Page 103 of The Reaper
We came together, her eyes locked on mine, a shared release that felt like a vow, prickles shooting down my back as she clenched around me, her cry mingling with mine. No place I’d rather be, no moment I’d trade.
We collapsed, panting, her body curled against mine, the sheets tangled around us. I had no idea what living at Dominion Hall would be like, what traveling with her would look like—Oaxaca’s markets, Tokyo’s knife-sharp mornings, Sicily’s salted wind—but none of that mattered now.
I watched her, her breath steadying, her skin flushed, and knew this was enough, her fire my home.
“Can we just do this forever?” I asked, half-laughing, my hand tracing her hip.
She slapped my chest playfully, her grin wicked. “There’s work to do, Caleb. Food to eat, research to conduct.”
I laughed, the sound rough but real. “Yeah, wouldn’t be proper to fuck ineveryrestaurant we visit.”
She smirked, her eyes gleaming. “Not Japan. Too respectful. But Italy? Maybe.”
Her endless spark was allure itself, pulling me in like gravity. The words slipped out, unbidden, raw. “I love you.”
She smiled, and for a moment, my heart stopped, thinking she wouldn’t say it back. Then she straddled me again, her hand wrapping around my cock, stroking until it was hard, her touch a spark that made me inhale sharp. She lowered herself, taking me in, settling deep, her heat a fire that burned away the world.
“Took you long enough,” she said, her voice low, teasing, then softer, “I love you, too, Caleb Dane.”
She rode me, slow at first, then faster, her hips rolling, her hands on my chest, nails digging in, her eyes locked on mine. I thrust up to meet her, our bodies a rhythm, her moans a song I’d never tire of. The room faded, the harbor’s hum gone, just her, me, and the heat between us, building, consuming, until we were lost in it, her fire my everything.
36
The man on the fishing trawler put down the binoculars and looked away from Dominion Hall. He pulled out his phone, tapped the only number in its memory, and waited.
“Status?” said the voice.
“It’s official. The Montana clan is joining with Charleston.”
There was a pause, and then, “Very well. Phase two begins now.”
Nothing else needed to be said. The call ended and the man dropped the phone into the water. Then, he hauled in the empty net, stowed it, went to the helm, and powered the boat toward the Atlantic.
It was Byron Dane who had started the war, and now it was time for his children to pay the price. The Vanguard would see to that.
EPILOGUE
MEGHAN
The Sicilian sun had barely climbed over the rooftops, but already the open-air market pulsed with life. The cobblestones under my sandals were warm from yesterday’s heat, and I could feel the day promising more of it—another slow-baked afternoon with air so heavy with salt you could taste it.
The air was alive with scent: briny fish fresh from the sea, citrus oils released from cutting lemons, the peppery snap of bunches of arugula stacked high, and—most intoxicating of all—the bitter-sweet perfume of strong espresso drifting from the café at the corner.
It reminded me of early mornings in Charleston when the bakery ovens were already working before dawn, only here, everything was brighter, sharper, more saturated.
Caleb walked a few steps ahead of me, his broad shoulders blocking the view of a stall piled with glossy eggplants and tomatoes so ripe they practically begged to burst. He wore a short-sleeved shirt rolled at the sleeves and a grin that had been there since we landed in Palermo four days ago. I had seen thatgrin before—after sex, after a good whiskey, after a victory—but here, in this market, it was softer. Settled.
We were supposed to be working—sourcing ingredients for the menus at Promenade, for the plans I had for the rebuilt Meggie’s on Folly Beach, and for my stubborn dream of reshaping Alastair’s old restaurant into something worth loving. But the truth was, this trip had been as much about us as it was about the food.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t in my kitchen in the early morning. I wasn’t hunched over prep lists, sleeves rolled, hair tied up, mind racing with a hundred details before the first customers even walked in. My staff had it handled. Finn—brilliant, dependable Finn—was steering the ship like he’d been born to do it. Caleb had been right. I’d needed to step back, to breathe, to remember who I was outside of my work.
And here, surrounded by sun and sea and chaos, I could breathe.
Caleb stopped at a stall stacked with pecorino wheels and began a halting conversation with the vendor. His Italian was atrocious, that slow Montana drawl flattening every vowel.
“Bone-johr-no,” he said, drawing out the syllables until it sounded like a bad parody.
The vendor raised a brow but grinned, anyway, responding with rapid Italian that Caleb definitely didn’t understand. I bit my lip to keep from laughing outright as Caleb pantomimed weighing the cheese, then holding up four fingers.
