Page 52 of The Reaper's Vow
“She's fine,” I mutter to myself. “Elias will keep her safe.”
My wolf snarls at the thought of another male—any male—near our mate. The rational part of me knows Elias is trustworthy. He's kept my secrets before. Protected my back in situations that would have gotten us both killed if he'd hesitated.
But he's still a Bellandi. Still answerable to his father. And Anselm made his intentions clear at breakfast this morning.
Two more days. Two more fucking days until the full moon. I can get through this. I have to for her sake and for mine.
I start the car with a growl, forcing myself to focus on the mission ahead rather than the woman I'm leaving behind. The engine roars to life, vibrating beneath me as I pull away from the cabin.
Fuck Anselm. Fuck my father. Fuck this entire situation.
The road twists through the redwoods, shadows flickering across my windshield as I take the turns faster than I should. My wolf paces restlessly beneath my skin, testing the limits of my restraint with every mile that stretches between us and Karina. I roll down the window, letting the cold night air slap my face, trying to clear my head of her scent still clinging to my clothes.
I need to compartmentalize. Lock away my need to be with Karina long enough to do my job. The Reaper can't afford distractions, and tonight, I need to be the Reaper more than ever.
The old Kellerman building sits on the outskirts of Blackridge, a forgotten warehouse that's been abandoned for decades. Perfect for clandestine meetings between traitors. I park half a mile away and continue on foot.
The forest around me is alive with night sounds as I move silently between the trees. My training takes over, body shifting into predator mode despite the constant ache pulling me back toward the compound, back toward her.
Focus, damn it.
I circle the Kellerman building once, cataloging entry points, potential escape routes, and the three vehicles parked behind the structure. A black SUV with tinted windows. A mid-range sedan. A pickup truck with a gun rack—typical Blackridge business owner. All local plates.
My wolf's senses pick up five distinct scents inside. The brewery owner, the apothecary woman, the auto shop guy, and two others I can't immediately place. No sign of Lockhart himself yet, which is interesting. Either he's running late, or he's smart enough to send representatives rather than show his face.
I check my watch. Ten minutes early. Perfect.
Slipping through a broken window at the back of the building, I land soundlessly on the dusty concrete. The warehouse yawns open around me, cavernous and cold, with support columns rising like skeletal trees that offer perfect cover. I keep low, moving from shadow to shadow until I’m close enough to catch the murmur of conversation drifting from the cluster of old office rooms at the far end.
“—ridiculous protection fees,” a woman complains. Sierra from the apothecary. Her voice carries the brittle edge of exhaustion. “Bellandi takes forty percent of my profits and calls it insurance. Insurance against what? His own threats?”
“Same here,” a man adds, deeper timbre roughened by frustration. Richard. The mechanic. “His people came by lastweek demanding double what we agreed to. Said it was a market adjustment.” He spits, the wet sound sharp against the silence. “More like extortion.”
My jaw tightens. They think they’re being squeezed now? They don’t understand the real price of weakness. What Bellandi takes is steep, but it keeps predators from other packs off t doorsteps. Try explaining that to wolves who have lived in relative peace thanks to Anselm’s protection, though. Might as well be lecturing calculus to toddlers.
Then another voice—one I don’t know. Smooth. Persuasive. “Lockhart’s offer is generous. Twenty percent instead of forty. Better security. No suddenadjustmentsto your rates.”
“And what’s the catch?” the brewery owner asks. His scent hits me—sweat, nerves, and the sour tang of old beer woven into the fabric of his shirt..
“No catch. Just new management.”
I ease closer, using the shadows to mask my approach. Through a gap in the wall, I can see five figures huddling around a folding table. A battery-powered lantern casts harsh shadows across their faces. The three business owners look exactly like what they are—small-town entrepreneurs in over their heads. The other two are clearly Lockhart's people, though I don't recognize either of them.
One is a thin man in an expensive suit—too polished, too clean. Outsider. His scent doesn’t belong here; not pack, maybe not even wolf. The other is a blonde woman with cropped hair and an air of easy confidence. I know her face, or maybe her posture. She’s pack, but not one of Lockhart’s.
“What about the Reaper?” the brewery owner asks. “I heard what happened to Marco at the Crimson Howl.”
My lips curl into a smile despite myself. Good. Let them be afraid. Fear is a better deterrent than any contract.
“The Reaper is just one man,” the suit says dismissively. “And Lockhart has resources Bellandi can only dream of.”
I've heard enough. Time to make my presence known.
I step out of the shadows, my boots deliberately heavy on the concrete floor. “Is that so?”
The reaction is immediate and satisfying. The brewery owner knocks over his chair scrambling backward. The apothecary woman freezes like prey spotting a predator. Richard from the auto shop reaches for something under his jacket, but thinks better of it when he sees my hand already resting on my sidearm.
Only Lockhart's representatives maintain some semblance of composure.
