Page 40 of The Reaper
Ryker’s face nagged at me again—familiar, like a shadow from Dad’s past, maybe an old photo or a briefing room I couldn’t place. Had I seen him before? No, I decided, but the doubt lingered. He had that operator vibe—scarred knuckles, calm eyes, moneyed swagger with zero fucks left to give. But he’d known about Nightshade. Knew my calls, my failures. Jensen’s laugh, Baker’s blood—my fault, my weight. A blank check could’ve saved them. Drones. Ammo. Anything.
If Dominion Hall had that kind of pull, I needed to know.
I closed the laptop, locked it back in the safe, and felt exhaustion tug at me, heavy and insistent. Sleep was next. My body was leaden, my mind buzzing, but I needed it before I faced Ryker again.
I stripped the bed, crashed face-down, my pistol tucked under the pillow—a habit from years of ops where sleep was a luxury and danger never knocked.
My thoughts drifted back to Meghan, her body a tether pulling me from the questions. I saw her again—on that counter,gasping my name, legs trembling as she came. Her demanding “from behind,” bending over, ass perfect, taking me deep. Then the floor, her riding me, pinning my wrists, bold and unashamed.
“Again,” she’d whispered, nipping my lip.
My cock stirred even in half-sleep, her moans echoing, her taste lingering. It was a twisted fate, but damn if it didn’t feel right.
Normally a light sleeper—ops had wired me to wake at a creak or a whisper—I sank deep. REM deep. Dreams swirled: Meghan’s body, Montana’s wide skies, Ryker’s smirk, Nightshade’s blood.
Then, at some point during the night, instinct kicked in, that animal prickle crawling up my spine.
A presence. I wasn’t alone.
My hand gripped the pistol under the pillow, my finger on the trigger guard, my eyes cracking open slow, casual. The room was dark, curtains blocking the moon, but there—a shadow in the lounge chair. It was supposed to be empty. Too solid, too human.
I clicked the lamp, my pistol whipping out, aimed steady.
Ryker. Sitting calm, his own gun resting in his lap, the barrel loose but pointed my way.
“Easy,” he said, his voice smooth as gravel. “Put the weapon down. Sit up. Slow.”
Fuck. Stupid. Careless. Deep sleep like a goddamn rookie. This was it—Ryker wasn’t what he seemed, someone wanted me off the board, the final act. I’d walked into it, led by my dick for Meghan, my head full of questions.
Sloppy.
I complied, hands up, sitting slow, the sheet pooling at my waist. Naked, but I didn’t care. My eyes locked on his.
“You here to finish it?”
Ryker’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be cold already. Put the piece down.”
I set the pistol on the nightstand, keeping it within reach. He didn’t flinch.
“What the fuck is this?”
He leaned back, the gun still in his lap.
“A wake-up call. For a guy they call The Reaper—deadly, competent, making bad guys shiver—you’re sloppy. Pinging hackers about us? Not even a day after we talked?”
It clicked fast. One of them had ratted. Too quick. “How’d you know?”
Ryker shrugged, his calm unshaken. “Maybe a reaper should pick better friends.”
Annoyance flared, but I wasn’t dead. This was a lecture, not an execution. I relaxed a fraction, testing him. “Cut the bullshit. How?”
He holstered his gun—waistband, concealed carry—and stood, gesturing to the adjoining room. “Grab a robe. I ordered breakfast. We’ll talk.”
I glanced at the clock: 4:30 a.m. Breakfast?
But hunger gnawed—my last meal was at Promenade, hours ago, burned off in Meghan’s heat.
I slipped on the hotel robe, white terry, and followed him to the suite’s living area. A table sat by the window, the harbor dark outside, glinting faintly under streetlights. A knock sounded at the door. Ryker opened it, gestured. A waiter rolled in a cart, five covered dishes and coffee, lifting the cloches with practiced ease: eggs Benedict, hollandaise glistening; crispy bacon strips; three kinds of sausage—links, patties, spicy chorizo; a fruit plate overflowing with berries, melon, pineapple; pastries flaked golden, croissants and danishes gleaming with glaze. Coffee steamed in a carafe, rich and dark. The waiter pocketed Ryker’s tip and vanished silently.
