Page 87 of The Reaper's Vow
“Exactly what I need for tonight,” I reply, stepping forward and slipping the handles from his grip before he can argue. “Thank you.”
The servant inclines her head once, then disappears silently into the hall. The door shuts, and we’re alone again. Damien studies me, suspicion radiating off him as his attention lingers on the bag now hanging from my hand.
“What exactly did you request?”
I clutch the bag to my chest, grabbing the mask as I pass, already backing toward the bathroom. “Don't worry about it. I'll be ready on time.”
“Karina.” My name becomes a warning on his lips.
“You need to trust me on this,” I say, reaching the bathroom door. “I know what I'm doing.”
Before he can argue, I slip inside and close the door firmly behind me. I hear his frustrated growl through the wood, but he doesn't follow. I lock the door behind me and dump the contents onto the counter, a thrill of rebellion racing through my veins. Maybe it's stupid. Maybe it's reckless. But if I'm going to be bait, I need to look the part.
The black mesh top unfolds in my hands, far more revealing than anything I've ever worn. It's exactly what I asked for—strategically placed X's that will barely cover my nipples while leaving the rest of my breasts exposed beneath the sheer material. I slip it over my head, adjusting it in the mirror until it sits just right, the fabric cool against my skin.
Next, I slide on the harness, a set of black straps that cross over my chest and highlight the daring hint of mesh beneath. My fingers tremble as I fumble with the buckles, the cool metal biting into my skin before everything locks into place. The material hugs close, firm but not uncomfortable, a bold reminder of what I’m doing. How the women at Crimson Howl managed to dance in these contraptions without losing their minds, I’ll never understand.
I pull on a fitted moto jacket, the smooth texture cool against my skin as it slips over the harness. It hides just enough to keep Damien unaware of what is underneath, at least for now. Adjusting the collar, I can’t stop the small, wicked smile that curls my lips at the thought of his reaction when he finds out too late, in a place where stopping me will not be an option.
The pants glide over my hips like liquid, shaping to every curve until I hesitate, startled by the reflection staring back. They sit lower than I would normally dare. The heels change everything, altering my stance and my stride, shifting me from flight to hunt.
I run my fingers through my hair, leaving it loose in waves that spill over my shoulders. Then comes the final touch: lipstick, a daring red that turns my mouth into a challenge. When I fit the mask into place, soft against my skin, the woman in the mirror is no longer afraid. She is bait, and willing to be.
I take a steadying breath and open the door.
Damien waits in the bedroom, head bent over his phone, broad shoulders tense beneath his jacket. Combat boots, denim, the same lethal calm that makes the air feel thinner around him.
“I’m ready,” I say.
His head lifts, and the effect is immediate. The phone drops to his side, forgotten, as his gaze locks on me. His expression hardens, jaw flexing while his focus drags slowly down and back up again. The jacket zipped just enough to tease. The curve of my hips. The red mouth beneath the mask. His entire body goes still, but the space between us hums with something sharp and volatile, caught between fury and hunger.
“What the fuck are you wearing?”
I lift my chin, refusing to back down under his heated stare. “I'm wearing what I need to wear to make this work.”
“You're not wearing that. Not a fucking chance.”
“I am.” I step further into the room, letting the heels announce my determination with each click against the hardwood floor. “This is the whole point, Damien. I need to look the part. I need to look like bait.”
“You look like you're offering yourself up on a platter.” He stalks toward me, the predator in his movements unmistakable. “That's not the plan.”
“The plan is to draw Lockhart out. To make him think I'm available.” I stand my ground as he approaches, though my heart hammers against my ribs. “What better way than to look like I'm there for the same reason as everyone else?”
He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. His scowl burns with barely contained fury.
“You're proving my point. This reaction? This is exactly what I need from Lockhart.”
Damien's nostrils flare as he inhales sharply. His hands clench at his sides, and I can practically see him counting backwards from ten in his head.
“Take it off.”
“No.”
“You can be as furious as you want about this later. When we're both safe, you can peel these clothes off me layer by layer. But right now, we need to concentrate on what's coming.”
“You're playing with fire,” he finally growls, his hand coming up to grip my wrist where it rests against his chest. “If Lockhart so much as breathes in your direction?—”
“You’ll do your Reaper thing and kill him. That’s kind of the point of all this.”
