The cold woke her.
Stone against her back, the kind of cold that seeps through cloth and into bone, and Rey's eyes snapped open to darkness and a low mechanical hum that vibrated up through the floor and into her skull. She tried to draw on the Force—that familiar current, that living tide that had answered her every call for years—and found nothing.
Dead wire.
The connection was simply gone, severed at the root, and the absence was so total that her mind reeled against it. She reached again, grasping for the current that had always been there, the constant companion of her solitude, and her hand closed on emptiness. The hum pressed against her ears. Force-dampened. She knew the theory, had heard the whispers of such places, places where the Jedi's power meant nothing.
Her wrists were free. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, the stone scraping her palms, and the chamber swam into focus: bare walls, a single dim light somewhere above, and the shape of a man standing over her.
Davin Kross.
She knew the face from wanted posters and barroom whispers—the Reaper, they called him, and the name had never been poetry. Grey eyes flat as hammered metal, short black hair, a lean frame that carried its violence like a coat. His scarred hands hung at his sides, and he watched her wake the way a mechanic watches a droid power up.
"You," she said, and her voice came out rougher than she wanted.
He didn't answer. He moved.
His hand closed around her ankle, and the grip was iron, the scars on his palm rough against her skin. He dragged her across the floor, her body sliding over cold stone, her spine jarring against every imperfection in the rock. She clawed at the ground, fingers scraping, nails catching, finding nothing to hold. Her legs kicked, but her limbs felt like lead, the dampener pressing down on her muscles as surely as it pressed on her mind.
He stopped when her head was near his boots. He looked down at her, that flat grey gaze, and then he reached for the hem of her tunic.
She grabbed his wrist. Her grip was weak, her fingers barely able to close around the scarred bone, and he didn't even seem to notice. He peeled the tunic up, the fabric dragging over her stomach, her ribs, the cool air hitting her skin, and she felt the first true spike of fear—not the adrenaline of a fight, but the cold, certain knowledge that she was not going to win this.
"You're going to regret this," she hissed.
He pulled the tunic over her head, leaving her in nothing but her trousers and the thin band of her breastwrap. The stone was cold against her bare back. He looked at her, and there was nothing in his eyes—no hunger, no anger, no amusement. Just the flat efficiency of a man doing a job.
"You don't know what I am," she said, and her voice shook. "You don't know what I've done."
He reached down and closed his hand around her wrist. Then the other. He pinned them both above her head with one hand, his grip like a vice, and she felt the weight of him settle over her—not heavy, but present. His knee forced her thighs apart, and she tried to close them, tried to fight, but her body wouldn't obey. The dampener had turned her muscles to water.
His other hand found her breast.
The touch was clinical at first, his palm flat against the curve of her, and then his thumb found her nipple through the thin fabric of the breastwrap. He circled it slowly, deliberately, and she felt the traitorous response in her own body—a tightening, a heat that had no business being there. She bit down on the inside of her cheek.
"Get your hands off me."
He didn't answer. His thumb kept circling, and then he pulled the breastwrap down, baring her to the cold air. Her nipple hardened, and she hated herself for it, hated the way her body betrayed her. His thumb found the bare skin now, rough and calloused, and he rolled the nipple between his fingers, watching her face the whole time.
"I'll kill you," she breathed. "The moment this dampener is off, I will kill you."
His eyes didn't change. His thumb kept working, and then he leaned down, and his mouth found her breast.
She gasped. The heat of his mouth against the cold air, the rough drag of his tongue over her nipple, and she arched despite herself, her body responding before her mind could stop it. He sucked, hard, and she felt it pull low in her belly, a heat that spread through her like a stain.
"Stop," she said, and her voice cracked. "Stop."
He didn't stop. He switched to the other breast, his hand still pinning her wrists, his knee still forcing her thighs apart. She could feel the rough fabric of his trousers against the inside of her leg, and beneath it, the hard line of him, and she knew what was coming. The weight of him settled lower, and she felt his knee press harder, spreading her wider, and she heard the sound of his zipper.
The sound was obscene in the quiet chamber—metal teeth separating, the rustle of fabric, and then the weight of him against her thigh, bare and hot.
She went still.
"Don't," she said, and it came out small, a word she'd never thought she'd say. "Don't do this."
