I Was Supposed to Be Her Enemy, But Now I'm the Commander's Secret Lover

The air in the ruins of the old city was heavy with dust and centuries of silence, a silence now broken by the tense standoff between two peoples. I stood my ground on the cracked pavement, my two guards, Bellamy and Octavia, flanking me. Across the clearing, surrounded by a dozen of her warriors, was the Commander.

Lexa.

Even the name carried weight. She sat on a makeshift throne of broken concrete and rebar, a queen in her desolate kingdom. She was younger than I’d expected, yet she possessed an unnerving stillness that made her seem ancient. Her dark hair was intricately braided, her face a mask of stoicism beneath the black paint that streaked across her eyes. Those eyes—a piercing, intelligent green—were fixed on me, missing nothing. They were the most alive thing about her.

"You are the leader of the Sky People," she stated. It was not a question. Her voice was low and even, carrying easily across the space between us, devoid of any discernible emotion.

"I am," I confirmed, lifting my chin. I would not be intimidated. My people were dying of thirst. "I am Clarke Griffin. We've come to negotiate for access to the river."

A flicker of something—amusement? disdain?—crossed her features before it was gone. "The river is Trikru. It has been since the fire fell from the sky."

"And your people don't use the northern bend," I countered, taking a step forward. Her guards tensed, hands moving to the hilts of their blades. I ignored them, my focus entirely on the woman on the throne. "It's miles from your closest village. Sharing it costs you nothing."

"Sharing," she repeated the word as if it were a foreign concept, something foul-tasting in her mouth. "The Skaikru way. You take what you want and call it sharing."

"We call it survival," I said, my voice hardening. "Something I'm sure you understand, Commander."

Lexa rose from her seat in a single, fluid motion. She was taller than me, her presence amplified by the heavy spaulder on her shoulder and the intricate leather armor that molded to her frame. She descended the rubble, her warriors parting for her like water around a stone. She stopped only a few feet from me, close enough that I could see the fine lines around her eyes, the faint scar that cut through her left eyebrow. The air crackled, thick with the animosity of our people and a new, more personal charge that I couldn't name.

"You have nothing I want, Clarke of the Sky People," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, a threat wrapped in silk. "The river remains ours."

Before I could form a reply, a piercing whistle cut through the tension. One of Lexa’s scouts, a tall warrior with a panicked look in his eyes, scrambled down from a crumbling wall where he’d been posted as a lookout. He ran toward his Commander, shouting in a language I didn’t understand, his words sharp and urgent.

Lexa didn't look at him, her green eyes still locked on mine, but her body went rigid. "What is it, Gustus?" she demanded in English, her voice a low command.

"Reapers," he gasped, pointing back towards the skeletal remains of an overpass. "A horde. They're almost on us."

The name sent a chill through me. Reapers. Feral, cannibalistic, their minds and bodies twisted by radiation. They weren’t soldiers; they were a force of nature, a plague.

In an instant, the political chess match was over. The board was swept clean, replaced by a primal need to survive. Lexa spun away from me, her authority absolute. "Form a perimeter! Shields up!" she barked in Trigedasleng. Her warriors moved with practiced efficiency, their personal animosity toward us forgotten, replaced by the discipline of soldiers facing a common foe.

"Bellamy, Octavia, back-to-back!" I yelled, pulling the pistol from my thigh holster. The familiar weight was a small comfort. The ground began to tremble with the rhythm of running feet, and a chorus of inhuman shrieks echoed off the concrete husks around us.

They poured into the clearing like a wave of filth and hunger. Their bodies were emaciated, covered in sores and crude metal piercings, their eyes wide with madness. They carried jagged pieces of metal and sharpened bones, and they fell upon the Grounder line with no sense of self-preservation.

The fight was immediate and brutal. I fired twice, the shots deafeningly loud, dropping two Reapers before they were halfway across the clearing. Bellamy’s rifle cracked beside me. But there were too many. They swarmed the shield wall, their sheer numbers pushing the Grounder warriors back. One broke through, a horrifying creature with filed teeth, and lunged for me.

Before I could fire, a black-handled sword sliced through the air, cleaving the Reaper’s head from its shoulders. Blood sprayed, hot and dark. Lexa stood where the Reaper had been, her twin blades a blur of motion. She moved with a deadly grace that was both terrifying and beautiful.

"Stay close!" she commanded, not to me, but to everyone.

