Page 16 of They Call Him Reaper

He stands without giving me any indication that he's heard me or plans to fulfill my request. Well, at least he hasn't threatened to kill me since I've been awake, so that's an improvement. Minutes later, he returns with a bottle and two glasses. It's a brown liquor, but I can't see what kind. I don't care. I'd drink gasoline at this point.

Dante uncuffs one of my hands and presses the cool glass into my grip, pouring a shot into it.

That was easy. Too easy? What if this is how he kills me?

Dante takes the shot from me and drinks it. Then gives me the empty glass again to repeat the process. I take a sip, and it burns, but I'd rather feel this than let the numbness consume me.

I'm on drink number three and feeling loose when my curiosity strikes again. The information may not go beyond this bungalow, but this is my only chance to interview a killer.

"Dante?" His name still incites him, but he shows no sign of that outside of a flash in his eyes. "Can I ask you some questions?"

He shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. I'll take that as a yes.

"Why don't you have tattoos?"

"Makes me harder to identify."

I quirk my eyebrows. "Right, makes sense. Is killing fun?"

"To some. It's just a part of my mission. My adrenaline spikes, but I don't get pleasure from it."

"Then why do it?"

"Because I can. It's what I was raised to do."

"By whom?"

Getting up, he doesn't answer my question. Now looks like a good time to stop asking questions. He's making sandwiches, and I take the time to watch how his body moves. It's like art in motion. Each movement floats into the other, making everything he does look effortless. He's wearing nothing but swim trunks, which gives me unobstructed views of his sinewy muscles. Why is someone as dangerous as him capable of getting me hot in the most inconvenient situation of my life? His hair is dry now and his waves are messy and wild, but it adds to his attractiveness.This is some bullshit.He does the opposite of sexually encouraging me, yet I’d give it up even with knowing his plan.I’ve definitely lost my damn mind.

Dante gives me a plate and we eat in silence. Even the way he chews is sexy, but that’s none of my business. I need to do something about my morbid curiosity since he’s not going to tell me all his secrets. I’m dying to know how he got to this point.

I keep it to myself as I finish what I think is dinner. Time melts together when being held hostage. The next drink takes me from loose to plain drunk. I bend my legs because they are falling asleep from being straight. It’s not easy sitting on a wooden floor all day. I’m not sitting like a lady, but I don’t give a shit. My reputation is the least of my worries. He still sits across from me, but I’m facing his profile as he sharpens his knife. It’s another activity that shouldn’t be arousing, but the way he’s gripping the knife has his veins bulging in his forearm and each stroke makes his arm muscle twitch.

My insights have been as unfiltered as they can get around someone like Dante, but alcohol provides that extra layer of comfort.

“Dante?”

He sighs like he’s already tired of me using his name. His chocolate eyes turn in my direction and his eyes drop briefly to my partially opened legs before reconnecting with my eyes. “About last night, you could have if you wanted, you know.”

“Could have what?”

“Gotten some. You’re going to kill me anyway. Might as well.”

“Rape you?”

I snort. “No. I’d let you. Go ahead.”

“Interesting invitation,” he responds, sardonic as hell, and he turns to finish what he was doing.

“It’s permission.” I open my legs wider to show him there’s nothing under the shirt. “You can do anything you want.”

He puts down his knife and crawls over to me, and I watch his muscles flex and release with each movement. Dante’s fingers slide across my skin when he pushes my legs fartherapart and sits on his haunches between them. Holding my eye contact, he removes the glass from my hand and places it on the floor. I know my pulse beats erratically under his thumb when he grabs my free wrist. The handcuff clinks around my skin, and his chest is damn near in my face. Lowering himself back down, he leans until our noses are inches apart.

“Anything?” he asks.

“I doubt I have any hard nos this close to death,” I confirm.

A smile plays on his lips, then duct tape covers my mouth. I should have known that he wouldn’t play fair.

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