He shifted his weight, his hand leaving her breast, and she felt his fingers at the waistband of her trousers. He pulled them down, and the cold air hit her bare hips, and she tried to twist away, tried to fight, but there was nowhere to go. His knee was between her thighs, and his hand was on her hip, and she felt the head of his cock press against her, blunt and unyielding.
"Please," she said, and the word tasted like ash. "Please."
He looked at her. His grey eyes were flat, empty, and he held her gaze as he pushed.
She was dry. There was no slickness, no give, just the harsh resistance of her body refusing him, and he pushed anyway. The pain was white and immediate, a tearing burn that made her see stars, and she screamed—a raw, animal sound that echoed off the stone walls. Her body tried to close around him, tried to push him out, but his weight was immovable, his hand on her hip like a brand, and he forced his way into her inch by brutal inch.
She screamed again, her back arching off the stone, her wrists twisting in his grip, and the sound of it died in the hum of the dampener, swallowed by the cold chamber that had been built for this—for her.
He was inside her. The reality of it crashed through the pain like a wave through a seawall—not the threat of it, not the promise of it, but the fact. His cock buried to the root in her dry, resisting flesh, and she could feel every inch of him, the heat of him, the pulse of him against the raw walls of her cunt. Her body shuddered around the intrusion, trying to expel him, and failing.
He didn't move. He held himself still inside her, his weight braced on one arm, his grey eyes watching her face with that same flat, clinical attention. She could see herself reflected in them—small, broken, spread open beneath him on the cold stone. The hum of the dampener filled the silence between them.
"Please," she whispered again, and the word was barely a breath now, scraped raw by the screaming. "Please don't."
His thumb found her hip, tracing a slow circle over the bone. The touch was almost gentle, and that was worse than the violence. It was patient. It was the touch of a man who had all the time in the galaxy.
"You were so loud," he said, and his voice was low, almost conversational. "All those stories about the Jedi who brought down the First Order. The one who pulled a Star Destroyer out of the sky." He shifted his weight slightly, and she felt him move inside her, a minute adjustment that sent a fresh spike of pain through her pelvis. "They never mention how quiet you get when it's just your body."
She wanted to spit at him. She wanted to tell him he would die for this, that the moment the dampener failed she would tear him apart with her bare hands. But her throat was closed, her jaw locked, and all she could do was lie there and take the slow, deliberate way he pulled out of her—just an inch, just enough to feel the drag of his cock against her abused walls—and pushed back in.
Her hands clenched above her head, her fingers curling into fists against the stone. The pain was still there, a deep, burning ache, but something else was creeping in beneath it now. A slickness. A give. Her body, betraying her one cell at a time, was making room for him.
He felt it too. She saw it in the slight shift of his expression, the way his eyes narrowed. He pulled out again, farther this time, until only the head of his cock remained inside her, and then he pushed back in with a slow, grinding pressure that made her gasp—not a scream, but a sound she hated herself for making.
"There it is," he murmured, and his hand left her hip, sliding up her stomach, over her ribs, coming to rest on her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there, his thumb on her pulse, feeling the way it hammered against his scarred skin. "Your body knows what it's for."
"No," she said, and her voice cracked on the word. "It doesn't."
He didn't argue. He just began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that pressed against her in ways she didn't want to feel—deep, searching, finding the places inside her that had never been touched, that had never been opened, and forcing them wide. The pain was still there, but it was fading now, drowned out by a different kind of sensation, a heat that built low in her belly and spread outward like a stain.
She closed her eyes. She couldn't watch him anymore—couldn't watch the flat grey gaze that saw right through her, that saw the arousal she was trying so desperately to deny. But with her eyes closed, she felt everything more acutely. The drag of his cock against her slickening walls. The weight of his hand on her throat. The scrape of his jacket against her thighs as he moved above her.
His rhythm quickened. The grinding pressure became something harder, more insistent, and she heard the sound of his breathing change—still controlled, still measured, but rougher now. He was enjoying this. She could feel it in the way he moved, the way he held her down, the way his thumb pressed just slightly harder against her windpipe.
"Look at me," he said, and his voice was a command now, stripped of its conversational ease.
She kept her eyes closed.
His hand left her throat. For a moment she thought he was done, that he would pull out and leave her broken on the stone, but instead his fingers found her jaw and forced her head around, turning her face toward him. She opened her eyes, and he was right there, his face inches from hers, his grey eyes burning with something that wasn't quite hunger—something colder, more deliberate.
