••••••
AMYE USES THE momentum he caused to bring her left leg around in a roundhouse kick against Reynard’s abdomen. He expels air from the impact.
I’m no weak little girl. Not anymore.
Two more kicks prevent a full intake breath before he locks his arm around her leg, driving her back into the grated floor.
Fabric tears as he shreds her dress. The silken material is abrasive against her neck, cutting off her airflow again. Reynard’s determined to choke the life out of her. None of her Calthos training prepared her against obstructed airway attacks. If Reynard understands her lapse in training, then he holds an advantage over her. He lifts her body into the air, slamming her into the grate. He does this again, driving all resistance from her. The light slips from her eyes.
Amye unclasps the holster strap, securing her blaster.
Reynard marches up the cargo ramp.
Amye draws her weapon. As the plasma burns across the cargo bay, smashing into Reynard, the romantic song ends.
••••••
AS IF JUST arriving in the cargo bay, Amye spots the fallen Reynard.
Scott secures her in a bear hug, flopping onto the ground in order to pin her. Doug struggles to pry the blaster from her fingers without it discharging.
Amye demands to be released.
“Let her up.” Reynard peels the burnt tee from his scalded stomach flesh. The woven plasma-resistant fibers did their job preventing full penetration of the beam on a low setting. He marches toward her.
Before Amye embraces her captain, he laces his fingers around her throat. Her eyes melt into disbelief. She tugs at his arm, unable to break the vise squeezing closed her carotid arteries. Unable to formulate an escape, Amye contemplates the reasons why the man she cared for, who made her a part of his crew, would now end her life. Her body drops from lack of blood to her brain. If she doesn’t act, she’s going to die. Finally accepting her feelings for her lost captain prevents her quick response.
“Why?” she chokes out.
He flings her.
Amye crumples to the floor. A half-dozen thoughts tears at her brain. She wants to massage her throat, but more importantly, she needs to understand—why. The curve of his military boot meets with her abdomen. Her training with Joe has toughened her body.
The blow stings.
Not as bad as his accusatory words of her infidelities.
Those shouldn’t matter. Who I was before I joined his crew shouldn’t matter. What matters is my never-ending search for him after the Sandmen stole him from Summersun. I never wanted to stop at the derelict ship. I wanted to continue to Guil III. To find him.
She rolls, avoiding a third boot hit. The second one she allowed will bruise. No one. Not even the man who rescued me from death will treat me this way again. She scissors her legs in order to position her body, allowing her to flip to her feet. The movement bends her in half, burning pain through her stomach from the impacts. Ignoring the pain, she draws into a defensive kata. Betrayal burns her worse than the connecting punch.
I should have blocked it. Her time with the master warrior’s instruction has enhanced her skill in a few short months.
She intercepts his next blow. Part of her doesn’t want to hurt him. Even if those sentiments are farcical. He’s stronger and faster, proven by his grip on her hair to hold her head in place as he bashes her. Blood trickles from the cut in her cheek and flows from her nose. She gives up counting the barrages of punches leaving her in a disheveled heap on the floor.
Amye’s never squared against such a tough opponent. She staggers to her feet. She casts off her desire to have an emotional connection with Reynard, drawing her body into an attack posture before releasing a swing full of all her energy. He catches her wrist, twisting her arm to shift her body weight off-balance. With his free hand, he unfurls her fingers, gripping the pinky finger. The snap echoes through her body. The carrot crack leaves the digit dangling, limp.
Water clouds her vision.
He bends the ring finger back, touching the tip to her wrist.
Overshadowing the new pain, her brain demands she utilize her three remaining limbs.
Kick.
Punch.
Bite.
Something…anything.
Shoot him!
He controls her left hand. I’m right-handed. On her right hip, secure in its holster, is her blaster.
Without hesitating, she points it at her captain’s forehead. Pointing it is one thing; firing on the man with whom, if recovered, she promised to share how she felt is another.
He unleashes his cocky smile. Not a charming smile. The one he flashes when he reminds everyone he’s about to attempt something no sane Osirian would contemplate.
She loves that smile.
As if to test if she could shoot him, he grips her middle finger. Just the grip radiates pain from the other broken two. He wrenches the finger as if twisting off a pickle jar lid.
Amye tenses her trigger finger, mustering her resolve. No amount of kindness he demonstrated toward her in the past grants him permission to abuse her now. No amount of fire in her loins allows him privilege to inflict pain on her.
The final rotation of her middle digit forces her to jerk the trigger instead of giving a smooth, controlled squeeze. Burnt ozone accompanies the beam of plasma. She doesn’t miss, but the spasm means that her aim’s off kilter, burning the side of Reynard’s head. Forced to release her, he uses both hands to pat out the singed hairs.
••••••
AMYE GRABS THE cage bars. The prison allows her to stand, maybe kneel, but not lie down. Peering into darkness, she spots nothing to inform her of her location. She rubs her neck. Nothing appears bruised or tender from the choking Reynard gave her. She palpitates her abdomen, finding no soreness from his boot impact. How did
