4. Isolde
ISOLDE
I ’m not sure how but I get back up on my feet.
My legs are shaking, blood is running hot down my temple, and my left arm feels like it’s trying to detach from my body just to get away from all this. But I’m standing. Somehow. Breathing in these sharp, chemical-tinged gulps while my pulse jackhammers in my ears.
And he’s there. Right in front of me.
The thing—no, the man —who tore through One Horn like he was made of wet paper.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t growl. Doesn’t snarl or monologue like a bad holovid villain.
He just... looks at me.
And there’s something in that look that makes me wanna sit down and cry and laugh and scream all at once. Like I’ve been flipped upside down, and the floor’s become the ceiling.
Golden eyes. Sharp. Intense. Alive in a way nothing else on this ship has been. He watches me like I’m important. Like I matter.
Like I belong to him.
That should scare me.
It should terrify me, actually.
But weirdly—it doesn’t.
Instead, I wipe blood off my cheek with the back of my hand, raise my chin like I’ve still got glitter on my skin and three million followers watching.
“You gonna kill me too?” I say.
My voice comes out hoarse. Raw. Less like a taunt, more like a dare I barely mean.
He blinks slowly, like he’s trying to understand what I just said. Like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.
And then—he moves.
Not fast, not threatening. Just... efficient. Careful.
He steps forward, crouches, and without a single word— scoops me up.
I yelp, loud and undignified. My body tenses in pure reflex, like I’m about to be dropped into a meat grinder. “Whoa—HEY! What—what the hell—put me?—!”
But I don’t finish the sentence.
Because he doesn’t drop me. He holds me. One arm under my knees, the other braced around my back, claws careful not to dig in, scaled chest solid and warm under my cheek. And just like that, I’m airborne. Carried. Cradled like something worth saving.
This monster—this beast from some pre-collapse war story—is carrying me like I weigh nothing at all. Like I’m precious.
My brain’s screaming at me to fight, to thrash, to scramble free. But my body... my body just sags. Exhaustion crashes into me like a wave breaking against stone. And some twisted, tired part of me?
It’s relieved.
I let my head drop against his shoulder. Smell him—metal and dust and something spicy underneath. Like ozone and dried herbs. Not pleasant exactly, but not repulsive either. Just real. Like he belongs to this place. Like he’s part of it.
He moves through the ship like he knows it better than his own breath.
No stumbling, no hesitating. Just steady, certain steps down narrow side corridors lit by flickering wall panels and emergency lights that haven’t flickered on for anyone else.
It’s like the Hulk recognizes him. Like it’s making way.
Doors hiss open before we reach them. A ladder folds out without being touched.
I swear one of the ceiling vents adjusts its trajectory so he doesn’t have to duck.
He’s not just surviving here.
He’s part of it.
A ghost king walking his haunted kingdom.
And I’m in his arms.
I peek up at him again, trying to get a better look.
His jaw is all harsh lines and battle-scars.
There’s one long scar across his cheek, jagged like it was carved with something rusty.
His horns are small and symmetrical, swept back over his skull, not ornamental—functional.
His arms are all corded muscle and subtle scales that shimmer dark crimson in the flickering light.
Not like skin. Not like armor. Something in between.
The silence stretches. Too long. Too full.
I can’t take it anymore.
“So,” I mumble, voice rough with nerves. “You gonna tell me your name or do I just keep calling you Beastly McMurderpants in my head?”
Nothing.
Just the low rumble of his breath and the soft thunk-thunk of his boots on the grated floor.
“You’re not big on conversation, huh?” I try again. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or five. Whatever.”
Still nothing.
A smirk flickers across my mouth—reflex. Habit. “Just for the record, this is not how I expected this mission to go. Glitter in my hair, yes. Murder? Eh. Not on the schedule.”
We pass a panel where One Horn’s blood has smeared in a crooked trail. The scent hits me then—coppery and thick. My stomach twists. The image of his body crumpled on the floor flashes behind my eyes again. Limbs bent wrong. That awful, wet sound when the blade?—
I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe.
“You saved me,” I whisper, barely audible.
The moment I say it, I feel it sink in. Like really sink.
He saved me.
Not Meyer. Not Bokis or Reflector. Not even Snarl.
Him.
The so-called monster in the walls.
And suddenly I feel safer here, in his arms, than I ever did with the people I hired to protect me.
“I don’t know why,” I say, louder this time. “But... thanks. For stepping in.”
Still no answer. But his grip tightens slightly. Just enough to feel it.
Reassurance?
Maybe.
Eventually, he slows. Turns. Pushes open a panel I wouldn’t have even noticed was a door if I hadn’t watched it move.
The room he steps into is dark, but not cold.
It smells like him—spice, heat, dust, old circuits.
There’s a kind of... makeshift nest in one corner.
Blankets, cloth scraps, a dented old food crate.
A few dim lights glow blue along the wall. Nothing fancy. But... it’s a home.
His home.
He kneels, easing me down gently onto one of the softer piles.
I wince as my weight shifts, pain blooming sharp in my ribs and thigh. “Ugh. Okay. Everything hurts. Is that normal?”
He still doesn’t speak.
But he moves to one of the walls and pulls a small med-pack from a niche. Tosses it toward me.
I catch it—barely. “Thanks,” I say, then add dryly, “Wow. You do know how to communicate.”
Still nothing. Just a faint huff through his nostrils. Not quite a laugh, but not hostile either.
I open the med-pack, start patching up my arm with shaking hands. There’s antiseptic in here, bandage wrap, even a little tube of regen gel. High-quality stuff. Not pirate-tier garbage.
“You’ve been here a while, huh?” I murmur. “Got your own setup. Kinda cozy, in a post-apocalyptic war-tomb sorta way.”
He sits against the far wall, arms folded, watching.
Not threatening.
Just... watching.
“I was trying to make content,” I confess. “That’s why I came. For views. Hype. You know... risk = reward, right?”
My voice cracks.
“Didn’t think I’d almost get raped for it.”
There. I say it. Out loud.
It feels awful. Like something poisonous finally clawed its way out of my throat.
His gaze sharpens. His jaw flexes.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s what I thought.”
Silence again.
I lean my head back, stare up at the warped ceiling of his bunker.
“Can’t go back to Meyer’s crew,” I say. “Even if I wanted to.”
A pause.
Then, he shakes his head. Intelligence gleams in those eyes.
“You... you understand me,” I say stupidly. “Holy crap. I was starting to think you couldn’t.”
He says nothing else. Just watches.
I don’t need more.
Because in that one second—when he finally spoke—I heard something in him that wasn’t brutality or anger. It was promise.
I curl up tighter on the makeshift bed, holding the med-pack to my ribs.
“You gonna stay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t leave, either.