"I want you to see who's doing this to you," he said, and he pushed into her harder, a stroke that drove the breath from her lungs. "I want you to remember the face of the man who broke you."
The words hit her like a blow. She felt something crack inside her—not her body, but something else, something she'd never had to protect before because no one had ever been strong enough to reach it. The Force was gone, and with it, everything she had been. Everything she had built. She was just flesh now, just a body on a stone floor, being used by a man who had planned this—who had built this chamber, this dampener, this moment—for her.
"Why?" she asked, and her voice was barely a whisper, cracked and raw. "Why me?"
He didn't answer. He just kept moving, his rhythm steady and relentless, and she felt the heat building inside her again, that traitorous response that she couldn't stop, couldn't control. Her hips began to move with him, a small, unconscious motion that she hated herself for, and he felt it. His eyes darkened, and he drove into her harder, faster, the sound of his body slapping against hers filling the chamber.
"That's it," he breathed, and there was something almost like satisfaction in his voice. "Let go. Stop fighting it."
She shook her head, her hair scraping against the stone, but her body kept moving with him, kept meeting his thrusts, kept opening for him. She could feel herself getting wetter, slicker, and the shame of it burned through her like acid. She was supposed to be stronger than this. She was Rey. She had faced down the Supreme Leader, had pulled a Star Destroyer out of the sky, had stood in the wreckage of her own past and walked away.
And now she was here, spread open on a cold stone floor, letting a bounty hunter fuck her into submission.
"No," she gasped, but the word came out broken, and he didn't stop. He drove into her harder, his grip on her jaw tightening, and she felt the edge of something approaching—a pressure building at the base of her spine, a heat that threatened to consume her. She tried to fight it, tried to push it back, but her body had its own agenda now, its own hunger, and it didn't care what her mind wanted.
"You're close," he said, and it wasn't a question. He could feel it—the way her cunt clenched around him, the way her breathing quickened, the way her hips moved against his. "I can feel you. You're going to come on my cock, and then I'm going to fill you with my seed, and you're going to carry my child."
The words shattered something in her. She opened her mouth to scream, to deny him, to tell him he was insane, but all that came out was a broken sob as the climax crashed over her—a wave of pleasure so intense it stole the breath from her lungs, that made her back arch off the stone, that made her cunt clench around his cock in wave after wave of convulsive release.
Her body kept clenching around him long after the wave should have passed, each pulse a small convulsion she couldn't command, and through the ringing in her ears she heard him groan—a low, guttural sound that was the first crack in his clinical composure. His rhythm didn't stop. He drove into her through her orgasm, riding the convulsions, and she felt the pressure building in him, felt the way his cock swelled inside her, and she knew what was coming next.
"No," she said, but the word was a whimper, barely a shape around the air. "No, don't—"
He grabbed her hips with both hands, his fingers digging into the bone, and he pulled her onto him as he thrust deep, seating himself to the root. She felt the first hot pulse of his release, a flood of warmth spreading through her, and she cried out—not in pleasure, not in pain, but in something that was neither. He came inside her with a groan that was almost human, his body shuddering against hers, and she felt each pulse of him, each hot spill of seed, and she couldn't stop it, couldn't close herself against it, couldn't do anything but lie there and take it.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, his weight pressing her into the stone, his breath hot against her neck. She could feel the evidence of what he'd done leaking out of her, the wetness between her thighs, and the shame of it burned through her exhaustion. He pulled out slowly, and she felt the drag of his cock against her raw walls, felt the emptiness when he was gone, and she lay there, spread open on the cold stone, her thighs slick with his seed and her own arousal.
He stood. She heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of his clothing being straightened, and she couldn't bring herself to look at him. She stared at the ceiling instead, at the dim light that hung somewhere above, and she felt the hum of the dampener in her bones, the constant reminder that she was trapped here, that the Force was dead, that she was nothing but a body on a floor.
"That's one," he said, and his voice was calm again, clinical. "There will be more."
She closed her eyes. She felt the cold air on her bare skin, the wetness between her thighs starting to chill, the ache deep in her pelvis where he'd been. She heard his footsteps cross the chamber, heard a door open and close, and then there was only the hum of the dampener and the sound of her own breathing, ragged and broken in the silence.
