Page 61 of The Reaper
“I should go check the perimeter,” he said, half-teasing.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not in a war zone.”
“You’re a woman with a stalker.”
“I don’t know that it’s a stalker.”
He didn’t argue. But the look on his face said it all.
I stretched, sore in all the best ways. “You staying?”
He hesitated just a breath. “Do you want me to?”
I nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”
That was enough.
He shifted, pulled me closer, tucked a blanket over both of us without asking. His arm stayed around me like it belonged there.
“I’m not scared when you’re here,” I whispered.
He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Then I’ll stay.”
17
CALEB
Istepped out of Meghan’s loft, the door clicking shut behind me, the warmth of her body still lingering on my skin. The night was thick, Charleston’s pulse quieter now, the distant hum of a late-night bar fading into the background, replaced by the soft rustle of palm fronds in the breeze.
My smile was gone, burned away by the weight of that note on her hostess stand. This was business now. My feet hit the cobblestones soft, deliberate, as I moved into the shadows of Promenade’s courtyard, my instincts kicking into overdrive. I needed to secure this place, protect her, and figure out who the hell was playing games with her safety.
First order: call Ryker. I pulled my phone, the screen’s glow sharp in the dark, and dialed. He picked up on the second ring, voice calm but alert, like he’d been waiting. “Caleb. Problem?”
“I need cameras installed at Promenade,” I said, keeping it tight.
Ryker didn’t hesitate. “Right now, or can it wait ‘til sunup?”
I paused, glancing at the restaurant’s dark windows, the courtyard still, no movement.
“Sunup’s fine.”
“Done,” he said. “Anything else?”
“No. But thanks,” I said, meaning it. “I won’t forget it.”
I ended the call, slipping the phone back into my pocket, and let the conversation settle in my head. No questions, no pushback—just action.
Family.
That word hit different now, a pulse of warmth mixed with wariness. Ryker’s quick response, his readiness to move, felt like more than a favor—it felt like trust, the kind I hadn’t expected from a man I’d only just met. Something to think on later, when the night wasn’t pressing in and Meghan’s safety wasn’t riding on my next move.
I faded into the shadows, my back against the courtyard’s brick wall, the rough texture grounding me as I scanned the street. This was what I did—watched, waited, soaked in every corner, every hiding place. Years of ops had honed it: the ability to become part of the dark, to see without being seen.
The courtyard was a maze of possibilities—vines climbing the iron fence, a low gate that could be scaled in seconds, a side alley leading to the kitchen’s back entrance. How had someone gotten in and placed that note without being noticed?
The first one, days ago, had been before I’d even walked into Promenade. This wasn’t about me, not yet, but the thought of Meghan alone, unaware, made my gut twist. I moved silently, circling the building, eyes tracing every angle—windows too high to climb without gear, a back door with a heavy deadbolt, a dumpster that could hide a body but not a motive.
No signs of forced entry, no scratches, no footprints in the soft earth by the fence. Whoever did this was clean. Professional.
