Chapter 11: Unwanted Orders
The purple flare felt like a second heartbeat against her chest for the rest of the day. Its presence was a constant, low hum beneath the routine tasks of the survey, a secret she carried through the measuring of river widths and the sketching of eroded cliffs. Levi gave no further sign, his attention rigidly fixed on the landscape and the horizon.
They made camp that night in a shallow basin, the high ground offering a clear view of the plains. The fire was a small, defiant eye in the vast dark. Eld told a rambling story about a gambling debt involving a Military Police officer and three chickens. Oluo, as usual, tried to one-up him. Laughter, thin but genuine, crackled with the sparks into the black sky.
Amiya was mending a torn strap on her harness, the needle moving in and out of the leather in rhythm with the story, when the sentry’s low whistle cut through the chatter.
Two horses materialized from the gloom beyond the firelight. The figure in front was unmistakable even before he dismounted: the broad shoulders, the sweep of blond hair, the deliberate, unhurried grace. Commander Erwin Smith swung down from his saddle, his single remaining hand passing the reins to his aide, a young man who hovered at the edge of the light.
The camp fell silent. Visits from the Commander on routine surveys were not routine.
Levi stood. He didn’t look surprised. “Commander.”
“Captain.” Erwin’s voice was a calm, level baritone that somehow filled the basin. He nodded to the rest of the squad. “At ease. This isn’t a formal inspection.” His blue eyes, pale and penetrating in the firelight, swept over them, lingering for a fraction of a second on Amiya before returning to Levi. “I need to debrief your team on the Forest of Giant Trees operation. Some… discrepancies in the filed reports require clarification.”
There was a collective, almost imperceptible stiffening. Discrepancies was a word that carried weight, and consequence.
“We wrote what happened,” Eld said, his usual confidence tempered by caution.
“I know what you wrote,” Erwin said, moving to stand near the fire. He warmed his hand, his expression neutral. “I need to understand what you saw. The finer details. Individually.” He gestured to the folding table they used for maps, set up just outside the main ring of firelight. “Private Ito. Let’s start with you.”
Amiya’s needle slipped, pricking her thumb. A bead of blood welled. She set the harness aside and stood, dusting off her trousers. Levi was watching Erwin, his face a mask of stone.
She followed the Commander to the table. He sat on one crate, indicating for her to take the other opposite him. From his coat, he produced a slim folder and laid it open. It was the after-action report from the forest mission, her own neat script visible alongside Levi’s sharper annotations.
“Your account of the Titan’s reaction to the net launchers is very precise,” Erwin began, his tone conversational. “You noted a hesitation in its left leg before the secondary bindings engaged. No one else mentioned that.”
“It was only a second, sir. I was positioned to see it.”
“Precisely. It’s the seconds that interest me.” He leaned forward slightly, the firelight carving deep shadows under his cheekbones. “Tell me about its eyes. From your angle.”
And so it went. He asked about the sound of the cables, the texture of the steam it emitted when first restrained, the exact sequence of its struggles. His questions were like surgical tools, precise and probing, digging for details she hadn’t realized she’d memorized. He was building a different kind of map, one of behavior, of instinct.
After twenty minutes, he closed the folder. “Thank you, Private. Your observational skills are exceptional.” He paused. “They’re a resource we have underutilized.”
Before she could process the comment, he spoke again, his voice dropping, losing its interrogative edge and gaining something more formidable: a tone of simple, immutable fact.
“I have a new assignment for you. A solo reconnaissance.”
The words hung in the cold air. Amiya felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Sir?”
“North of here, beyond the Red River. There’s a canyon system we’ve never properly charted. Recent… patterns suggest it may be in use as a migratory route. We need eyes on it. A single scout, moving fast and quiet, has the best chance of gathering useful intelligence and returning undetected.”
“A solo mission into suspected Titan territory?” The question came from behind her. Levi had approached, silent as a shadow. He stood just at the edge of the table, his arms crossed. His voice was dangerously flat.
“Confirmed Titan territory, Captain,” Erwin corrected, meeting his gaze without flinching. “The intelligence is reliable. The value is proportional to the risk.”
“The risk is suicide. You’re sending a single soldier into a canyon maze based on ‘patterns’.” Levi didn’t raise his voice. Each word was a chipped piece of ice.
