Page 9 of The Reaper
Take everything I’d built and move it to a city where stars were handed out. Chicago, maybe. Or D.C. A place that understood what it meant to put your life on a plate and ask to be seen.
The idea made my chest tighten. Not with fear. With fury.
Why should I have to leave Charleston to matter?
Why should I have to abandon the place that raised me—its ingredients, its air, its soul—just to earn a piece of validation from a faceless committee in Europe?
The resentment simmered, quiet and familiar. I’d learned how to hold it without burning. I’d learned how to use it.
Fuel. Fire. Flavor.
A sudden breeze lifted the hem of my tank top. I caught it with one hand, still staring out at the water.
That’s when I felt it.
That shift in the air.
Like something unseen had moved. Like the city had inhaled.
I turned my head slowly.
There was a man standing near one of the benches, a dozen feet behind me. Still. Watching. Not in a creepy way—not hunched or lurking—but with a strange, calm patience. He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch when I met his eyes.
I couldn’t make out his face in the dark, but he was tall. Broad shoulders. Hands loose at his sides, like he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
I held his gaze for a beat too long.
He didn’t look away.
A flicker of something moved through me. Heat. Curiosity. The tiniest pull of … interest? I didn’t want to call it that. But it was there, undeniable and alive in my chest.
I dropped my gaze first and turned back to the water.
When I glanced again, he was gone.
The bench was empty. The street beyond it, too.
I didn’t move right away. Just stood there, breathing slowly, letting the moment settle. The city was quiet again, pretending nothing had happened.
Maybe nothing had.
Or maybe everything had.
But the feeling lingered.
Like being seen in a way I wasn’t used to. Not by critics or guests or anyone looking to flatter their own palette by flattering mine—but really seen. Watched with a quiet kind of hunger I didn’t yet understand.
And then, the spell broke.
Because there was movement by the gate. A figure slipping into the circle of soft lantern light—tall but familiar. Not rigid and alert like the stranger had been. No coiled stillness or eerie calm.
Just … Finn.
He didn’t belong to the night the way the other man had. Finn moved like a local, like this was his city and the air knewhis name. There was no danger in him, no mystery. Just comfort. Predictability. And tonight, even that felt like too much.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I said as he came through the gate.
He held up his hands, palms out. “Didn’t mean to sneak.”
