Chapter 1

Georgia 

“Hand over the holonet feed—or I’ll shred it myself.”

The second the words leave his mouth, I know I’m screwed.

And not in the fun, forget-your-name, someone-get-the-silk-handcuffs way. No. I’m screwed like a blown engine on a joyride through the Badlands—burning, billowing, and entirely out of control.

A shadow blocks my light. Towering. Armor-slick. Weapon-laden. The Reaper pirate who just boarded my transport shuttle doesn't need to raise his voice; his growl grinds down the metal nerves in my spine like an orbital sander on overdrive. Still, I keep my recorder tight in my grip. Like hell I’m letting this bastard delete my footage.

“Easy,” I say, raising my hands slowly, one still holding the holonet feed controller. “This is an independent news feed. I’ve got rights. Civilian protections under the—”

“Under what?” he interrupts. His voice is all gravel and lightning. “Galactic Council law?”

I swallow. “Yes?”

He steps closer.

“Then let me introduce myself properly. I’m Captain Lanz of The Ravager. We don’t give a karnok’s ass about the Galactic Council out here.”

He smells like leather, ozone, and testosterone poisoning. I hate how my knees feel just a little like soup. His armor is scarred black with jagged edges and spiked ridges, the kind Reapers wear not just for war, but for fun. And his eyes? Crimson. Glowing. Like some unholy hybrid of devil and disaster.

Worse still—my body likes it. I hate that I like it. But my pulse pounds in my neck, my skin heats, and every survival instinct I have seems to be screaming: yes, this one.

I straighten my spine. “Well, I’m Georgia Lancaster. GNH Field Reporter, Level Two Clearance, and—hey!”

Too late. He yanks the recorder out of my hand like it’s made of paper. I lunge, instinct overriding common sense, grabbing for it. I may be five-foot-six and built like a librarian with gym anxiety, but by god I am committed.

“Give. That. Back!”

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, tossing it to one of his crew. The smaller one—by Reaper standards, which means he’s merely massive, not skyscraper-level—snatches it and starts scanning it.

I turn on him, finger jabbing. “That’s journalistic property. You can’t just—”

He cuts me off again, this time by grabbing my wrist and yanking me forward. It’s not rough—not quite—but it’s firm. Like he knows I’ll bolt if he lets go. Which is accurate.

“You’re coming with me.”

“I am not. I’m—hey! I’m here covering a story!” I dig my heels in, which makes zero difference. “My sister is missing, and she was last seen on a Combine site near—”

“Your sister ain’t here,” he snaps. “And if she was smart, she got out weeks ago.”

The Reaper crew chuckles darkly as he drags me toward the hatch. I twist, wrenching around to face him. “I have rights! This is abduction! You’re violating, like, six interstellar codes right now!”

He actually laughs. A low, wicked sound that curls under my skin and makes everything worse in a very confusing, very inconvenient way.

“Human,” he says, “you talk too much.”

And with that, he stops me mid-stride. With one practiced motion, he spins me, shoves me against the wall, and cold metal clamps around my wrists. Manacles. Smooth, firm, tight.

“What the hell!” I shout, twisting. “You can’t—”

Then comes the collar. It’s thick, black, and when the leash clicks into place, I nearly choke on outrage... and something far more dangerous.

My thighs clench. My pulse slams. My entire nervous system buzzes. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing. But I can’t stop the heat blooming in my stomach, the way my traitor body arches ever so slightly into the touch.

The Reapers are watching. Laughing. I want to scream, to claw, to bite—and also to fall on my knees and beg.

“You bastard,” I spit.

He just smirks. “Welcome to life as my pet.”

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They call it The Ravager, but it might as well be called The Compensator. The ship is ridiculously huge—shaped like a weaponized stingray and bristling with enough firepower to make a small moon nervous. I’d roll my eyes if my neck weren’t constrained by a thick black collar that clinks every time I turn my head.

My wrists are still shackled behind my back, and he walks in front of me holding the leash like it’s just another Tuesday.

“Try to keep up, Human,” he growls over his shoulder, never breaking stride.

I do. Partly because I refuse to be dragged like a sack of space potatoes—and partly because I’ve got this low-level panic humming just beneath my skin. The leash tightens if I fall behind. The manacles dig in when I move too fast. And my brain? It’s doing an incredible job of screaming get out and jump him at the same time.

It’s the worst kind of contradiction. I should hate this. I do hate this. The whole being-collared-by-a-space-warlord thing isn’t exactly the dream. But my pulse says otherwise. My breath comes faster than it should. And every step he takes, I find myself staring at his broad back, the flex of muscle beneath that scarred armor, and thinking things like: He could do anything to me right now. Anything.

And that maybe—I wouldn’t stop him.

Which is disturbing. And possibly some kind of intergalactic Stockholm flu.