“I am assigning a soldier with proven observational skills, competent ODM capability, and a low profile.” Erwin’s gaze flicked back to Amiya. “It is not a combat mission. It is a mission of witness. In and out. Three days maximum.”
“And if she’s seen?”
“Then we will have confirmed the pattern at the cost of one soldier, instead of an entire squad.”
The brutal, arithmetic logic of it landed on the table between them. Amiya stared at the grain of the wood, her mind racing. The purple flare burned against her skin.
Levi’s hand came down on the table, not a slam, but a firm, final placement. “No.”
“It’s not a request, Captain. It’s an order from your Commander.”
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the pop of the fire. The rest of the squad were statues, pretending not to listen.
Levi’s jaw was rigid. He looked from Erwin to Amiya, his grey eyes blazing in the dim light. Then, he pulled out the crate beside her and sat down. The movement brought him close, his knee almost brushing hers under the small table. He leaned forward, his focus entirely on Erwin, but his hand, hidden from the Commander’s view by the table and the fall of his cloak, found her wrist.
His fingers circled it, his grip not tight, but absolute. A containment. A tether. His thumb pressed against the frantic pulse jumping under her skin. It began to move, a slow, deliberate stroke across the vulnerable inner part of her wrist. A steady, silent rhythm. Be still. I am here.
“The canyon system,” Levi said, his voice now all lethal calm. “What’s the entry point?”
Erwin, if he noticed anything, gave no sign. He unfolded a map, pointing to a jagged cleft. “Here. The river narrows. She can scale the eastern wall.”
“Scaling exposes her for too long. Use the waterfall basin, half a mile south. It’s deeper, provides sound cover. The approach is through the thicker tree line.” Levi’s thumb continued its slow arc. Amiya’s breath began to synchronize with it.
“The tree line adds a day to the insertion.”
“It adds a chance of survival to the insertion.” Levi’s fingers tightened, just for a second. “You want a witness, not a martyr. The route out is more critical. The western ridge is a wind tunnel. Predictable updrafts. If she has to run, she’ll need the extra lift.”
He was negotiating. Not the mission, but its parameters. Carving out millimeters of safety from a plan built on sacrifice. His technical expertise was a shield, wielded with cold, furious precision. Every topographical feature he cited, every adjustment he demanded, was a brick in a wall between her and the abyss.
Erwin listened, nodding slowly. He knew he was being managed, and he allowed it, because the management improved the odds of the mission’s success. “Agreed. The western ridge for egress.”
“And she takes double the standard smoke canisters. And a phosphorus marker for the drop point. If we’re coming for extraction, we need to see it through the canyon haze.”
“Granted.”
The negotiation continued, a clinical dissection of doom. Amiya sat between them, the silent object of their calculus. The warmth of Levi’s hand on her wrist was the only real thing in the world. His thumb never stopped its motion, a secret conversation beneath the table. You are not going into the dark alone. I am mapping you out. I am bringing you back.
Finally, it was done. The plan was amended, hardened, made marginally less impossible. Erwin stood. “You leave at first light, Private Ito. Travel light. Your squad will remain here as your quick-reaction force, should the need arise.” He looked at Levi. “Captain, you have your orders.”
He turned and walked back to his aide, leaving them at the table.
Levi did not let go of her wrist. Not immediately. He waited until Erwin was swallowed by the darkness beyond the horses. Then, his grip shifted, turning her hand over. He pressed something into her palm and folded her fingers over it. It was a small, sharp whetstone.
“Check your blades tonight,” he said, his voice low and rough. “All of them.” He released her and stood, turning toward the fire where the others sat in stunned silence. “Oluo. You’re on first watch. Gunther, check the perimeter tripwires. Eld, break out the reserve rations. We’re on standby protocol now.”
He began issuing orders, reclaiming the camp, building structure around the chaos. Amiya looked down at the whetstone in her hand. It was just a tool. It was also a promise. A promise that her blades would be sharp. That she would be prepared. That the person who gave it to her would move heaven and earth to ensure she had a reason to use them.
She closed her fist around it, the rough edges biting familiarly into her skin. Across the fire, Levi met her eyes for one fleeting, electric moment. His face was still hard, but in the flickering light, she saw it. Not fear. Not anger.