Another wave surged, forcing us back until my shoulders pressed against something hard and unyielding. It was her. Lexa’s back was flush against mine, the leather of her armor solid against my jacket. I could feel the power in her muscles as she moved, a contained, lethal energy. We were an island in a sea of monsters.

"Left!" I shouted, firing at a Reaper scrambling over a pile of rubble towards her blind spot. It fell.

"Right!" she countered, and I felt more than saw her swords lash out, protecting my flank.

We fell into a desperate rhythm. The crack of my pistol, the wet slice of her blades. The smell of gunpowder and blood filled my lungs. I could feel the heat of her body through our clothes, the slight tremor of exertion that matched my own. In the chaos, there was a strange clarity. Our people, our politics, our grievances—all of it vanished. There was only the solid presence of the woman at my back and the enemy in front of us. We were no longer Commander and Skaikru leader. We were two people, fighting to stay alive, moving as one.

The last of the shrieks died out as the final Reaper fell, its body slumping onto the blood-soaked ground. Silence descended once more, heavier now, thick with the metallic smell of death. For a long moment, no one moved. The only sound was the ragged panting of the survivors. My own lungs burned, and my back was still pressed against Lexa’s. The solid warmth of her was a strange anchor in the carnage.

Slowly, as if waking from a trance, she stepped away. The connection was broken, and a sudden chill washed over me. Her warriors began to move, methodically checking bodies—both friend and foe—their faces grim. Bellamy and Octavia came to my side, their weapons still raised, their eyes scanning the perimeter.

My gaze found Lexa. She was standing over the body of a fallen warrior, her expression unreadable. She issued a quiet order in her language, and two of her people moved to carry their dead comrade away. As she turned, her left arm hanging unnaturally stiff at her side, I saw it. A long, deep gash ran from her bicep to her elbow, the leather of her armor torn and dark with blood that was now dripping steadily onto the rubble at her feet.

Without thinking, I moved towards her. "You're hurt."

Her guard, Gustus, immediately stepped in my path, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His glare was pure menace. "The Commander needs nothing from the Skaikru."

"She needs a doctor," I shot back, my eyes locked on Lexa’s. I held up my hands to show I wasn’t a threat and took another step, pulling the medical kit from my belt. "That wound is deep. It needs to be cleaned and stitched, or it will fester."

Lexa watched me, her green eyes narrowed in assessment. She looked from my face, to the kit in my hand, and then down at her own bleeding arm as if just now noticing the severity of the injury. A muscle in her jaw tightened. For a second, I thought her pride would win, that she would send me away.

"Sha, Gustus," she said, her voice quiet but absolute. The big guard hesitated, then gave a stiff nod and stepped aside, though his hostile gaze never left me.

I knelt before her, acutely aware of the circle of warriors watching my every move. "Sit," I instructed, my voice softening into the familiar tone of a doctor. She obeyed, lowering herself onto a block of concrete, her posture still ramrod straight.

Gently, I took her arm. Her skin was warm, the muscles beneath hard as stone. I carefully cut away the torn sleeve of her undershirt, exposing the full extent of the wound. The gash was clean but dangerously deep, the flesh parted to the muscle. I worked quickly, my hands steady as I poured antiseptic from my kit directly into the cut. Lexa didn't flinch, didn't make a sound, but I saw her knuckles turn white on her knee and felt the involuntary clench of her bicep beneath my fingers. Her control was astonishing.

I didn't look at her face, focusing entirely on my work. I cleaned the wound, my touch precise, and then threaded a suture needle. The silence between us was profound. I could feel her eyes on me, studying me with an intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up. As I pushed the needle through her skin for the first stitch, her breath caught for a fraction of a second.

"You have steady hands," she said, her voice a low murmur, barely audible over the wind whispering through the ruins.

I glanced up, meeting her gaze. Her eyes held no animosity now, only a raw, unguarded curiosity.

"I’ve had a lot of practice," I replied, pulling the stitch tight and moving to the next.

I finished stitching the wound, my fingers brushing against her skin with each pass of the needle. When the last knot was tied, I smoothed a salve over the angry red line and began wrapping it with a clean bandage. Her eyes followed my every movement.

"Skaikru medicine," she stated, flexing her newly bandaged arm.

"Yes," I confirmed, securing the dressing.

She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the white bandage against her tanned skin. "It is a skill of value," she admitted, the words sounding like a significant concession. She finally looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something other than a warrior or a Commander in her eyes. It was a flicker of respect. A fragile, tentative truce declared not between our people, but between the two of us.