He leads me through the corridors, each one pulsing with dim red lights and the occasional Reaper pirate who pretends not to stare as I pass. I hold my head high, like dignity’s something I still have. Each guard post, every blast door, every access panel—I clock them all.

Because while I’m internally fantasizing about how his hands might feel if they were doing literally anything but dragging me to pirate jail, I’m still Georgia Lancaster. And I don’t go down without documenting everything first.

“You realize I’m still reporting, right?” I mutter as we stop outside a lift. The leash jerks lightly as he hits the call button. “This whole thing? All going on the record.”

He doesn’t even look at me. “What, gonna whine about pirates being pirates?”

“I’m going to expose what’s happening in the Badlands. You people are being squeezed out. Territory’s shrinking. Combine’s advancing. You’re being erased.”

He pauses, turning slowly. His eyes gleam in the low light—crimson and cutting. “You’re not wrong,” he says. “But that doesn’t make you safe.”

The lift opens. He yanks the leash gently and I follow, trying to pretend my legs aren’t jelly. I can feel every inch of him beside me, radiating heat and danger and something that short-circuits my brain.

We arrive at what I assume is the brig. Except, it’s… weirdly nice?

There’s a cot with sheets. A clean water basin. Even a plush chair. I blink. “What is this? The luxury suite of doom?”

“You’re a guest,” he says, walking me in. “Not a prisoner.”

I laugh. Bitter, breathless. “Is this a Reaper version of foreplay? Because newsflash—I’m not into leash kink.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t shut up, do you?”

“Only when I’m—”

He steps forward. Fast. I instinctively backpedal, but the leash snaps taut and jerks me to a stop.

My heart lurches. He’s inches from me now. I feel him watching every twitch of my mouth, every rapid rise of my chest.

He leans in. Voice low. “Careful, Human. You're one purr away from asking me to prove it.”

I hate the heat that floods me. The rush that follows. I hate that I want him to.

He reaches for the wall panel, slaps it. The door hisses shut between us, cutting me off mid-glare.

Hours pass. Maybe. Time bends in weird directions when you’re stuck in a plush brig, adrenaline crashing, heart pounding, and your wrists tingling from restraints that are no longer there—but might as well be.

He took them off. The manacles. The leash. Wordlessly. Like it was a chore, like I was a cargo delivery that needed unpacking. But the collar—he left that on.

Said it was for my protection.

I laughed in his face. Or tried to. It came out half-hearted. The truth is, I knew exactly what it meant the second it locked with a subtle hiss. Not just a restraint. A message. A warning. She’s mine. Don’t touch.

And god help me, some small, shamefully turned-on part of me liked it.

I pace the room, stretching out stiff muscles, running through worst-case scenarios. I try my bracelet. No connection. Blocked. Reapers might be blunt, but they’re not stupid.

Eventually, the door hisses open.

It’s him again. Of course.

He stands in the doorway like he owns it—and everything in it. Arms crossed. Eyes shadowed. That collar on my neck feels like it gets tighter just from the way he’s looking at me.

“You calm yet?”

I arch a brow. “You gonna give me back my recorder?”

“Nope.”

“Then no.”

He strides in. Smooth. Effortless. Like gravity bends for him. I back up a step before I can stop myself, and hate how my body reacts—heat flaring in my cheeks, legs going traitor-soft. My thoughts feel like a scramble of bad decisions wrapped in curiosity and sex dreams.

“You mentioned a sister,” he says.

The reminder knocks the haze from my brain. “Yeah. Jasmine. She was working for the Combine. Went off-grid two weeks ago.”

“Name’s familiar,” he murmurs. “There were reports of a female taken off a Combine supply vessel last cycle. Thought she was a contractor.”

“She is,” I say. “Was. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You think the Reapers took her?”

“I think someone wants me to think that.”

He studies me for a long beat. His gaze dips to the collar, then flicks up to my face. He’s not leering. Not exactly. But there’s a charge in the air now—like the moment before a storm, or a kiss, or a mistake you know you’re going to make twice.

“I can ask around,” he says. His voice is lower now. Rougher. “But it won’t be free.”

I swallow. “Nothing ever is.”

The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled tight. My breath stutters. I can see his pulse beating at his throat. Can feel mine hammering everywhere.

“Why are you really here?” he asks.

“My sister,” I say again. But it comes out soft this time. Shaky.

He nods slowly. Deliberate. Measured. Like he’s weighing more than just my words.

“And if I help you?”

I lift my chin. My voice wants to wobble, but I make it hold steady. “Then I tell the truth. About the Combine. About what they’re doing out here. And maybe… about the Reapers too.”

His jaw tightens. His expression flickers—just for a second. Then it hardens again. Controlled. Dangerous.

“You sure you’re ready to know the truth?”

“Are you?”