A terrifying, focused rage. Not at her. For her.
She slipped the whetstone into her pocket, next to the purple flare. Two weights. Two promises. She stood and went to her pack to begin checking her gear, her movements methodical, her mind already tracing the path into the canyon, the route up the western ridge, the way home.
She would be his witness. And he, she knew with a certainty that stilled her soul, would be her reckoning.
The fire burned down to embers. The camp settled into a watchful, hollow quiet. Amiya lay in her bedroll, the whetstone and the flare canister two hard knots of reality pressing into her flesh. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the canyon’s mouth, a jagged tear in the earth waiting to swallow her. The sound of the river was already roaring in her ears.
Sleep was a traitor. It wouldn’t come.
She finally rose, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. The night air was a knife against her flushed skin. She moved past the sleeping forms of Eld and Oluo, her feet soundless on the cool grass. Levi’s tent was a dark wedge against the lighter grey of the rock face. A sliver of lantern light leaked from under the flap.
She stood there, unsure. Her hand hovered near the canvas. Before she could decide, his voice came from inside, low and clear. “Get in here before you freeze.”
She ducked inside. The tent was sparse, immaculate. His gear was lined up with obsessive precision along one wall. He was lying on his cot, one arm behind his head, staring up at the fabric ceiling. He didn’t look at her.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her voice sounding small.
“No shit.” He finally turned his head. His eyes were dark pools in the low light, no longer masking the storm she’d seen earlier. He studied her face, the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers clutched the cloak. A long, silent moment stretched between them, taut as a wire.
Then his expression shifted, the hardness dissolving into something else, something weary and raw. He lifted the edge of his wool blanket.
“Come here.”
He said it gently. The two words were an earthquake. She stood frozen for a heartbeat before her discipline shattered. She let her cloak fall, kicked off her boots, and slid onto the narrow cot beside him. He turned onto his side, his body a solid wall of heat at her back, and pulled the blanket over them both.
His arm came around her waist, his hand splaying flat against her stomach, drawing her firmly back against him. He buried his face in the loose hair at the nape of her neck. His breath was hot on her skin.
“You’re not going into that canyon,” he murmured, his voice a vibration against her spine.
“Erwin gave the order.”
“Fuck Erwin.” His hand tightened on her. “I’m giving you a different one. You come back. You use the flare. You do whatever you have to do, but you come back. That’s the only mission.”
Tears, hot and sudden, blurred her vision. She pressed back into his solid warmth, her hand coming up to grip his forearm where it held her. The feel of him, real and unyielding, broke something open inside her. The fear mutated, twisting into a desperate, physical need.
She turned in his arms. Their faces were inches apart in the dim light. She could see every lash, every faint line of fatigue around his eyes. She saw no gentleness there now, only a hunger as deep and terrifying as her own.
She kissed him. It wasn’t soft or questioning. It was a collision, all teeth and shared breath and the salt of her tears. He met her with a guttural sound, his hand coming up to fist in her hair, holding her still as he took control of the kiss. It was consuming, brutal in its honesty.
His tongue pushed into her mouth, claiming her. She moaned, her hands scrambling against the rough fabric of his shirt, needing to feel skin. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Say it.”
“I want you,” she gasped, the words torn from her. “Levi, please.”
That was all he needed. He moved with a lethal efficiency that stole her breath. He stripped her shirt and trousers off, then his own, their clothes landing in a heap on the tidy floor. The cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his body covering hers.
He was all hard muscle and scars, a map of violence she traced with shaking hands. He kissed her again, then his mouth was everywhere—the line of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast. He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling the taut peak until she cried out, her back arching off the cot.
“So fucking responsive,” he growled, moving to her other breast. His hand slid down her belly, through the damp curls, and found her core. She was already wet, aching. He pushed a finger inside her, his thumb pressing against her clit. “All this for me? This slick, tight little cunt?”
She couldn’t speak. She could only gasp, her hips rocking against his hand. He added another finger, stretching her, his thumb working cruel, perfect circles. The coil in her belly tightened violently.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Her eyes flew open, locking with his. His gaze was ferocious, unwavering, as he finger-fucked her with relentless strokes. “You come on my hand first,” he said, his voice a dark promise. “Then you come on my cock. You’re going to remember who you belong to when you’re out there in the dark.”