She didn't know how long she lay there. Time had dissolved into the hum, into the cold seeping up through her back, into the ache between her thighs that throbbed with every heartbeat. She was still naked, still spread open on the stone, and she couldn't find the will to move, to cover herself, to do anything but breathe.
The door opened.
Her eyes snapped open. He stood in the threshold, silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor beyond, and she watched him cross the chamber toward her with that same unhurried stride. He'd taken off the jacket. The tactical undershirt clung to his lean frame, and his scarred hands hung at his sides, empty.
"No," she said, and the word came out cracked, barely a sound. "No more."
He didn't answer. He knelt beside her, and she tried to push herself up, tried to crawl away, but her arms gave out, her elbows buckling against the stone. He caught her by the waist and pulled her toward him, and she was too weak to resist, her body a dead weight in his hands.
"Please," she whispered, and the word was ash in her mouth. "Please, I can't—"
He ignored her. He pulled her up until she was kneeling before him, her bare thighs pressed against the cold stone, her breasts hanging heavy in the dim light. He undid his belt, the buckle clinking, and she heard the sound of his zipper again, that obscene metal rasp that she already knew too well.
He was hard. She didn't understand how—he'd just spent himself inside her, she'd felt him empty into her, but there he was, his cock jutting from his open trousers, thick and flushed, still slick with the evidence of what they'd done. He took himself in his scarred hand and pressed the head against her lips.
"Open your mouth," he said.
She shook her head. Her jaw was locked, her teeth clenched, and she stared up at him with all the hatred she could muster, which wasn't much. She was so tired. So empty. The Force was gone, and with it everything that had made her Rey.
He didn't force her jaw. He simply waited, watching her with that flat grey gaze, and then he slid the head of his cock along her lips, smearing the taste of himself across her mouth. The smell of him hit her—salt and musk and something darker, something that made her stomach turn and her thighs clench in the same breath.
"You'll open," he said, and his voice was calm, patient. "Or I'll make you. Either way, it ends the same."
She wanted to spit at him. She wanted to bite down, to feel his blood in her mouth, to make him hurt the way he'd hurt her. But her body was a traitor now, and it knew what it was for, and when he pressed against her lips again, they parted.
He pushed inside her mouth.
The taste of him flooded her tongue—salt and skin and the lingering musk of her own cunt, of what they'd done together. Her eyes watered, her throat convulsing against the intrusion, and she gagged, her hands flying up to grip his thighs, to push him away. He didn't move. He just held himself there, the head of his cock resting on her tongue, and watched her struggle.
"Breathe through your nose," he said, and it was almost gentle, almost kind, and that was the worst part. "Relax your throat. It gets easier."
She wanted to tell him she didn't want it to get easier. She wanted to tell him she would never let this get easier. But his cock was in her mouth, and the words came out as a gurgle, and he pushed deeper, the thick shaft sliding over her tongue, pressing against the back of her throat.
She gagged again, her body convulsing, her eyes streaming tears, and he pulled back just enough to let her breathe, then pushed in again, deeper this time. Her throat opened for him, muscles stretching, and she felt the head of his cock slide past the resistance, felt the weight of him filling her throat, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, couldn't do anything but take him.
"That's it," he murmured, and his hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair. "That's it. Take me deep."
He began to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drove his cock into her throat and pulled back just enough to let her gasp, then pushed in again. The rhythm was relentless, patient, and she felt herself choking on him, felt the tears streaming down her cheeks, felt the drool running from the corners of her mouth and dripping down her chin.
She tried to fight it. She tried to push him away, her hands flat against his thighs, but he was stronger, and her arms were so weak, and all she could do was kneel there and take him, her throat stretched around his cock, her body shuddering with each thrust.
"Look at me," he said, and his voice was rough now, stripped of its clinical calm. "I want to see your eyes when you take me."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were red, streaming tears, her mouth stretched obscenely around his cock, and she saw the satisfaction in his face, the dark pleasure that flickered in his grey eyes. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying watching her break.
His pace quickened. The thrusts became harder, deeper, and she felt his cock swelling in her throat, felt the pulse of him against her tongue, and she knew what was coming. She tried to pull back, tried to push him out, but his hand tightened in her hair, holding her in place, and he drove deep, seating himself to the root, his balls pressed against her chin.
"Swallow," he said, and it was a command, not a request. "Swallow every drop."
