Page 5 of Mercy for Reaper

She pulls away from my grasp and leaves before I can say a word but doesn’t stay gone for long. My lips part on a sigh when I feel something cold brush my skin.

“I can’t believe I am doing this right now, wiping down a stranger’s body instead of taking them to the hospital,” she grumbles, her tone a contrast to her soft touch. She helps me sit up and drink some water before giving me pills to swallow, followed by more water.

“I don’t even care about losing my nursing license anymore. I just want you to be okay, and I’m terrified that I am making the wrong decision.”

Her words are followed with a sigh, and as much as I want to say something, anything to kill the sadness I hear in her voice, for the life of me, I can’t form the words. My entire body feels heavy, and as she resumes wiping my skin with the cool cloth, her efforts start to lull me back to sleep.

This time, it’s her I dream of. I dream that we met in a normal way. Perhaps at a grocery store or a restaurant and not on her bathroom floor. I dream that I am a normal man with a nine-to-five, and from a normal family. In this version, everything is perfect.

When I wake up next, the fever is gone, and seeing that there are no blue and red lights flashing outside her open window, I can assume that she kept her promise to not contact the authorities. I wince when my staples tug as I attempt to sit up in the bed, inspecting my surroundings under the soft morning light.

From what I remember of the house, it’s too big for one person, and for a second, I entertain the thought that my angel could be living with someone else. A family member, perhaps even a husband. Maybe she has kids, and they’re just not around, but a quick look about the room shows no evidence of a spouse or children. No family photos, and the nightstand on the far side of the bed is bare. There is one photo frame on a dresser along the opposite wall, but it’s too far for me to make out the image.

“You’re up!” comes a voice from the doorway, followed by the soft patter of feet rushing to my side. A pretty, dark-haired girl stops in front of me, and Christ, she’s perfect.

All the dreams, hallucinations, and memories of glimpses caught in dim lighting I’ve had of this girl don’t live up to the sheer perfection that is this person standing in front of me, dressed only in a pair of shorts and a low cut top that reveals more than my muddled brain can handle. And when she bends down to touch my forehead, all my blood rushes south at the sight of her cleavage.

“The fever seems to have gone down,” the girl says, placing her wrist over my forehead, then moving her hand down my neck to feel my pulse. “How are you feeling?”

I force my gaze away from her cleavage and look up to lock eyes with the prettiest green I have ever seen. They are forest green, wide and innocent, and fuck, they threaten to suck me into their depths.

“Better,” I croak out. “How long was I out?”

Her eyes narrow on me as if she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t challenge my words. Instead, her focus shifts to the injury on my arm. “You’ve been in and out of it for about a day and a half. The fever didn’t start until late last night. It’s early morning now. I should check your wound and change the bandage. I need to grab my things first.”

Fuck, I’ve been here that long? Priest must be losing his mind since I haven’t checked in. I’ll need to figure out what happened to my phone, I can’t remember. The girl rushes out of the room, and I miss her warmth the second she leaves, but she returns quickly with the first-aid kit before settling down on the bed beside me.

“This is probably going to hurt,” she warns, her eyes shooting up to lock with mine, and I am taken aback by the way she looks at me.

I’ve had women look at me before, often with desire and other times malice or annoyance, but never compassion. Nothing like the way this perfect angel is looking at me, and for a moment, I forget the harsh throb in my arm and the lingering pain in my head, focusing instead on the ache building up in my groin. The need to grab this girl and roll her so she’s lying under me, to tear off her little shorts and plunge my fat cock into her pussy is so strong.

Fuck, my balls are already aching with the need to rut her into the mattress. I wonder what sounds would break through those perfectly curved lips as I ram my cock into her. Would she scream and scratch my back with every thrust, or would she wrap her arms around my shoulders and whimper softly into my neck as I made love to her?

Made love? The thought takes me by surprise. I don’t make love to anyone. All the arrangements—more like hookups—I’ve had in the past have been based on a mutual agreement that it was a one-time thing. Those instances were few and far between, and not one of them could be considered something as fantastical as “making love.”

So why the hell am I thinking of my pretty little savior in that way?

“Are you sure you still don’t want to go to the hospital? They can take much better care of you there,” my angel asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

“This is fine,” I assure her. We both know that the second I walk into the hospital with a gunshot wound, they’re going to call the police, and I’m going to get arrested. Priest would have me out before I even got booked, but at this point, I am thinking more of her. The thought that I could bring trouble to this girl makes my chest ache. There is also a selfish part of me that wants to be tended by her. I have been to many hospitals in my lifetime, and not a single one offers more compassionate care than she does.

“I have never done anything like this before, you know,” she whispers, and I look down to find her laser focused on tending to my wounded arm.

“Treated strangers with gunshot wounds in your bathroom?”

She chuckles softly. “That too, but I meant breaking the law.”

“No one has to know I am here.”

“Assuming you didn’t shoot yourself, then someone else did it, and they’re probably talking to the cops right now.” Or lying dead in an abandoned warehouse, but I don’t tell her that. I don’t think it would go over too well if I told her the truth.

“Nothing will happen to you,” I promise her, because truly, that is all that matters at the moment. This girl and I were never meant to meet, but now that we have, she’s mine to protect, and I plan to do just that with everything I have.

“Everything looks okay, but we still need to keep a close eye on it for signs of infection. Last night, you said you were hit in the back of the head. I didn’t see any more indicators of a concussion overnight or this morning, and your head isn’t bleeding, but I should still take a look at it,” she says, gathering everything back into the kit, and when she gets up, I grab her hand and stop her.

“I want to know the name of the girl who saved my life.”

She blinks prettily at me, as if the thought of exchanging our names never occurred to her. “You’re right. I’m Holly Jaxon.”

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