And when she finally sleeps, completely and truly, her breath warm against my neck and her body molded to mine...
I follow her into dreams.
For the first time in years.
CHAPTER 7
AYLA
Iwake alone.
The sheets are still warm from where Kallus’s massive frame lay, but the space beside me feels hollow. My limbs ache—not painfully, but deeply, like every muscle’s been wrung out and left to dry under alien suns. I stretch and flinch, catching the sweet, raw throb between my thighs. A reminder. Of him. Of everything we did.
I should be furious. Should be ashamed. I should feel violated, used, broken. But instead, I feel... electrified. Like my soul’s been shaken loose and stitched back together with silver thread.
And I miss him.
God help me, I miss him already.
The door hisses open with a sharp exhale, and I clutch the pelt draped over me on instinct, sitting upright. A Reaper—not Kallus, definitely not—enters without ceremony, holding something draped over one clawed arm.
“Clothes,” he rasps, tossing them onto the end of the bed like I’m some pampered consort.
I glance at the heap. Leather. Lace. Sheer panels and tight seams. Buckling bracelets and anklets that can easily be used asrestraints. The kind of thing a sex slave might wear in a strip-club fantasy.
I arch a brow. “Seriously?”
The Reaper doesn’t answer, already turning and walking out like his job here is done. The door slides shut behind him with a metallic sigh.
I stand, slowly, feeling the remnants of last night shift in my bones, and take a closer look. There's nothing else in the room. No wardrobe. No drawers. Just this outfit—if you can call it that.
I mutter to myself as I pull it on, piece by piece. “Great. High heels in space. That’s exactly what I need.” But it's surprisingly comfortable, hugging me like it was custom made.
The collar’s still around my throat, cool metal pressing softly into my skin. I reach up, fingers brushing the tag hanging from it—etched in an alien script I can’t read.
Mine.
I hear the word in Kallus’s voice. Deep. Dark. Certain. It shivers through me.
Once dressed—barely—I find the door unlocked. A test? Or a trap? Either way, I’m not staying in this room waiting for his return like a good little space bride.
The halls outside are dim and industrial, lit with blood-red lights and the occasional flicker of pale emergency strips. I don’t get far before I feel eyes on me.
Three Reapers lean against a bulkhead at the junction. Watching.
Not subtle. Not polite. Their stares scrape over my skin like knives wrapped in velvet.
“Fresh meat,” one of them grunts, nudging the other.
“She’s tagged,” another warns.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t look.”
I meet their eyes, one by one. My stomach tightens, but I don’t look away. I remember Kallus’s voice again—no one touches what’s mine.The memory steels my spine.
“I’d recommend you keep your tongues in your mouths,” I say calmly, “unless you want them fed to you.”
That earns a low chuckle, but they step back, give me space. Whether it’s out of respect for Kallus or because they believe I might actually make good on the threat, I don’t care. A win is a win.