She couldn't. She couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, couldn't do anything but gag around him as the first hot pulse of his release flooded her throat. She felt it hit the back of her tongue, felt it spill down her throat in thick, hot waves, and she choked, her body convulsing, but he held her there, his cock buried to the root, and made her take it.
She swallowed. She didn't want to, but her throat convulsed around him, and she felt the cum slide down, hot and thick, coating her throat. He came in long, pulsing waves, his body shuddering above her, and she swallowed again, and again, until there was nothing left, until she felt his cock soften in her mouth and he pulled out with a wet sound.
She collapsed forward, her hands catching her weight on the stone, her mouth open, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Cum and drool dripped from her lips, and she could taste him still, that salt and musk, could feel him in her throat, and she couldn't stop the sob that tore out of her.
He tucked himself away, the sound of his zipper loud in the quiet chamber. She heard him move, and then she felt his hand on her chin, tilting her face up, making her look at him.
"That's two," he said, and his voice was calm again, clinical. "You're doing well."
She wanted to kill him. She wanted to find the strength to rise, to wrap her hands around his throat, to watch the life drain from those flat grey eyes. But she couldn't move. She could barely breathe. She knelt there, broken on the cold stone, and she felt his hand leave her chin, felt him stand, felt the absence of him like a wound.
He said something else, but the words didn't reach her. The hum of the dampener swallowed them, and her vision blurred, and she felt herself tipping forward, felt the stone rising to meet her, felt the cold on her cheek, and then nothing.
She dreamed of the desert. Of heat and sand and the endless blue sky, of a life before all this, when she'd been no one, when she'd been free. She dreamed of a voice calling her name, and she turned, and there was nothing there. Just the wind. Just the sand. Just the vast, empty silence.
When she woke, the chamber was different.
She was lying on something soft—a cot, thin and lumpy, but softer than the stone. A blanket covered her, rough wool that scratched her skin, and she was clean, or nearly so, the stickiness between her thighs washed away. She lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, and she felt the hum of the dampener in her bones, the constant presence of it, the reminder that she was still trapped here, still powerless.
She didn't know how long she'd been unconscious. Hours, maybe. A day. The dim light above her gave no clue, and there was no window, no way to mark the passage of time. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her body aching, her throat raw, and she looked around the chamber.
It was the same room. The same bare walls, the same stone floor. But there was a tray on the floor near the door—a bowl of something that steamed faintly, a cup of water. She stared at it for a long moment, and then she forced herself to her feet, her legs trembling, and crossed the chamber to it.
She didn't want to eat. She didn't want to accept anything from him. But her body was starving, and she knew, with a dull certainty, that she would need her strength. She knelt and picked up the bowl, and it was some kind of stew, bland and lukewarm, and she ate it with her fingers, too hungry to care.
The days blurred together after that.
He came to her when he wanted her. Sometimes it was quick—a hand on her breast, a knee between her thighs, the weight of him on top of her as he took her on the cot. Sometimes it was slow, drawn out, his mouth on her skin, his fingers inside her, making her come again and again until she was sobbing, until she didn't know where her pleasure ended and her pain began. She stopped counting the times. She stopped counting the days. She stopped fighting.
She stopped feeling.
The first time she missed her cycle, she told herself it was the stress. The second month, she told herself the same. But by the third, she knew. She felt the change in her body, the heaviness in her breasts, the nausea that rose in the mornings, and she lay on the cot with her hand on her belly and felt the truth of it like a wound.
She was pregnant.
He knew before she told him. She saw it in his eyes when he came to her, the way his gaze dropped to her belly, the way his hand found it, resting there, possessive. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her, and she saw the satisfaction in his face, the dark triumph, and she wanted to scream.
"You did this," she said, and her voice was flat, hollow. "You did this to me."
"I told you," he said, and his hand traced a slow circle on her belly. "You're going to carry my child."
She closed her eyes. She felt the weight of his hand, the warmth of it, the life growing inside her, and she felt something in her chest crack, something that had been holding her together, something that had kept her fighting. It gave way, and she was empty, hollow, a shell of the person she'd been.
The months passed. Her belly swelled, and he was gentler with her now, his hands softer, his voice lower. He brought her better food, warmer blankets. He didn't take her as often, and when he did, it was careful, slow, his hand on her belly the whole time, as if he was protecting what was his.
