Page 28 of The Reaper

“I’m with you. It’ll be safe.”

I shook my head. That wasn’t good enough—not that I was going to say that to his face. “How much farther to get to the clan’s safe house?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “We’re stopping here. End of story. You look like you’re going to pass out any moment. You need to eat properly, and rest.”

“And I can do that at the safe house.” I tried to insist, but Orin steamrolled right over me.

“When was the last time you slept?”

I frowned because I couldn’t remember. Before he’d ended up in hospital, and even while I was there with him, I hardly slept properly. I was in a constant state of dozing where no real rest could occur. The honest truth was I was afraid to close my eyes. I was worried that I would relive the shooting, that the stain on my brain would grow larger and burrow deeper just like it had after the attack.

“I thought so,” he rumbled. “Food. Sleep. Tomorrow, we leave for the safe house.”

“Are you always this disagreeable?” I shot back.

“I wouldn’t know. Nobody’s ever said that to my face and stayed alive long enough.”

And just like that, I was reminded that he was the clan’s Reaper. He was their killer. He was the man who dealt in death. I pressed my mouth into a thin line, suppressing all the things I wanted to say to him. He had gone alpha male on me, and while a small part of me was enjoying that, another part of me was bucking against every single one of his shackles.

He may have thought he’d won this round, but I was accustomed to men like him—like my brother. They blustered and bullied their way into your life, then sought to control it in the only way they knew how: intimidation.

“Take that road,” he said, pointing to the left. I pulled down a paved boreen that, after five minutes of driving, led to a sandstone cottage.

“Don’t tell me. This one belongs to you, too?” I deadpanned as I stared out at the building.

“Don’t be daft,” he replied. “I picked this one because it was off the main road and private.”

We drew to a stop in front of the building and got out. “And when did you have time to book a room?” I asked over the top of the car.

“Welcome to Briar Cottage,” an elderly man greeted us at the door. “Name’s Jimmy. Do you need a room?” His watery blue eyes latched onto the shirtless Orin, and once more, I cursed not having brought him any clothes.

“Did you lose your shirt, young man?” Jimmy asked.

Orin stared at him in the same way he did everyone—like he was thinking about what they looked like with their skin flayed from their bodies. “Something like that,” he finally said darkly.

Jimmy wasn’t deterred. He simply heaved a sigh and turned around. “Park the car around the side. I think I have something of my son’s you can wear.” He disappeared through the front door, but not before adding, “Come through the back door when you’re done.”

Getting back into the car, we moved it down to the side of the house, parking beside a motorcycle. Orin looked at it for a long moment.

“Must be his son’s,” he muttered, more to himself than to me, I was sure. We walked around the back of the house, using the stepping stones set into the earth to stay out of the mud.

I followed him inside, staying close to his back but not touching him. I could feel the heat from his body though, and knew it was just him—not the fever anymore.

We found ourselves in a kitchen where warm pies were resting on the windowsill. I had no idea people still did that.

“This should fit you,” Jimmy announced as he walked into the kitchen. He threw a t-shirt at Orin, who caught it one-handed before the fabric could touch his body.

“Thank you,” he mumbled before sliding the navy-blue shirt over his head and pulling it down his torso. The fit was a little too snug for his musculature, but it would do.

“We only have one room left,” the old man said. “The other one was rented out earlier today. Haven’t heard much from him since he got here, and if you ask me, that’s just the way it ought to be.”

“Great,” I said.

He looked between Orin and me. “You two will have to share a room. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” Orin replied, although his jaw was clenched tight as he said it.

“There’s a pull-out couch in there if you want to sleep separately. Dinner is at six.Sharp,” the man continued. “My wife, Betty, cooks the best Irish stew you’ll ever taste. Keep the noise down, and we’ll get along just fine.”

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