Page 59 of Reaper's Ruin
My breath caught in my throat.
His back was a masterpiece of sculpted muscle and smooth skin, interrupted by several long scars that traced pale, jagged lines across his back. Most likely remnants from his human life. I didn’t know and couldn’t ask since I shouldn’t have been peeking. As he moved, muscles shifted beneath his skin in a way that made my mouth go dry.
I forced myself to look away, fumbling with my own clothing as I tried to concentrate on the task at hand. But my mind kept wandering back to that glimpse of bare skin, to the raw power contained in that perfectly formed body.
Focus, Soraya. You’re on a mission. This is not the time to drool over Death.
I pulled the gown for the masquerade from my bag—a stunning creation of midnight blue silk that shimmered with silver accents, the pattern reminiscent of lightning strikes against a night sky. Perfect for blending in with Storm Court nobility and the one Rhyker had picked out for me special. It was more elaborate than anything I’d ever worn, with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt that swished dramatically when I walked.
I slipped it over my head, then after it settled down around me, I realized I had a problem. The back of the dress laced up like a corset, and with the dressmaker not there to help, there was no way I could reach it myself.
I glanced over my shoulder to see if Rhyker was decent, then almost swallowed my tongue at the sight of him. He’d been stunning in black leather, delicious with his shirt off, and now he was devastating in his formal attire.
The deep navy, almost black jacket with silver accents fit his broad shoulders perfectly, tapering to his narrow waist. The high collar emphasized his strong jaw, and the Storm Court embellishments made him look like he could actually be royalty rather than just pretending.
How was it possible that clothing designed to help him blend in only made him stand out more?
“I, um—” I cleared my throat, trying to find my voice as I stood there awkwardly clutching the front of the dress to my chest. “I need help with the back.”
Rhyker turned, and for a heartbeat, his usually unreadable expression faltered.
The bodice hung loose behind me, the rich fabric sliding off one shoulder. I clung to it at my breasts, holding it up.
He didn’t say anything at first—just stared.
Then finally, in that gravel-and-smoke voice of his, he commanded, “Turn around.”
I did, heart hammering, as I suddenly became acutely aware of every inch of skin on display. My bare spine was exposed from my shoulder blades to the small of my back, and I pulled my hair over one shoulder to give him access. I heard the soft creak of the floorboards as he stepped closer. My breath hitched.
“Hold still,” he said, barely above a whisper—his breath warm against the nape of my neck.
Then his fingers touched my skin.
I didn’t flinch. Imelted.
He found the laces, and slowly, methodically, began threading them through. Every time his knuckles grazed my back, goosebumps followed in their wake. My pulse quickened with each sensuous touch, and I worried he could actually hear it even over the distant thunder outside.
The dress pulled tighter with each draw of the cord—snug around my waist, then my ribs, then higher still pressing up my breasts.
My breath grew shallower, but it had nothing to do with the fit.
“Too tight?” he asked, his voice low and close.
“No,” I whispered. “It’s perfect.”
He paused at the small of my back, his hands resting there longer than necessary. His fingers flexed—just barely. A twitch. A hesitation. But I felt it.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The world seemed to narrow to just this room. This dress. This moment.
Then, with excruciating care, he tied off the final bow and let his hands fall away.
“There,” he said, voice rough. “Done.”
I turned, the dress now perfectly sculpted to my body. “How do I look?”
His gaze met mine, then swept down—slowly. Reverently. Like I was something he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to look at.
“You look like you belong here,” he said.
