When I finish, I lift her out, wrap her in a towel that’s soft as spun silk, and carry her to the heat shelf beside the fire panel. She curls up, still watching me.
And I watch her.
I don’t speak the fear gnawing at me. The one that whispers:What if she runs again? What if someone takes her? What if I lose her before she understands what we are?
Ineverfear. Fear is for the weak. For prey.
But she has me twisted up in ways I can’t explain. Can’t afford.
A knock on the door ruins the silence.
“Speak,” I bark.
It’s Brom. “Captain. Crew’s asking questions.”
I glance back at Ayla. Her eyes are closed, but her lips curl in a sleepy smirk.
Mine.
I step out, pulling a tunic over my head and gripping my belt. I leave the door half-closed. Let them see her silhouette, lounging in my bed, draped in my colors. Let themknow.
Brom’s face is tense.
“They think you’ve gone soft.”
“Have I?” I ask, voice quiet. Dangerous.
Brom shrugs, jaw tight. “They’re Reapers, Kallus. You brought ahumanback. Collared, sure, but...they’re questioning.”
I nod once.
“Bring Mornax,” I say.
Brom’s brows rise. “The brawler?”
“Mmm.”
Ten minutes later, Mornax—seven-foot-five and full of bravado—stands in front of the central mess hall table, flanked by half the crew.
“She’s making you weak,” he sneers. “Used to be, we raided, we took, we bled. Now? You’re...domesticating a pet.”
I step forward.
No warning. No theatrics.
My hand whips out, grabs his wrist—and with a vicious twist, Isnaphis forearm backward with a bone-cracking shriek.
Mornax roars, drops to his knees.
I don't stop.
I slam his face into the table once, twice, and throw him aside like garbage.
The room goes dead silent.
I wipe the blood from my knuckles on a napkin, then glance around.
“She’s mine,” I say, calm as ice. “Question that again...and I’ll make you watch as I tear your limbs off. One by one.”
