Page 46 of The Reaper
“I guess I just like to know about stuff. If I’m doing something, working on a new song or writing about something, I like to find out everything I can.”
“You’re like Tyrion Lannister,” he said, giving me a sly wink. “Only you sing, play, and you know stuff. Less of the drinking.”
I loved that he referenced that book and the show. I’d watched it so many times. Dad hated it, but I’d watched it in my room alone. I’d read the books too. It seemed like there were so many levels that connected us. Okay, so it was only a story, but to me, it was so much more. He liked what I liked.
“I love Game of Thrones,” I stated, unsure how to tell him that he’d just touched another string in my heart.
“Me too,” he replied. “But if I was in Game of Thrones, I wouldn’t be like the others, I’d be like the Hound, or I’d run with the brotherhood with no banners. That’s the kind of family I’d be a part of. A badass brotherhood.”
“You already are.” I laughed.
I didn’t know I could love this man anymore.
I was wrong.
He’d been made by the Gods, especially for me.
It was official.
Devon pulled into the country lane where I lived, but I didn’t want the night to end.
“Have you ever seen my dad’s church?” I asked, clutching at straws, trying to think of some way to make him stay a little longer.
I wasn’t sure when my dad would be home, and I didn’t want to bring Devon into the house, not yet. I wanted him to myself. I wasn’t ready to share, and I knew my dad would have a million questions. I was surprised he’d seemed so relaxed about me having a boyfriend in the first place. That wasn’t like my dad. He’d always told me how much he’d hated the idea of me finding a boyfriend or ever leaving him.
A boyfriend.
It didn’t feel real, and yet when I said it, I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt like a kid at Christmas.
“No offense, but I’m not really a church person.” Devon drove a little further down from my house and parked up at the kerb. “But the graveyard… maybe that’d be more my thing?”
I grinned back at him. Yes, the graveyard was definitely more like Devon.
* * *
We got out of the car and walked the short distance towards the graveyard beside my dad’s church. It was a full moon, and the shine of light that cast over the gravestones gave it a gothic, eerie feel. I loved it. Like darkness was shrouding us but the moon was guiding our way.
I lifted the metal latch on the wrought-iron gate and stepped through. Devon followed me, his eyes burning into me as I picked my way across the grass to walk between the graves. I turned to look at him and the moon’s reflection on his pale skin made him look other-worldly, haunting but beautifully so. His eyes were hooded, as his stare pierced me with the level of intensity I saw there. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was transforming into a hunter, a thief in the night, and I was about to become his prey. His steps were measured, predatory, long and sure strides, as if he was gaining on me, moving with slow determination as I tiptoed away.
“So, tell me what you know,” he whispered in a gravelly voice that made my insides clench with anticipation.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my head lost to the effect this night, this moon, and this man was having on me.
“What do you know about the graveyard?” He took another long slow stride towards me and lifted his chin. “You know everything.” He dragged his fingers over the top of one of the gravestones and added, “What’s the oldest grave you have in here?”
I stared at him, not even daring to blink in case I lost this connection we seemed to be forging in amongst the shadows of the gravestones. The way he stared back at me, standing a few feet away, and yet feeling like every inch of his soul was clasped tightly around mine made me shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asked, and then shrugged his coat from his shoulders.
“I’m fine,” I replied, but when he came to stand next to me and draped his coat over me, I couldn’t help but pull it tighter around myself. The warmth of the heavy fabric and the scent of him everywhere made me take a deep breath, desperate to fill my lungs. I’d always found certain aromas could soothe my soul. The scent of my mum, my dad, our house. But now, I had a new favourite––him.
I burrowed my face into the collar as he stood close to me, his warm breath on my face suddenly made me aware of how close we were and how much I wanted to lean forward and kiss him.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I stepped back, nervous about making a fool of myself, and I started to walk through the graves, zigzagging between them slowly as I told him, “The oldest grave in here belongs to Arthur Mabberley. He died in eighteen-sixty-two, aged twenty-six, a loving father, son, and husband to Mary, who was buried in the same plot a few years later. Church records show he died of consumption.”
“I’ve never understood what that means,” he replied as he followed my steps like my forbidden shadow.
