Page 42 of Reaper
What the fuck am I thinking? How can I so quickly and easily forget about Vanessa?
When I turn back, Reaper’s looking at me, and there’s something in his eyes that turns my thoughts about my sister into so much dust — a sadness, a heat, and a deep gratitude. He mouths the words, “Thank you.”
Susan claps her hands together once, breaking the spell. "Well, I think that's enough excitement for one evening. Roxanna, let me drive you home."
"I can take the bus," Roxanna protests, but Susan's already grabbing her keys.
"Absolutely not. You've been through enough today." Susan turns to us, gesturing toward the kitchen. "You two helped save a life today. Drink the wine. Relax. You've earned it."
Roxanna nods at us one more time. "Thank you," she says simply, and then they're both heading toward the door.
The door clicks shut, leaving Reaper and me alone in the sudden quiet of the apartment. The silence stretches between us, heavy with something I don't want to name. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic outside, andunderneath it all, the steady rhythm of Reaper's breathing. It’s deep, steady, and I wonder briefly what it would feel like hearing it with my cheek pressed against his chest.
"Wine?" he says, his voice rougher than usual.
"Yes. Definitely. Immediately."
I follow him to the kitchen, watching the way his shoulders move under his shirt, the careful way he handles the bottles Susan left for us. His hands are gentle despite their size, despite what I know they've done.
He hands me a bottle, and I take it, our fingers brushing for just a moment. The contact sends heat racing up my arm, and I pull my hand back too quickly, nearly dropping the bottle.
He notices — of course he notices — and that ghost of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth again. The same expression he wore back at the motel when I touched his face, when he looked at me like I was something precious instead of the vengeful bitch who'd been hunting him for months.
I twist the cap off the wine and take a long drink straight from the bottle. It's good — better than anything I usually buy for myself. The irony isn't lost on me that we're drinking wine paid for by a man's terror, celebrating with the fruits of violence. But the wine tastes sweet anyway, and warmth spreads through my chest.
"You okay?" Reaper asks, leaning against the counter. He's watching me with those bright eyes, the ones that seem to see too much.
"Fine." I take another drink. "Just thinking about how fucked up this all is. We torture a guy, he donates money to charity out of guilt, and now we're drinking wine bought with blood money while congratulating ourselves on saving someone."
"You want to feel bad about it?" His voice is quiet, serious. "Because I don't. That piece of shit got off easy compared to what he deserved."
I study his face, looking for the violence I know lives there, but all I see is exhaustion. The kind that goes bone deep, the kind that comes from carrying too much for too long.
The kind I know all too well.
"No," I say finally. “The only regret I’ll take out of this whole thing is that I let him live.”
“Amen,” Reaper says, and he raises his glass to me. I do the same.
We clink bottles, and I drink again. The wine slides down easier this time, warming me from the inside out. Reaper moves to the living room and I follow, settling into the chair across from where he sinks onto the couch. The distance feels necessary and insufficient and unwanted all at once.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the occasional clink of glass against lip, the soft sound of swallowing. I watch the way his throat moves when he drinks, the way his fingers wrap around the bottle. Strong hands. Gentle hands. Hands that could break bones or touch someone with devastating tenderness. Touch someone like me.
The thought hits me like a slap, and I take another long pull of wine to drown it.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is Vanessa's ex. The man who was with her when she died. The man I've spent months hunting, planning to destroy. And now I'm sitting here getting drunk and thinking about his hands, about the way he looked at me in that motel room like I was something worth saving instead of something that needed to be stopped.
At least thinking about his hands is less dangerous than thinking about his eyes. Or his smile. Or his…
The wine is making everything softer around the edges, including my ability to hate myself for the warmth pooling low in my belly every time he shifts on the couch. I watch him leanback, his shirt pulling tight across his chest, and my mouth goes dry in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.
"You're staring," he says without looking at me, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that makes my skin burn.
"No, I'm not," I snap, even though the heat flooding my cheeks makes it obvious I'm lying. The wine has loosened my tongue and stripped away whatever filter I might have had left. "I was just... thinking."
"About what?" He turns his head now, pinning me with those damn eyes, and there's definitely amusement there. The bastard is enjoying this.
"About how fucking insufferable you are," I shoot back, taking another drink to hide the fact that my hands are shaking. Not from fear this time, but from something infinitely more dangerous.
