Page 10 of Reaper's Justice
I back away, settling into the chair at my desk. I'll sleep here tonight, upright. Stand guard, though she doesn't know it. It's not comfortable, but I've slept in worse conditions.
As I watch her breathe, slow and steady in the dim light filtering through the curtains, I acknowledge the truth I've been avoiding since I saw her on that auction stage.
This isn't just about territory. Or even justice.
This is about her. Evelyn. The woman who looked at me with equal parts fear and defiance. Who sees me as just another monster but chose me anyway over the devils she knew.
I don't know what that says about either of us.
All I know is that for the first time in years, I feel something other than the cold detachment that's kept me alive. Something dangerous. Something that could get us both killed if I'm not careful.
And as I drift toward sleep, one thought circles in my mind: I will protect her, even if it means becoming the monster she thinks I am.
Chapter 4 - Evelyn
I wake with a start, disoriented by the softness beneath me. Not concrete. Not the metal frame of a cot.
Still… For one terrifying moment, I think I'm back in the auction house, being prepped for sale.
Then reality rushes in. The motorcycle club. Reaper. Escape.
I sit up, wincing as my ribs protest. Morning light filters through unfamiliar curtains. A second blanket pools around my waist, one I don't remember taking.
That's when I notice him.
Reaper sits in a desk chair, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. Sleeping upright like a soldier in a war zone. His massive frame looks uncomfortable in the chair, one hand still resting near what I assume is a concealed weapon.
Why is he here? Why didn't he take the bed?
I shift quietly, trying to stand without waking him. My joints ache from sleeping on the floor, but it's a familiar pain. Preferable to the vulnerability of a bed I don't control.
"You're awake."
His voice, rough with sleep, startles me. His eyes are open now, gray and alert despite having just woken. Nothing bleary or confused in his gaze.
"Yes." I pull the blanket around my shoulders like armor. "Why are you in here?"
He straightens, rolling his neck to work out the kinks. "It's my room."
"You said I could have it."
"And you did." He stands, and I fight the urge to step back. "I just needed to grab something and saw you were cold. I ended up falling asleep."
The extra blanket. So, he was in here while I slept. The thought makes my skin crawl. Not because I think he did anything, but because I didn't wake up. In captivity, I trained myself to jolt awake at the slightest sound. My survival depended on it.
"You should have woken me," I say, hating how defensive I sound.
"You needed to sleep." He moves toward the door, giving me a wide berth. "Bathroom's yours if you want it. I'll get coffee started."
Before I can respond, he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him. I stand frozen for a moment, trying to make sense of this man. He saves me from traffickers, offers me his room, sleeps in a chair rather than disturb me, and acts like it's nothing unusual.
What's his angle?
I use the bathroom quickly, splashing water on my face and using a finger to clean my teeth since I have no toothbrush. The mirror above the sink reveals a stranger—hollow-cheeked, with dark circles under haunted green eyes. My hair hangs in damp waves, cleaner than it's been in months but still a tangled mess.
I look like exactly what I am: damaged goods.
Sighing, I straighten Reaper's too-large clothes on my frame and steel myself to face whatever waits beyond the door. At least I'm not hungry, which is a small mercy. Years of irregular meals in foster care prepared me for the starvation tactics of my captors.
