Page 55 of The Reaper
My voice stayed steady, but a flicker of wariness stirred—Ryker’s tests, the Dane legacy, a story I wasn’t ready to share. She glanced at me, curious, but didn’t press, shifting gears instead.
“My uncle Dean showed up yesterday,” she said, her voice softening as she pulled a pecan tart from the bag, biting into it, the crunch loud in the quiet. “Stirred things up, as usual. He and my Aunt Trish are in town for a few days.”
“Who’s Dean?” I asked, finishing the croissant, licking chocolate from my thumb, the sweetness grounding me.
She smiled, softer now, the bag crinkling as she chewed. “He Trish raised me. Second parents, basically. They’re in Savannah now, but he swings through to check on me. Thinks I work too hard.”
Her tone held warmth, but a shadow lingered, like family came with strings.
I nodded, filing it away, my steps soft on the cobblestones. “Sounds like he cares.”
“He does. Too much sometimes.” She paused, her voice quieter, almost hesitant. “You asked about my parents before. Said I didn’t have to answer, but …” She shook her head, like she’d just decided something, her eyes meeting mine, steady but vulnerable. “They died when I was young. Fire took their restaurant, then took them, piece by piece, over the course of a few tumultuous years. Dean and Trish stepped in. Kept me from falling apart.”
Her honesty hit me like a gut punch, a trust I hadn’t expected, like she’d passed a test I didn’t know I’d set. Maybe it was the bakery bag—she hadn’t stopped eating, pulling out pastries with that unapologetic hunger that lit me up, her appetite for everything—food, life, me—intoxicating.
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it, my voice low. “I get it. Lost my mom a while back. It changes you.”
She nodded, her eyes holding mine, a shared weight passing between us. “Yeah. It does.”
I turned it back, keeping it light but real, careful not to spill too much.
“You asked about my family. One of seven boys. Mom’s gone, brothers scattered, serving in military roles all over—Rangers, SEALs, you name it. Miss Montana sometimes. The cold, the space. Winters were brutal, but when we were all together? Trouble and adventures. Best times of my life.” I paused, the ache of it rising, memories of snow fights, stolen beers, andlaughter under starlit skies. “Hasn’t been like that in a while, not since Mom passed.”
She didn’t press, just walked closer, her arm brushing mine, the warmth of her skin a quiet anchor. The bakery bag was empty now, crumpled in her hand, its crinkle loud in the silence. We’d made a loop, nearly back to Promenade, the harbor glinting under moonlight, the air thick with the city’s restless hum.
She stopped, turning to me, her voice shifting, softer but edged. “You ever feel like someone’s watching you? Like from the shadows?”
I laughed, low and easy, but my instincts sharpened, scanning the street. “All the time. Comes with the job.”
She laughed, too, but it was forced, a flicker of worry in her eyes, like a shadow she couldn’t shake. “Yeah. Just … a feeling.”
That hit me hard, a protective urge flaring. A stalker? That Finn guy, maybe? Her sous chef had a vibe—loyal, but too close, watching her like she was his to guard. I wanted to erase that worry, crush it.
“You okay? Someone bothering you?”
She shook her head, but the unease lingered, a crack in her fire. “It’s nothing. Probably just tired.”
I stepped closer, voice low, steady. “If it’s something, you tell me. I’ll handle it.”
Her eyes met mine, searching, then softened, a trust that stirred something deep. She grabbed my hand, her grip firm, her skin warm, and looked up at me. “Come up to my place. Do what we did before. Again.”
My cock stirred, heat flooding me, desire coiling tight.
“Okay,” I said, voice rough, already imagining her.
Mine. All mine.
I let her pull me up the steps and into her domain, ready to see the show we could put on this time.
15
The man sitting in the living room of the condo across the street from the Promenade moved away from the telescopic lens and picked up his phone. His call went through on the first ring.
“ID confirmed,” he said.
“Very well. Proceed,” replied a voice, cold and detached.
He ended the call, stowed the lens and the tripod into a backpack with practiced precision, and left the condo.
