Page 60 of Reaper's Ruin
His tone was steady, but something else clung to it. Something he was trying to swallow down.
Want. Hunger. Restraint.
I could feel it hanging in the space between us like static in the air.
I wanted to step closer, to close the distance between us, to find out if his lips would feel as perfect as they looked. But with one long swallow I watched slide down his throat, he stepped back.
“We should go,” he said reluctantly.
He was right, of course. This wasn’t the time or place. We had a mission, a purpose.
I had a murder to solve. A door to find.
But still...
My gaze lingered on his as I tried to will my body back to some semblance of sanity his touch had stolen from me.
He looked away, and just like that, he was once again the focused, serious Reaper rather than the man whose touch had just set my skin on fire.
From his pocket, he produced a mask of polished midnight blue leather with intricate silver scrollwork along the edges. With deliberate movements, he raised it to his face, securing it with a thin ribbon that disappeared into his dark hair.
My breath caught. The mask covered the upper half of his face, framing those storm-gray eyes and making them appear even more intense than before. Without the distraction of the rest of his features, his eyes became the focal point—deep, mysterious, carrying the weight of centuries. The mask also drew attention to his impossibly strong jaw and those lips, full and perfectly shaped, the only part of his face still exposed.
He wasn’t just dangerous—he was temptation wrapped in shadow. The kind of man who lured you off the safe path with a smile, and made you thank him for the ruin. I realized I was staring and quickly looked down, fumbling with my own mask. It was a delicate creation of dark blue silk with silver embroidery that matched my gown.
“Let me,” he said, taking the mask from my trembling fingers.
He stepped closer, raising it to my face. His touch was gentle as he positioned it, his fingers brushing against my temples as he secured the ribbons. I looked up at him through the mask, wondering if he could hear the thundering of my heart or if he just thought it was the eternal raging storm crashing high up above us.
For a moment, we stood frozen, masked and transformed, two strangers playing at belonging in a world neither of us truly fit into.
“Stay close to me,” he said, a command, not a request. “And remember, we’re looking for information, not confrontation. Keep your eyes peeled for the man who killed you, and tell me immediately if you see him.”
“Got it,” I replied, forcing myself to concentrate on the task ahead rather than the memory of his fingers on my skin. “Find the man that killed me, don’t get caught, don’t start any fights.”
“And don’t wander off,” he added.
I placed my hand on his offered arm, feeling the solid strength beneath the fine fabric. “I won’t leave your side,” I promised.
A promise I had no desire to break.
Together, we slipped out of the stables and into the gathering twilight. The courtyard was filled with elegantly dressed fae arriving for the pre-coronation masquerade. With our Storm Court attire and our masks completing our disguises, we blended seamlessly into the crowd flowing toward the main keep.
As we joined the throng of guests, I couldn’t help but marvel at how far I’d come from that terrified ghost in the marketplace. Now I was walking arm-in-arm with Death himself, infiltrating a royal court to solve my own murder.
And if the way my skin still tingled from his touch was any indication, I might already be in too deep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rhyker
The grand ballroom of Thunderspire Keep was everything I despised about the fae courts.
Cold, calculated opulence designed to proclaim wealth and status. Chandeliers crafted from lightning-glass—a substance only the Storm Court knew how to create—hung from vaulted ceilings, their prisms capturing and fragmenting light into eerie blue-white patterns that danced across marble floors. Nobility dressed in fabrics worth more than most commoners would see in a lifetime paraded about, their laughter too loud, their smiles too sharp.
I’d avoided gatherings like this even when I was alive. Now, after centuries of watching the fae courts from behind the veil, my loathing for their excess had only deepened.
And yet here I stood, in a ridiculous formal outfit with silver embellishments that felt foreign against my skin. The high collar was suffocating, the fitted jacket restrictive—a far cry from the practical leather I’d worn for centuries that had molded to me like second skin. The mask at least provided some small comfort, hiding my contempt from curious eyes.
