They call him Reaper because of all the terrible things he’s done, but he’s still a man just like any other.
He grieves. He bleeds. He’s made of flesh and bone.
And he’s been alone since he was a boy, with nothing to sustain him but terrible memories. Memories that turned him from a boy to a myth as he rose in the ranks of an organization renowned for its ruthlessness until he was at the very top.
All his success was driven by what happened to his family.
Violence is his calling card, bloodshed his stock-in-trade, but the real beating heart of this man is revenge.
He told me he was a debt collector, but it isn’t until now that I understand what he meant.
The debts he collects are paid in blood.
When I shiver, he pulls away and looks at me—really looks at me, deep into my eyes. There’s something raw in his look. Something desperate.
As if he’s waiting for me to say goodbye.
But I’ve already tumbled too far down the rabbit hole to go back to my old life now. I couldn’t go back, even if I wanted to.
Which I don’t.
I have no idea where this dark part of me has been sleeping, how it’s lain dormant in my heart for so long, but Kage’s story has awoken something hard and flinty in my bones. A creature that believes the ends justify the means, no matter how bloody.
A fire-breathing dragon has roused inside me, snapping open slitted eyes.
The dragon says, “I don’t care about your past. What you’ve done. How you got here. Maybe I should, but I don’t. I care about you, and the way I feel when I’m with you, and how you’ve brought me back to life. You don’t ever have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I won’t pressure you. But if you do want to talk, I’ll listen without judgment. No matter what you have to say. No matter how awful you think it is, I’ll be here for you.
“Because although you told me you’re not a good man, I don’t believe that’s true. But even if it is, even if you are a bad man, then you’re the best bad man I’ve ever known.”
Frozen, he stares at me. His lips part. He exhales a small, shallow breath.
Then he kisses me as if his very life depends on it. As if his soul is on the line.
And if I sense the smallest hint of anguish in his kiss, the faintest shade of misery and regret, I know it must be my imagination.
24
Kage
I have to tell her.
Tell her and let her hate me for a while, until I can make her understand. Until I find the right words to explain how not telling her up to now hasn’t been lying, but one of those secrets I said I had to keep to keep her safe.
Except she’d know that’s bullshit. She’s too smart for that.
She can already read me too well.
This secret I keep not for her safety, but for selfish reasons.
Because I know if I told her I’ve known all along that her missing fiancé didn’t take a tumble down a mountain like she thinks he did, she’d hate me.
If I told her why I really came to town last September, she’d never forgive me.
And if I told her what the consequences would be for her if Max ever discovers I lied to him, she’d wish I were dead.
I should go before it comes to that.
I should leave and never visit this place again.
I should let her find a normal man and live a normal life and keep watch over her at a distance.
But as she gazes up at me with those beautiful ocean eyes filled with emotion, I know I won’t do any of those things.
Even if I did somehow find the strength to leave, I couldn’t stay away. She’s already proven too powerful for me to resist. Too addictive. I’m too far under her spell.
So the truth isn’t an option.
The only choice I have is to live this double life as carefully as I can. To keep everything separate. The paths of my footsteps on the east coast and the west can never cross.
I can’t make a single misstep on this tightrope I’m walking, because her life is at stake.
And I can’t lose her.
If ever I do, I’ll burn the whole world to the ground before following her into the dark.
25
Nat
After the shower, I pour Kage a whiskey and make him sit at the kitchen table, where the light is good. Then I get a needle and thread from my sewing kit, hydrogen peroxide from the bathroom cabinet, a small cotton towel, and gauze pads.
Standing in front of him, looking at this huge, tattooed man sitting in my kitchen chair wearing only the pair of gray sweats I bought for him as a gift, I’m filled with a sudden burning bright happiness. It’s blinding, like I’m staring into the sun.
To manage it without blurting something foolish, I say, “I don’t have any tape.”
Lounging in the chair like the king of libertines, he takes a swig of the whiskey, licks his lips, and smiles at me. “For what?”
“The bandages. I can’t glue them on, I need medical tape.”
“Do you have any duct tape?”
“I’m not putting duct tape on you! That stuff’s industrial strength! It’ll rip your skin off when you remove it!”
He looks at the sewing kit in my hand. “You’ll stitch me up with cotton thread that’s going to degrade and give me an infection so I’ll die from sepsis, but you draw the line at duct tape?”
I stare at the thread in dismay. “Oh crap. What should I use, then?”
“Fishing line’s good. If you don’t have that, unflavored dental floss.”
I don’t ask how he knows that. I just go back into the bathroom and get my dental floss, then return to the kitchen. He’s pouring another glass of whiskey.
“Good idea. That’ll help to numb the pain.”
“This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”
“I don’t think it’s smart for me to drink alcohol before attempting surgery.”
“And I don’t think it’s smart for my doctor to attempt surgery on me with such shaky hands.”
We both look at my hands. They’re definitely shaking.
“Fine. Give it to me.”
I set all my supplies on the table. He hands me the glass of whiskey. I down most of it and give him back the glass. “Okay, I’ll sit over here. You should turn—”
“You’ll sit here.”
He pulls me down onto his lap, facing him, my thighs open around his hips.
“This doesn’t seem like the best position.”
Sinking his fingers into my ass, he leans in and nuzzles my neck. “It does to me.”
“I appreciate the attention, but if you keep distracting me like that, you’re liable to wind up with stitches that look like something Frankenstein’s monster would be proud of.”
“I’m not entering any beauty contests soon, baby. Just clean it off and sew it up.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“Because it is. I’ll walk you through it. Pour the peroxide over the wound first.”
I lean closer to inspect it, biting my lip when I see the gash up close.
It’s not gruesome. It’s not even particularly long or large. It is, however, seeping blood, which he doesn’t even seem to be aware of.
He says, “See? I told you. It’s hardly a scratch.”
“How many times have you been shot?”