Page 98 of The Reaper
She leaned closer, her hand on my thigh, heat seeping through. “That’s it?”
I couldn’t lie to her, not now. “There was an incident in Afghanistan,” I said, my voice tightening. “A nasty bastard taking American money, but also collecting kids—little boys—for his own sick games. I left him in a chair, holding his own head in his lap, a scythe I found in a field propped against the wall.”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. She nodded, her eyes steady, understanding, and in that moment, my love for her soared, a fierce, aching thing that made my chest hurt. She got it—saw the necessity, the justice—and didn’t look away.
“Should I call you The Reaper?” she asked, a teasing edge to her voice.
I laughed, the sound rough but real. “I hate the name. Caleb’s fine.”
“And when we’re making passionate love?” she asked, her voice dropping, a spark in her eyes that made my cock twitch.
“Then you call me whatever you want,” I said, grinning, my hand brushing hers, the heat between us a live wire that would never dim.
We pulled up near the pier, the warehouse looming—a squat, concrete box, not old but not new, its paint chipped from years of harbor wind. I killed the engine, and we went the rest of the way on foot, sticking to the shadows of stacked crates and rusted shipping containers.
Marcus was right—the single camera on the lot was a joke, easy to bypass with a low crouch and a timed step. Alastair St. Clair knew how to intimidate a woman, but his security was shit, no guards, no patrols, just arrogance. That was the only reason I’d let Meghan come—Ryker’s intel showed no armed presence, no real threat beyond a pampered chef with a grudge.
Still, I watched every angle, my pistol heavy in my hand, keeping Meghan a few feet behind, her steps quiet but steady.
We slipped inside through a side door, the lock laughably basic, no alarms tripped. The first thing I heard was jazz blaring—saxophone wails echoing off concrete walls, a pulse that set my teeth on edge. The warehouse wasn’t a ruin, but it wasn’t pristine either—boxes stacked haphazardly, shelves lined with crates of wine bottles, jars of preserves, and what looked like restaurant supplies, dust settling in the corners.
It wasn’t clear what St. Clair used this place for until we crept closer, following the music to the far end, the air growing warmer, tinged with the faint scent of cigar smoke. I motioned for Meghan to stay back, my pistol ready, and edged forward, the jazz growing louder, a sultry wail that masked our steps.
I peered around a stack of crates into a room that didn’t belong in a warehouse—a luxuriously appointed space, like a throne room for a petty king. Plush rugs, a mahogany desk, velvet curtains framing a single window with a view of the harbor’s dark water. In the center, a man sat in a high-backed chair, disheveled hair falling over a tailored suit, his eyes fixed on a wall where an oversized photo of Meghan was tacked, a red X slashed across her face, darts piercing the paper. Magazine write-ups, newspaper clippings, and more surveillance photos of her—walking to Promenade, laughing with Finn, standing in her loft window—surrounded it, a shrine to his obsession.
St. Clair leaned forward, snorting a line of cocaine off a glass table, then cackled, pointing at her photo. “I’m not done with you yet, bitch!”
My blood roared, and I moved—fast, deadly, a shadow honed by years of silent kills. My hand wrapped around St. Clair’s neck, yanking him back, flipping him over the chair onto the floor with a thud. I pressed my pistol to his forehead, the cold steel steady, my voice a low growl ready to spill.
But Meghan was there, stepping beside me, calm as a blade, her voice cutting through the jazz. “Hello, Alastair. I hate what you’ve done with the place.”
St. Clair’s eyes bulged, his face twisting between blubbering and rage. “You—you can’t be here! This is my town! I’ll ruin you, you fucking upstart!” His voice cracked, wild, unhinged, spittle flying as he thrashed under my grip. “You think you’re better? You’re a cunt! You don’t deserve the praise, the reviews, any of it!”
I pressed the pistol harder, my finger itching. “Let me put a bullet in him.”
Meghan’s hand touched my arm, steadying, but her eyes stayed on St. Clair, unflinching. He was a mess—sweat beading, eyes darting, his suit rumpled, cocaine dusting his collar.
I’d expected resistance, armed guards, a fight worth my training, not this pampered prick with a drug habit and a vendetta. Killing him would be easy, too easy, but Meghan had other plans.
She nudged me aside, towering over him, unafraid, hot as hell in her defiance.
“Your time’s up, Alastair,” she said, voice cold, commanding. “You’re done in Charleston.”
He blubbered, his voice a manic mix of anger and panic. “I own this town! You can’t push me out! My family’s been here for generations!”
Meghan cut him off, her tone sharp. “Not anymore.” She glanced back at me, winking—fucking winking—her confidence a spark that lit me up like the Fourth of July. “I’m in bed with the Danes now.”
St. Clair’s face went gray, his mouth working soundlessly, the nameDaneshitting like a throat punch. Meghan leaned closer, her voice low, lethal. “I’m buying you out. Your restaurant, your suppliers, your name. All of it.”
He laughed, a crazed, broken sound. “You can’t afford that! You’re nothing!”
She didn’t flinch. “You can’t afford to say no. Take the price I give you—unfair as it is—or,” she nodded at me, “the guy with the gun gets it for free.”
I blinked, caught off guard, then remembered—Atlas had pulled her aside at Dominion Hall, their heads bent together, his nod signaling agreement.
Had the Danes promised to bankroll her, to give her the muscle to take St. Clair’s empire? The thought made my chest swell. She was playing a bigger game, and I was her weapon.
St. Clair blubbered again, his voice high, desperate. “Where am I supposed to go? You can’t do this!”
