Page 89 of The Reaper
My throat was too tight to answer. I just nodded, forcing myself to pick up the knife again, to keep moving. Because that’s what you did in a kitchen. You kept moving.
Even if you were falling apart inside.
Caleb didn’t move his hands from my shoulders. If anything, his hold anchored me more firmly in place, as if letting go meant I might splinter.
“You don’t have to do any of this,” he said, the words low enough that only I could hear them. “Not like this. Not with the weight of a ghost on your back.”
I tried to shake my head, but his grip was steady. “You think I can just walk away?”
“I think,” he said, his gaze cutting into mine, “that you could walk away today, and the world wouldn’t fall apart. You could take a breath. A week. A month. Let this place rest. Let yourself rest. And when you come back, you could build your dream—yourdream, Meg—not the one you’ve been carrying like a punishment.”
The heat behind my eyes threatened to spill over, but I blinked hard. “This is my dream.”
He tilted his head, watching me like he was weighing every word. “Then why does it sound like penance when you talk about it?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My chest felt like it had been pried open.
“You’ve been running yourself ragged for something that’s supposed to bring you joy. That’s not the way it works.” His voice hardened, the edge in it unmistakable. He whispered so only I could hear. “I’d move heaven and earth to keep you safe. I’ll deal with whoever’s behind these notes. I’ll make damn sure they never come near you again. But I’m not gonna stand here and watch you destroy yourself in the process.”
My pulse jumped. The room felt smaller, like the walls had pulled in just to trap me between him and the truth I didn’t want to hear.
“You don’t understand?—”
“I understand enough.” His jaw flexed. “I understand that you’re mine now. And I take care of what’s mine.”
That sent a flush through me—half arousal, half defiance—but I couldn’t meet his eyes without feeling the ground shift under me.
“This isn’t just yours to fight,” he went on, softer now but no less certain. “You’ve got me. You’ve got my family. And whether you like it or not, you’ve got all the reach and power that comes with that. Use it. Let yourself lean on it. That’s what I’m here for.”
I glanced past him to Carly, Michael, Alba, and Finn—my crew, my people—and then back at Caleb. “And what if I don’t know how to lean on anyone like that?”
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Then you learn. Starting now.”
I shook my head again, because the alternative—that he was right, that I could lay this burden down even for a little while—was too big to process without breaking. “If I stop, I don’t know who I am.”
“You’ll be the woman who still wakes up tomorrow. Who still gets to choose. Who still gets to build something that isn’t tangled in the worst days of her life.”
The words cracked something in me. I pressed my lips together, willing the burn in my eyes to settle. “I can’t just … shut it down.”
“You can. And if you don’t want to, you can change the way you run it. Either way, I’m right here.”
He let one hand drift from my shoulder to the side of my neck, his thumb brushing under my jaw. “I’ll deal with the danger. You deal with finding your joy again. And if that means we burn this whole thing down and start fresh somewhere else, so be it.”
The idea made my stomach flip—not because I wanted it, but because a part of me, deep down, feared he might be right.
But I wasn’t ready to admit that. Not yet.
So I stepped back just enough to put space between us, my hands going through familiar motions again, even though I could still feel the imprint of his touch. “We’ve got work to do.”
He didn’t push. Just stood there, watching me like a man who knew he’d started something that wouldn’t be finished in this moment.
And maybe that was the worst part—knowing that eventually, I’d have to face the truth in his words.
29
CALEB
Isat at a small table shoved against the wall in Promenade’s dining room, the clink of silverware and soft hum of conversation weaving a rhythm around me. From this perch, I could see it all—the hostess stand, the kitchen pass, the front door, the boarded window glaring like a fresh scar on Meghan’s empire.
