Page 39 of Reaper

“Okay,” I breathe a sigh of relief. “If that’s the case, then we need to get to know each other better. Can you tell me about what happened before Blackstone adopted you? What happened to your birth family?”

Reaper hesitates, running his fingersthrough his hair. He looks so vulnerable, the tough, tattooed biker facade crumbling away. And I realize that maybe, for the first time, he’s allowing himself to be truly seen.

“Before I was ten,” he begins, pain lacing his voice, “life wasn’t much better. My parents weren’t good people. Drugs, violence, sex trade stuff, porn—you name it, they were involved. I spent most of my childhood either hiding from them or trying to survive.”

“God, Reaper,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “When I was nine, my mom tried to sell me to an undercover FBI agent. She went to prison, and I ended up in foster care.”

“What kind of mother does that?” I cover my mouth with my hand.

“Mine?” He shrugs. “Those foster homes weren’t exactly a refuge either. The abuse didn’t stop. People kept hurting me, and I just couldn’t escape it. I ran away so many times, but the pigs always brought me back.”

“That’s why you don’t trust cops.”

“That, and about a million other reasons. I never really felt safe anywhere, not until I found Nina. Before her, I couldn’t trust anyone.”

“How does she fit into this?” I ask, curious about her involvement.

“When we finally escaped Blackstone’s dungeon—”

“Dungeon?” My eyes widen.

“—we ended up hiding in Nina’s barn. She found us and eventually got us to trust her. She and Winchester, her old man, let us live with them. They were the first people I’d ever met who didn’t have darkness in their souls.”

“I wish I could have met Winchester, but what was that about a dungeon?”

“Wish you could have met him, too. He was good people.”

“Reaper,” I say gently, placing my hand on his arm, “you don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to. It sounds like you went through hell with Blackstone. What kind of psychopath has a dungeon?”

“Blackstone.”

I let out a shaky sigh. “I know this must be hard to talk about, but I want you to know that I’m here for you. I won’t judge you, and you can tell me anything. Or nothing. Or wait until later. If you need a break …”

“You judged me before when you saw me carrying Vince out like the trash he was.”

“Because I didn’t know any better. If you’d told me—”

“What? That I was a killer? How would that have gone over back then?” he asks wryly.

“Not well, I guess.”

“Look, I’m not perfect. Not even fucking close. I’ve done terrible things, but for the right reasons. Hopefully, you can understand that.”

“I do.”

“But would Ace get it?”

“He’s only six years old, way too young for this type of conversation.”

“For now, but when he gets older, what’s he going to think of me then?”

“We have years before we have to consider that.”

“It’s not just the killing that made me the way I am. Blackstone ruined what little humanity I had left in me. It’s gone, Lexi. There’s nothing left but rage, an obsession with vengeance. I don’t have a heart, so how can I …” His voice cracks as he pushes off the counter.

I want to hold him, to offer some kind of solace from the agony he’s reliving. But as I reach out to touch his arm, he flinches and pulls away. His shoulders hunch as he turns his back on me. “There’s more, Lexi. More you need to know about me and my story. Maybe you’ll get it after I tell you everything.”

---