“You’re here.”
My tears return—this time for him. Because I know. Iknowhe’d do this. The world will burn. And he’ll carry me through it.
I swallow hard, voice barely a wisp: “I... wouldn’t let them?—”
He leans in, eyes bright with something fierce and fractured. My fingers bury into his coat, steadying me—keeping mehere. He murmurs, “I’d kill a thousand worlds for you.”
We stand amid the silent wreckage of his wrath and my fear—two broken silhouettes carved by every vow, every wound, every whispered promise.
He sweeps me up in one motion and holds me tight—chest against mine, forehead bowed to mine, death and salvation in his embrace.
I choke back sobs. His voice low. “I’ll never let them hurt you again.”
Somehow the storm has silenced. The orbital station trembles beneath us, but between his arms it’s calm.
Between his arms—everything ends. And everything begins.
I whisper free: “I’m yours.”
He breathes in my words like air, like fuel. His grip tightens—but not enough to crush. I feel the echo in his chest—heart pounding for me, for us.
The world behind us can burn.
Because he’s here.
And I’m here.
And together, we’ll burn or we’ll rebuild.
The song fades, but in its place is feral promise. And we are alive.
CHAPTER 21
AEBON REXX
The broken station groans behind us, but all I can see is her. In the sharp flicker of malfunctioning lights, Aria is kneeling before me, bruised but unbroken—hair soaked with oil, tears, and the weight of every second I was away. The world burns behind us, but in her gaze, I flicker brighter than any god.
I take a breath. The Reaper’s violence eases. Rage falters like a cliff edge.
I kneel too, closing the distance in one motion. The hem of my coat brushes the slag-stained floor. Hands shaking, I reach for the snapped remnants of her restraints—the heavy cuffs that bound her wrists, a cruel echo of her captivity. Steel and mechanism glint sharp, echoing the shattered integrity of the station.
With a single snap, I tear them free. The metal gives—a brittle exhale of defeat. She flexes her wrists, and I cup her hands like fragile blooms.
I lift her into my arms—slowly, reverently, as though she might shatter if I’m too rough. Holding her is like holding gravity itself: impossible weight, impossible wonder. Her breath fans my chest. Her pulse hammers across my palm.
Her lips part, voice quivering: “You came.”
“I would’ve broken the stars to get you,” I reply, voice a raspy rumble that scorches the debris between us.
Her tears wet my chest; the warmth of them melts something deep within me. She presses her cheek to my shoulder, and I cradle her against the steady beat of my heart.
We stand locked like this—me, the godfather. Her, the prosecutor. A violent yin and yang. The world bends toward us, uncertain.
Then she lifts her head, her hands snake around my neck, and she kisses me. I give my mouth to hers. It’s not tentative. It’s an explosion: saliva, sweat, blood, rain—a torrent of confession and relief.
I hold her tighter, until her arms anchor me, and her teeth graze my bottom lip. She tastes like steel and lavender and everything that matters most.
When we break apart, it’s only for air. She smiles weakly, breath ragged. “I thought you wouldn’t make it.”
