Then he kisses me.
Not soft. Not tentative. No. It’s possession. Heat. Dominance. His mouth devours mine, his hands firm on my thighs. The kiss doesn’t just steal my breath—it steals time, thought, fear. My arms wind around his shoulders before I know what I’m doing. My tongue dances with his.
The mess hall roars again—cheers, catcalls, pounding fists—but it all blurs.
This is my life now.
Among killers and monsters. Collared and claimed. Kissed in public like I’m not a scandal, but a victory.
And Precursors help me... I like it.
No. Iwantit.
And I’m starting to think I’ve always wanted something just like this.
Even if it took a warlord’s kiss to admit it.
CHAPTER 8
KALLUS
The clank of steel echoes off the walls of the lower chamber, syncing with the rhythm of my fists hammering into the slab of synth-stone mounted to the wall. My breaths come sharp. Ragged. I slam again. And again. Until tiny fractures ripple through the stone and my knuckles throb from impact.
TheRelentlesshums around me—engines groaning in the distance, crew stomping through halls above. But here, in the heart of the ship, there’s only me and the storm in my blood.
Why does she matter?
She’s soft. Human. Unfit to survive the arenas, let alone a Reaper warpath.
My claws flex, ripping grooves into the air as I whirl into a hook-kick that splinters the next training post clean in half. Splinters and sparks scatter across the floor.
Brom would say I’m losing control.
He’d be right.
I shouldn’t have kissed her in front of the crew. I shouldn’t have let her into my quarters, into my hands, into myhead. But it’s too late. She’s everywhere now.
I close my eyes and see the glint of light on her hair, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the tremble in her voice when she saysmy namelike it means something.
Ihatehow much I crave it.
A low growl escapes me.
I force myself still. Standing amid shattered debris and steam rising from the vents, I let the past creep in.
The rite. My first blooding.
I remember standing naked beneath the twin moons of Tyrannus, bone spurs still growing in, eyes unclouded by battle. The elders chanted as they marked my chest with oil and ash. They sang the old songs—songs of flame and bone, of mates found in war and bound by it. One elder whispered,You will not find her until your rage is ripe. Until your soul is ready.
I was too young then to understand. Too proud to care.
Now I understand.
A hiss behind me draws my attention.
Brom steps through the misted archway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “You’re going to crack the hull if you keep hitting things like that.”
I grunt, wiping sweat from my jaw.