She hated him. She hated him more with every passing day, with every kick of the child inside her, with every moment she spent in that chamber, waiting. But she couldn't fight. She couldn't run. She was trapped, and she was weak, and the Force was dead, and she was nothing.
The labor came in the night, a tearing pain that ripped through her belly, and she screamed, and he was there, his scarred hands on her, his voice low and steady, telling her to push. She pushed, and she screamed, and she pushed again, and then there was a cry—a thin, reedy wail that cut through the hum of the dampener—and she felt the weight of him lift off her, and she saw the child in his arms.
A girl. Tiny and red and perfect, her fists clenched, her eyes squeezed shut. Rey reached for her, her arms trembling, and he let her hold her, just for a moment, just long enough to feel the warmth of her, the weight of her, the impossible fact of her.
"She's beautiful," Rey whispered, and her voice broke. "She's so beautiful."
He took the child from her arms. She tried to hold on, tried to keep her, but he was gentle and inexorable, and she was so weak, and the child slipped away. She watched him wrap her in a blanket, watched him hold her to his chest, and she felt the cold seep into her bones.
"What are you doing?" she asked, and her voice was small, cracked. "What are you doing with her?"
He didn't answer. He looked at her, his grey eyes flat, empty, and she saw the truth in them, the plan that had been there all along, and she understood.
"No," she said, and she tried to rise, tried to reach for him, but her body wouldn't obey. "No, you can't—she's mine—"
He turned and walked toward the door. She dragged herself off the cot, her legs giving out, her belly cramping, and she crawled after him, her fingers scraping the stone, her tears falling hot on her cheeks. She reached the door just as it slid open, and she saw the corridor beyond, and she saw him walking away, the child in his arms.
"Please," she sobbed, and the word was a broken thing, a sound she'd made a hundred times in this chamber. "Please, don't take her. Don't take her from me."
He didn't stop. He didn't turn. He walked down the corridor, and the door slid closed behind him, and she was alone in the chamber, alone with the hum of the dampener and the ache in her empty arms and the silence.
She lay there on the cold stone, and she wept. She wept until there was nothing left, until her body was hollow, until the tears ran dry. And then she heard it—a sound she'd never heard before, a sound that made her blood run cold.
The hum stopped.
The silence was deafening. She lifted her head, her breath catching, and she felt it—a faint stirring, a distant current, like a river she'd forgotten was there. The Force. It was coming back.
She pushed herself up, her body screaming, and she felt the power flood into her, filling the empty spaces, making her whole again. She was weak, so weak, but she was Rey. She was the one who had pulled a Star Destroyer out of the sky. She was the one who had faced down the Supreme Leader.
She rose to her feet, and she walked to the door, and she reached out with the Force, and the door slid open.
The corridor was empty. She followed it, her bare feet silent on the cold metal, and she found the hatch that led to the surface, and she pushed it open, and the light hit her—harsh and bright, the light of a distant sun, the light of a moon she'd never seen before.
She stepped out, and she saw the ship. A small freighter, its ramp lowering, and she saw him standing at the top of it, the child in his arms, silhouetted against the sky.
"Davin," she said, and her voice was a command now, filled with the Force. "Give me my daughter."
He didn't move. He looked at her, and she saw the fear flicker in his grey eyes, the first crack in his composure, and she felt the power surge through her, ready to strike him down.
And then she felt it. A cold hand closing around her throat. A pressure in her chest, in her lungs, in her blood. The dampener wasn't fully off. There was another one, hidden, and she felt her power drain out of her, felt her knees buckle, felt herself falling.
He caught her. His arms closed around her, and she was too weak to fight, and he carried her to the ship, up the ramp, into the cold metal belly of it. She felt the child against her chest, felt the tiny warmth of her, and she held on, just for a moment.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was almost soft. "It's better this way."
She didn't understand. She felt him take the child from her, felt the cold air on her skin, and then she felt the ship shudder, and she heard the sound of an airlock opening, and she felt herself lifted, carried, thrown.
The void took her.
She fell, and the stars rushed past her, and she felt the cold seep into her bones, felt the air leave her lungs, felt the darkness close around her. She looked up, and she saw the ship growing smaller, and she saw him standing in the open airlock, the child in his arms, and she reached out, reaching for her daughter, reaching for the life she'd made, reaching for anything.
And then there was nothing.
Just the void. Just the stars. Just the silence.