Page 78 of Reaper's Ruin
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, trying to restore my usual stoic demeanor.
“You did! Oh my god! Death laughs!” She grinned triumphantly, pointing at me with undisguised glee. “I made Death laugh! This is, like, a historic moment. We should mark it on a calendar or something.”
“Knock it off,” I growled, but traitorous amusement continued to bubble in my chest, and my lips twitched again despite my best efforts.
“I can’t believe it,” she continued, practically bouncing with excitement. “Centuries of swinging that scythe looking all kinds of grumpy and irritated, and all it takes is one dead girl to crack that badass exterior.”
This time I couldn’t contain the low chuckle that escaped me. Her enthusiasm was infectious, her delight in such a small thing both baffling and endearing.
The tension between us eased, replaced by something warmer, more comfortable. She turned her attention back to my wounds, her touch careful as she examined the worst of the gashes. I tried to ignore the sensation of her fingers against my bare skin—the first gentle touch I’d experienced in centuries.
Her fingers traced the edge of the largest wound just below my collarbone, and fire bloomed in their wake.
Not pain—something far more dangerous.
I’d felt its first flicker in that marketplace the day I’d found her. It had grown, wild and unrelenting, with every breath she took near me. Every word. Every look.
Want.
Need.
Desire.
Swallowing was suddenly impossible, the simple movement choked by the storm rising inside me.
“I really need to clean these,” she murmured, her breath warm against my chest as she leaned closer. “You’re bleeding. And it’s because of me.”
Her voice—guilt-tinged and barely audible—snapped something inside me. I looked down at her, really looked at her.
Rain-drenched hair clinging to her cheeks. Worry bleeding from every line of her beautiful face. Those impossibly blue eyes filled with concern. With care.
For me.
And her hand—gods, her hand—resting over my heart like it belonged there. It all crashed together like colliding realms, too much to contain.
Everything I’d been holding back—the relief of finding her alive, the terror of seeing her in danger, the memory of her body crashing into mine, holding her tight, my wings exploding to protect her. To save her—all of it collided inside me in a single, unbearable breath.
As her rain-dampened scent filled my lungs with each breath, clouding what little reason I had left, suddenly words tumbled past my lips before I had even a chance to consider them.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Torn from the deepest part of me.
“I’d bleed a thousand times for you,” I said, my voice low and rough with emotion I could no longer contain. “I’d tear the realms apart. I’d face the Veil Lords themselves. I’d do anything to keep you safe, Soraya.”
Her eyes widened, perfect pink lips parting in surprise. Her hand stilled against my chest, my pulse hammering beneath her fingertips, the air between us charged with something that had been building since the moment we met.
A breath. A beat. The world held still.
Then she moved, surging upward, her lips meeting mine with unexpected ferocity.
There was no hesitation, no pause—just the wild, reckless press of her lips to mine. And I—I froze, too stunned to respond.
She was kissing me. Soraya—bright, beautiful, impossible Soraya—waskissingme. Death itself. The monster sent to erase her from existence. And instead of running, instead of fearing me, she had pressed her soft lips to mine.
Her lips brushed against mine. Wanting. Tender. Searching for my answer.