The command, the filthy words, the intense eye contact shattered her. Her climax ripped through her without warning, a silent, convulsing wave that made her thighs tremble and her vision whiten. He watched her every tremor, his fingers working her through it, drawing it out until she was sobbing.
Before the last pulse faded, he was moving. He positioned himself between her thighs, the broad head of his cock pressing against her soaked entrance. He was thick, intimidating. He paused, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
“This is mine,” he breathed, not asking, telling. He pushed forward, an inexorable, stretching invasion. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. He filled her completely, a perfect, unbearable fit. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, his body trembling with the effort of his control.
Then he began to move.
He set a deep, punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust hitting a spot that made her see stars. The cot creaked violently. The sound of skin slapping skin, of their ragged breaths, filled the small tent. He fucked her with a focused intensity, as if he could brand himself inside her, as if this act could be an anchor.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his hips snapping forward. “You feel how deep I am in you?”
“Yes,” she choked out.
“You’ll feel it tomorrow. You’ll feel me when you’re climbing that fucking wall.” He drove into her harder, his pace becoming frantic, possessive. “The only thing in your head will be this. My cock in your cunt. My order in your ear. Come back.”
It was too much. The overstimulation, the raw emotion, the physical bliss tipped her over another edge. This climax was louder, a broken cry as she clenched around him, milking him. Her surrender triggered his.
With a raw, shattered groan, he plunged into her one final time and spilled himself. His release was hot and pulsing, claiming her insides. He collapsed atop her, his weight a welcome burden, his face buried in her neck. His breath scorched her skin.
They lay like that for long minutes, tangled and spent. Slowly, he rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping her close. He reached down and pulled the blanket back over them. His hand returned to her stomach, holding her against the solid beat of his heart.
The canyon still waited. The mission hadn’t changed. But inside her, something had settled. A pact had been sealed in salt and sweat and seed. She closed her eyes, her body humming, every nerve alive and imprinting this moment. The last thing she felt before sleep finally took her was the press of his lips, surprisingly soft, against her shoulder.
A silent vow in the dark.
A silent vow in the dark.
Dawn arrived not as a color but as a cold, grey seepage through the canvas. The world outside the tent began as a murmur of indistinct sounds: the stamp of a horse, the metallic clink of a canteen, a low cough. Reality reassembled itself piece by grim piece around the warmth of their bodies tangled under the wool.
Levi was already awake. She could tell by the absolute stillness of him, the conscious regulation of his breath. His arm was still locked around her, his hand possessively cupping the curve of her breast. Her back was pressed against the solid plane of his chest, his thighs spooning hers. Every place their skin met felt branded.
She moved slightly, a faint ache blossoming between her legs—a deep, thorough soreness that was a physical record of the night. His arm tightened, halting her.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and something else. It wasn’t a request. It was a command to preserve the last seconds of the private world they’d carved out.
She obeyed, letting her head fall back against his shoulder. She could smell them both on the blanket—sex, sweat, the particular scent of his skin. He nuzzled into her hair, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You’re sore.” A statement.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He shifted his hips, his morning erection pressing insistently against the swell of her buttock. “Remember it.”
He didn’t ask for more. He just held her, letting her feel the evidence of his own relentless need, a counterpoint to the coming separation. The intimacy of it, this raw, unspoken claiming in the pale light, was more devastating than the fucking had been.
Outside, Eld’s voice called out, too bright. “Coffee’s boiling! Last call for civilized people!”
Levi’s sigh was a warm gust against her neck. The spell shattered. His arm loosened, and he rolled away, the cold air rushing in to replace his heat. The loss was physical.
He sat up on the edge of the cot, his back to her, a landscape of corded muscle and pale scars. He reached for his clothes, pulling them on with the same lethal efficiency he used for everything. He did not look at her.
“Get dressed,” he said, his tone flattening back into its familiar, impermeable layer. “You have fifteen minutes before rations.”
She moved, her body protesting. She found her clothes, the fabric cold and stiff. Dressing felt like assembling a costume for a play she didn’t want to perform. As she fastened her trousers, she saw him watching her from the corner of his eye, his gaze a sharp, assessing scrape. He saw her wince as she bent to pull on her boots.
