. I’m dressed in something thin and white, a medical gown that barely covers my thighs.
Drugged.
I can feel it now—something sluggish still swimming through my blood, dulling the edges of my thoughts, turning fear syrupy and slow. My muscles don’t respond the way they should. My limbs feel heavy, distant, like they belong to someone else.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, throat tightening.
Kallus.
The memory hits me like a fist. Jungle. Roars. Drop pods ripping the sky open. His voice shouting my name—raw, furious—right before hands grabbed me and the needle burned my neck.
I strain against the cuffs again.
“Kallus!” The word tears out of me, sharp enough to hurt.
The door hisses.
I freeze.
Footsteps approach—measured, unhurried. Polished shoes clicking against the pristine floor, each sound echoing like a countdown.
And then he steps into view.
Lord Frederick Longmire.
Immaculate as ever.
Tailored slate-gray suit. Perfectly styled hair. That same smug, infuriating smile he’s worn since the day my parents first paraded him through our estate like a prize stallion. He looks like he belongs here—like the white walls were designed with him in mind.
For a heartbeat, my brain refuses to process it.
Then rage floods in, hot and blinding.
“You,” I hiss.
His smile widens. “Ayla. Thank the stars you’re awake.”
He comes closer, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed. Pleased. Like he’s visiting me in a hospital suite, not standing over me while I’m strapped down like cargo.
“Rescued at last,” he says softly.
Something inside me snaps.
I surge forward as hard as I can, restraints cutting into my skin. I don’t care. I need to touch him—hurt him—make him understand.
“Get me out of these!” I scream. “Get me back. Right now!”
He sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Still confused. The sedatives should wear off fully in a few minutes. Until then, try not to agitate yourself.”
“Agitate—?” I laugh, the sound cracked and hysterical. “You arrogant piece of—”
He steps closer, within reach.
Without thinking, I rear my head back and then slam it forward.
My forehead connects with his nose.
Hard.
The impact jars my skull, sends stars exploding across my vision—but the crunch and his startled grunt are worth it. He staggers back a step, hand flying to his face.
I yank my right arm free just enough—muscle memory, adrenaline, desperation—and slap him.
The sound cracks through the room.
His head snaps to the side.
For a second, everything is perfectly silent.
Then Frederick straightens slowly, wiping blood from his lip with his thumb. He looks at the smear, then back at me.
And he smiles.
Wider than before.
Almost fond.
“You idiot,” I spit, chest heaving. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
He chuckles, genuinely amused. “Oh, my dear Ayla. I know exactly what I’ve done.”
He gestures around us, encompassing the gleaming walls, the soft hum of the ship. “You were abducted by a violent alien pirate. You were held captive. Brainwashed. And I—” he taps his chest “—personally authorized a retrieval operation to save you.”
My laugh turns into a sob halfway through.
“Saved me?” I choke. “You ripped me out of my home. Out of my life. You took me from him.”
His eyes darken, just a flicker. “From a beast.”
The word lands like a slap.
I go still.
“You didn’t see him,” I say, voice shaking. “You didn’t hear him. You don’t know what he is.”
“I know exactly what he is,” Frederick replies coolly. “A Reaper. A butcher. A monster who preys on vulnerable women and convinces them they’re special.”
“That’s not—”
“He drugged you,” Frederick cuts in smoothly. “Conditioned you. You think you chose him? Please. The psychological profile was obvious.”
I pull against the restraints again, uselessly. “You’re wrong.”
He leans down until his face is inches from mine. I can smell his cologne—clean, expensive, nauseating.
“I’ve saved you from a beast,” he says softly. “And one day, when the fog clears, you’ll thank me.”
Something inside my chest caves in.
“You’re going to get him killed,” I whisper.
His smile doesn’t falter. “The IHC will handle the situation. Any resistance was neutralized.”
Neutralized.
The room tilts.
“No,” I breathe. “No, no, no—”
I twist violently, finally managing to wrench one arm free as the drug haze fractures under sheer terror. I slide off the bunk, collapsing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and restraints. My knees slam into the cold surface, pain shooting up my legs.
I don’t care.
I curl in on myself, fingers clawing at the smooth white floor like I can dig through it. Like if I just try hard enough, I can tear a hole back to the jungle. Back to him.
Frederick straightens, watching me with detached concern. “Ayla, control yourself.”
I don’t hear him anymore.
All I can hear is Kallus’s voice in my head. Low and fierce. The way he said my name like it mattered. Like it was a promise.
I scream.
“KALLUS!”
The word rips out of me, raw and ragged, shredding my throat. I scream it again, and again, until my voice breaks completely.
“KALLUS! KALLUS! KALLUS!”
I rock back and forth on the floor, sobbing, the cuffs biting into my skin, tears blurring the sterile white into nothing. My chest burns. My lungs seize. I can’t breathe without saying his name.
I don’t know how long it goes on.
Eventually, strong hands grab my shoulders, forcing me upright. A needle prick. Cold fire sliding into my veins.
The world softens at the edges.
As darkness closes in, the last thing I see is Frederick standing over me, expression satisfied.
And the last thing I say—barely a whisper, barely a sound—is his name.
“Kallus.”