Page 62 of The Reaper
I crouched near the alley, checking sightlines. The hostess stand was visible through the front window, a perfect drop point if you knew the staff’s rhythm—busy during service, distractedat close. Someone could’ve slipped in during the chaos, left the note, and vanished.
But twice? It meant they were watching her.
My jaw tightened, the protective urge flaring hot. I’d ask Ryker in the morning to run checks on her employees. She didn’t have many—a tight crew, loyal, but it only took one with a grudge or a secret. Best to be safe.
The last thing I wanted was my own skeletons, the blood on my hands, the enemies I’d made—spilling into her world. I’d kept my past locked tight, but the thought of it touching her made my blood run cold.
I moved to the front of the building, staying low, blending with the shadows of the oak across the street. The lanterns cast soft pools of light, but I stayed outside them, my eyes locked on Promenade’s facade.
The windows were dark, Meghan’s loft light faintly visible upstairs, a reminder she was safe—for now. I checked the time: just past two in the morning. I’d stay until dawn, until Ryker’s cameras were up, until I was sure no one was slipping through the cracks.
My hand brushed the steel credit card in my pocket, its weight a reminder of the power at my fingertips. Ryker had said no limit, and I believed him, but I hadn’t used it beyond the bakery bag.
Trust was a blade, sharp and double-edged, and I wasn’t ready to wield it yet.
The night stretched on, the city’s hum fading to a whisper. A stray cat darted across the street, eyes glinting in the dark, and I froze, tracking its movement until it vanished into an alley. No threats, just instinct.
I shifted to a better vantage point, a shadowed corner by the neighbor’s fence, where I could see both entrances and the street. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of damp stoneand blooming crepe myrtles, their petals littering the ground like spent shells.
I let my mind settle, cataloging every detail—the angle of the streetlights, the distance to the nearest cover, the sound of a distant car engine revving and fading. Whoever left those notes knew Promenade’s rhythm, knew Meghan’s world. That meant patience, planning, access.
I’d start with her staff—Finn, the sous chef, with his too-close loyalty; the line cooks, the servers, the sommelier who’d botched the pairing tonight. One of them could be a crack in her armor, and I’d find it before it broke her.
My thoughts drifted to Ryker’s summary, the sleek document that had landed in my encrypted inbox. Dominion Hall wasn’t just a fortress; it was a machine, built on Dad’s billions. Private security was the cover, but the scope was staggering.
The brothers ran it like a unit, each with a role. It was a legacy, a kingdom, and I felt its pull, like a tide dragging me toward something bigger than myself.
But trust? That was harder.
Ryker’s quick response tonight felt like the kind of family I’d grown up with in Montana, where a brother’s word was iron.
Yet my gut, honed by years of ops gone wrong, whispered to hold back, to dig deeper. I’d keep watching, waiting, testing the waters until I knew this wasn’t a trap.
Meghan’s face flashed in my mind, her damp hair catching the lantern light, her unapologetic hunger as she tore into that strudel. That fire, that drive—it matched mine, but hers was poured into plates, stories, a dream she’d built from nothing. Those notes weren’t just a threat; they were an invasion of her world, and that made it personal. I’d protect her, not just because I wanted her—though fuck, I did—but because she deserved it.
She’d trusted me tonight, opened up about her parents, let me see the cracks in her armor. That trust was a weight I didn’t take lightly, a mission I wouldn’t fail.
I shifted, my back against the fence, eyes scanning the street again. A lone jogger passed, earbuds in, oblivious, but I clocked him—height, gait, no threat.
The night was still, but I felt the undercurrent, the same prickle I’d felt in hostile zones. Someone was out there, watching, waiting, just like me. I’d find them before they got to her.
I thought of Finn, his easy smile masking something heavier, his eyes lingering on Meghan too long. Was he the crack? Or was it someone else, someone with access and intent?
The hours ticked by, the city settling into a deeper quiet. A streetlight flickered, casting jagged shadows, and I adjusted my position, staying low, my breath steady.
I remembered nights like this in the field—waiting in the dark, senses sharp, the world reduced to angles and instincts. But this wasn’t Jakarta or Zurich; this was Meghan’s world, and I’d guard it like it was mine. The thought of her upstairs, safe but vulnerable, stirred something deep—protective, possessive, a need to shield her from whatever shadow was creeping closer.
As the sky lightened, a faint gray creeping over the horizon, I felt the weight of the night settle. Meghan was safe, for now. But those notes—they weren’t random. They were deliberate, a message I didn’t yet understand.
I’d keep her close, keep her safe, and root out whoever thought they could touch her world. My world now, too.
18
MEGHAN
The sun had just come up, and Caleb was outside.
I spotted him through the upstairs window, a dark silhouette leaning against the lamppost just across the street. He wasn’t exactly hiding, but he wasn’t advertising himself either—hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the street, posture loose in that deceptively casual way I’d already learned meant he was paying attention to everything.