A muscle feathered in his jaw. He stood and crossed the small space in two steps. He didn’t embrace her. He gripped her chin, tilting her face up to his. His eyes were flint.
“The soreness will fade by noon. The memory won’t. Use it.” He released her and turned to his gear, checking the alignment of his blades. “Eat everything they give you. Conserve your water until the canyon floor. The river there is runoff, it’s clean enough. Don’t drink from the stagnant pools.”
He was giving orders again. Captain’s orders. Each one was a brick in the wall he was rebuilding between them. She welcomed them. They were a map. They were something to hold onto.
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced at her, a flicker of something—approval, pain—in his grey eyes. “And for fuck’s sake, remember the western ridge wind pattern. It shifts at dusk. If you’re climbing then, hug the wall. Don’t get cocky and try to ride it.”
She nodded, her throat tight. He finished his check, his movements precise and final. He seemed taller somehow, filled with a rigid tension that made the air in the tent crackle. He finally looked at her fully, a long, consuming look that started at her boots and ended by holding her eyes prisoner.
“Ito.”
“Captain.”
“Come back.”
It wasn’t an order this time. It was stripped bare. A plea from a man who never pleaded. It hung in the air, more intimate than anything they’d done in the dark.
Then he was gone, ducking out of the tent flap, leaving her alone with the scent of him and the crushing weight of the day.
The camp was a study in forced normalcy. Eld handed her a tin mug of bitter coffee. Oluo gruffly offered her an extra strip of dried meat. “For the road,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. Gunther gave her a single, solemn nod. They knew. Not the details, but the essence. They were sending one of their own into a designed gamble, and their Captain’s icy silence was a blizzard warning.
She checked her gear three times. The straps, the gas canisters, the blade sharpness. Her fingers brushed the small pocket over her heart. The purple flare was there. The whetstone was in her palm, a grounding weight. She packed methodically: rations, water, chalk for marking, the phosphorus marker Levi had demanded. Her world distilled into a single, burdensome pack.
Erwin arrived as the sun finally broke the horizon, staining the clouds bloody. He was alone this time. He observed her final preparations with a detached, analytical air. “The quick-reaction force will remain here for seventy-two hours,” he stated. “After that, they return to base. You understand the window.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Your objective is observation, not engagement. You are a set of eyes. Nothing more.” His blue gaze was impersonal. “The survival of the intelligence is paramount.”
The intelligence. Not the soldier. She heard the words he didn’t say. She simply nodded again.
Levi stood apart, leaning against the rock face, cleaning under his fingernails with a small knife. A picture of indifference. But she saw the way his shoulders were set, a coil of spring steel waiting to release. She saw the minute tremor in the hand holding the blade. He was wound so tight he vibrated.
It was time.
She swung onto her horse, the saddle creaking. The animal sensed her tension, sidestepping nervously. She gathered the reins, her hands steady. She looked at her squad—Eld, Oluo, Gunther. They offered tight smiles, clenched fists. She saved him for last.
He pushed off the rock and walked toward her horse. He didn’t look up at her. He placed a hand on the horse’s neck, calming it. His other hand rested on her boot in the stirrup. His touch burned through the leather.
“Check your south anchor points twice on the descent,” he said, his voice low. “The rock is crumbly there.”
“I will.”
He finally looked up. The morning light showed the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the fierce, unprotected love he couldn’t hide fast enough. It was all there, raw and terrifying. He gave her boot a final, almost imperceptible squeeze.
Then he stepped back. His face shut down completely, becoming the impassive mask of Captain Levi. He gave a curt nod. “Move out.”
That was all.
She dug her heels in, turning the horse north. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. She felt their eyes on her—Erwin’s calculating stare, the squad’s anxious gaze, and his. His was a physical pressure between her shoulder blades, a brand.
The horse broke into a canter, leaving the camp behind. The sound of hooves on earth was loud, then fading. The vast, empty landscape opened up before her, leading to a distant, hazy line of darker grey that was the canyon.
The wind picked up, carrying the smell of distant rain and stone. She rode toward it, the purple flare a second heartbeat, the deep ache between her legs a persistent, haunting reminder. A silent vow in the dark, chasing her into the light.