Page 37 of The Reaper's Vow
“Sit,” I tell her, gesturing to the edge of the bathtub. She obeys without argument, her movements slow and careful, like she’s afraid any sudden motion might shatter what little composure I have left.
She’s not wrong.
I grab a washcloth from the cabinet and wet it with warm water. Every part of me burns to press her down on the bathroom floor, to give in to what we’re both fighting so hard to resist. Instead, I kneel in front of her and wipe her neck with slow, deliberate care. The blood has already dried, leaving a dark sheen across her skin.
The wound is closed—smooth now, her body already healing the damage I caused. Relief settles low in my gut, chased by something warmer when her eyes meet mine. She looks exhausted, her lashes trembling as she fights to stay awake.
“You should rest,” I murmur.
She nods, barely holding herself upright. I take her hand and help her to her feet, guiding her back toward the bedroom. The light from the hall stretches across the floor, catching in her hair as she moves, slow and unsteady.
“You’re not sleeping on that piece of shit couch,” I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend. “Take the bed.”
“Then where will you sleep?” she asks, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.
“With my mate.” The words come out before I can stop them—simple, absolute, true in a way that settles something deep inside me.
She plants her feet, trying to stand her ground even though she can barely keep her eyes open. “No. Either I take the couch, or you do.”
I should argue. I should let her win this one. But she looks too pale, too drained, and I’m done pretending this is something I can detach from. So I step forward, slip an arm under her knees and another around her back, and lift her before she can say another word.
She makes a small sound of protest, but it dies against my chest. Her head falls against my shoulder as I carry her the rest of the way to the bed.
The sheets are still warm from earlier, faintly scented with soap and cedar. I set her down carefully, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. She exhales, the tension melting from her body as she sinks into the mattress.
“Sleep,” I tell her quietly.
Her hand twitches once, reaching for the edge of the blanket, then stills. Within seconds, her breathing evens out.
I stand there, watching her. The moonlight spills across her face, softening every line, and something in my chest goes still.
She’s in my bed. Finally. And it makes me fucking happy.
Karina
The throb at my neck yanks me from sleep like a fishhook, pain and pleasure twisting into a single burning thread that makes me gasp. I jolt upright in Damien’s bed, hand flying to the spot where his teeth broke skin last night.
The sheets are still warm, tangled around my legs, and his scent clings to the room—dense, heady, making my pulse stumble. But the space beside me is empty.
“Damien?”
Silence.
The room feels wrong without him. The air hums with the ghost of his presence, as if he’s still lying beside me, though themattress on his side has already cooled. Did he even stay? The wound at my throat pulses again, sending molten heat spiraling through my veins. My fingers trace the raised edges of the bite, tender skin thrumming beneath my touch.
I can’t believe how quickly my life has unraveled. Thirty-six hours ago, the worst thing I had to face was Travis. Now I’ve been claimed by a man who kills for a living, marooned in a compound full of wolves who look at me like I’m some prize—and bound to a world my parents escaped before I was born.
My parents. The thought of them hollows out my chest. They tried so hard to give me a normal life, hiding me from pack politics and blood feuds. But they never prepared me for this. Never warned me about bonds that sink into bone or the way a stranger’s bite could feel like home.
“You should have told me,” I whisper to the empty room. “You should have explained what I was, what this meant.”
Heat flares beneath my palm again, not just pain but something deeper, hungrier—a low, pulsing demand. It’s a reminder of what we started but haven’t finished. My cycle sharpens the ache until the sheets rasp against my skin like sandpaper, and every breath feels too heavy to take.
I need to move. Now.
The clock on the nightstand glares 7:00 AM in red digits, and my stomach twists. Two hours until I face the Alpha. Two hours until I stand in front of the most dominant wolf in the territory.
My body burns from the inside out, skin raw with sensitivity. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ignore the slickness gathering between them.
