Page 99 of The Reaper
Meghan’s eyes narrowed. “Leave the country. We’ll know if you don’t. Take your money, buy all the coke and booze you want, kill yourself on a deserted island for all I care. You’ve got two days to get your shit in order, or else.”
Silence hung, heavy, uncomfortable, and I thought he’d fight, force my hand, make me end him. But he nodded, a weak, broken sound escaping. “Retirement … doesn’t sound so bad.”
Meghan stepped forward, her boot slamming into his crotch, making him howl, curling into himself. “Never come back. Ever.”
She turned, striding out, leaving me with St. Clair’s whimpering form.
I leaned down, my voice a low quip. “I’d listen to the lady if I were you. She sounds like she means it.”
Then I followed her out, her silhouette a beacon in the warehouse’s dim light, my heart pounding with pride and heat. I’d follow this woman to the ends of the earth, and back again. Fuck me.
34
MEGHAN
Ishould’ve been at Promenade.
On any other morning, I’d already have been in the kitchen for hours—checking prep lists, tasting sauces, making sure every line cook knew exactly what I expected before the first seating. My life had been measured in the metallic gleam of knives, the hiss of butter hitting a hot pan, the rhythm of plates sliding onto the pass. That was how it had always been.
But this morning, I wasn’t there.
The stainless-steel counters, the scent of fresh herbs being chopped, the sharp bark of a sous chef calling orders—those belonged to someone else right now. I’d told my team they could handle things without me, and for once, I’d believed it.
Instead, I lay in bed in a suite at Dominion Hall, tangled in white sheets that smelled faintly of cedar, clean linen, and something darker, warmer—Caleb.
Sunlight slipped around the blackout curtains and spilled in gold across the hardwood floor, climbing the bed like it meant to claim us, too. The window glass was so clear the harbor beyond looked close enough to touch. Somewhere below, a boat engineturned over, then faded to a distant purr. The silence here wasn’t empty; it felt thick with the sense that every second had been chosen.
Caleb lay on his side, propped on an elbow, bare-chested and barefaced, watching me like I was a puzzle he wanted to take his time solving. His hair was messed from sleep, his jaw dark with stubble, and even the scars tracked over his shoulder looked restful in this light, quiet rather than violent, history rather than warning.
Heat rose under my skin just looking at him.
“It feels right here,” he said, voice low and sleep-rough.
I turned my head, smiling. “Even though you haven’t met four of your new brothers?”
“Even though.” He reached beneath the sheet and found my hand, lacing our fingers like it was a habit he didn’t remember learning. The pads of his fingers were calloused—work, training, a lifetime of holding fast. “I don’t need to meet the rest to know. This place … it’s like I’ve been circling the same patch of sky for years, and I finally found the right place to land.”
Something in my chest tightened in that sweet, painful way that meant joy was too big for one ribcage.
“So you’re staying?” I asked, though I could already hear the answer in his voice.
“I’m staying.” He said it like a decision he’d tried on in the night and found it fit. “I’ll check out of the hotel and move in here. Make it official.” His gaze searched my face, careful. “You think I’m crazy?”
I shook my head. “No. I think it feels right, too.”
His thumb made slow strokes across my knuckles, hypnotic. “Good.” The word landed like a promise between us. He hesitated, the way men do when they’re about to strip something tender out of their own chest and put it in your hands. “The other thing I know for sure? My future’s with you.”
The room seemed to hold its breath. My heart did, too.
“So,” he said softly, “what do you see when you look ahead, Meg?”
He had a way of asking questions that made defensiveness feel silly. I could’ve built a speech—timelines, bullet points, the pitch deck version of my life. I didn’t. Not with him.
“I’ve made some decisions,” I said. “Big ones.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m going to step back from Promenade,” I said, the words surprising me by how right they sounded out loud. “Not leave it—but move into a creative consultant role. I’ll hire a head chef I trust, someone who can execute the vision without me breathing down their neck.”
