Page 28 of The Reaper
The kind who could hold your wrists down while still looking you in the eyes like he knew your deepest secrets.
My stomach clenched.
“You’re still active?” I asked, voice lower now.
He nodded once. “In a manner of speaking.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I go where they tell me. Do what needs doing. Then disappear.”
The way he said it—quiet, matter-of-fact—made my pulse tick up.
“Do you ever wish you could stop?” I asked.
He tilted his head. “No.”
“No?”
He met my eyes. “There’s a certain peace in purpose. Even when the job’s messy.”
I swallowed. “So you like the structure?”
“Sometimes. Other times I like not having to pretend I’m something I’m not.”
He leaned forward, voice a shade rougher. “You ever miss not being in charge?”
The question knocked something loose in me.
I laughed once, dry. “I don’t remember what that feels like.”
He didn’t respond. Just watched me over the rim of his glass, expression unreadable. It made my skin itch.
“Must be nice,” I muttered. “Waking up and not having fifty decisions waiting before your eyes even open.”
He set his glass down and leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. “Then stop making them.”
I stilled. “What?”
He didn’t move. “Let someone else take the lead.”
I swallowed. “Are we talking about restaurants?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Are we?”
The heat between us thickened. I could feel it settle in my thighs, tighten low in my belly. I hadn’t felt that pull in ages—not with someone real. Not with someone sitting across from me, close enough to touch.
He shifted in his seat, leaned in closer.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Are you always this tense? Or is it just me?”
I laughed, startled. “I’m always this tense. You’re just making it worse.”
His smile darkened. “Good.”
