Chapter Twenty
Adriana
Susan’s waiting for us back at the apartment, along with Roxanna, who is sitting beside her on the couch, swirling a glass of wine and looking as triumphant as a woman who was just terrorized beyond reason and dragged around by her hair by an abusive piece of excrement has ever looked in the history of humanity. Susan’s smiling.
She stands when Reaper and I enter and then, after a moment’s hesitation, she runs to us and throws her arms around me in a hug that makes me beyond uncomfortable with its intimacy.
“Thank you,” she says. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” I say. I mean it, too.
Seeing that worm squirm and cry is a memory I’ll come back to every time I want to smile.
And touching Reaper afterward and noticing the way he blushed like a little boy getting his first kiss behind the jungle gym during recess?
I’ll remember that for a long time, too.
“He called the shelter,” Roxanna says, piping up and then taking a long drink of wine.
“He called, and he cried and he cried and he cried.
Then he said he was leaving town for good and we'd never hear from him again. Then I told him to go fuck himself and that I hoped he dies in a ditch surrounded by used diapers and spent needles.”
“Why be so kind?” Susan says. “He was a right piece of shit. Son of a bitch even made a donation to the shelter through our website.”
“Really?” Reaper says.
“Yes, he did, the indignant shit-flinger,” Susan says.
“We used some of the money to buy the wine here. There are a couple of bottles for you in the fridge. But I refuse to fund my organization with drug money. I’ll talk with our lawyers about what to do with it.
I hate him so much for costing me time and money by having to talk to our lawyers. ”
I watch Roxanna take another drink and wonder if this is what victory looks like—a woman in her forties finally free to sit on a couch and curse her abuser without looking over her shoulder. The wine has put color back in her cheeks, and her hands aren't shaking anymore.
"How much did he donate?" I ask.
"Five thousand," Susan says, her mouth twisting like she's tasted something sour. "Guilty conscience money. Blood money. Whatever you want to call it."
Reaper shifts beside me, and I catch the slight tension in his shoulders.
Money always makes him uncomfortable, especially when it comes from the wrong places.
He knows too much about how dirty cash flows through this city, and I’ll bet he’s hoping I don’t mention a thing about his debt to Volkov; I’d be tempted to if it was the Reaper I thought he was when I first met him, but this Reaper? No, I’ll keep my mouth shut.
Roxanna sets down her wineglass and looks directly at me. "What did you do to him?"
Reaper laughs, and I grin.
"We had a conversation with him," I say. "A very persuasive conversation."
The truth is more complicated than that, but Roxanna doesn't need the details. I want her to just enjoy the simplicity of the moment: freedom and a glass of wine.
"I should get going," Roxanna says, standing and smoothing down her clothes. She's steadier now, the wine and the news having worked some kind of magic on her spine. "I have a life to rebuild."
She hugs Susan first, then me, and when she reaches Reaper, she hesitates for just a moment before embracing him too. He freezes like he always does when people show him kindness — like he's not sure he deserves it.
But maybe he does.
I smile, then turn my gaze away.
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, and underneath 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 lean back, 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.
"Insufferable?" He shifts forward on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees. The movement brings him closer, and I catch a hint of his scent—something warm and masculine that makes my pulse quicken. "That's a big word for someone who's been drinking."
"Fuck you, Reaper." The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don't take them back. "I can handle my alcohol just fine. And it isn’t a big fucking word for me. Listen, if you have a problem with me using big words because your tiny, antifreeze-drinking brain can’t handle it, that’s your deal. "
"I'm sure you can handle a lot of things just fine." His voice drops lower, rougher, and there's something in it that makes my skin feel too tight. "Question is, what do you want to handle?"
The innuendo hits me like a physical blow, and I feel my face burn hotter. He’s teasing me in ways I can’t handle. And ways that I’m not sure he can handle, either. What kind of game are we playing? Why am I still playing it? Why don’t I want to stop? "You're disgusting."
"Am I?" He tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm in my chair. "Is that what you really think?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I don't want to examine.
My grip tightens around the wine bottle, and I realize I'm breathing too fast. The heat in his voice, the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me whole—it's making my head spin worse than the alcohol.
"Yes," I lie, lifting the bottle to my lips again. "Absolutely disgusting."
"Liar." The word comes out softly, almost gentle, and somehow that makes it worse. He leans back against the couch, never breaking eye contact. "You want to know what I think?"
"Not particularly." But I don't look away. I can't.
"I think you're scared." His voice drops to that dangerous register again, the one that makes my stomach clench. "I think you're sitting there trying to convince yourself you hate me while your body's telling you something completely different."
The audacity of it steals my breath. "You arrogant piece of—"
"Am I wrong?" He cuts me off, and there's a challenge in his eyes now, something that makes my pulse race for all the wrong reasons. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a woman who wants something she's afraid to take."
"Fuck you." The words come out breathless instead of angry, and I hate myself for it. I hate the way my skin feels like it's on fire, hate the way my heart is hammering against my ribs. "You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about. And you have no fucking right to speak to me like that. I should fucking kill you right now — ”
I stop. Because I know he’s fucking with me.
He has to be. And besides, threatening to kill him is just giving him what he wants.
I hate him. Fuck him. Fuck him for turning my world upside down with his touch, with his eyes, with his smile, with everything he’s done for all the women at ‘Never Again’.
Fuck him.
I have to get out of here.
Because he is just watching me with those impossible, smiling, shining eyes, and if I stay for one second longer, it doesn’t matter that we both know we’re messing with the other — it is teasing, right? — something that cannot happen, will happen.
“Fuck you, I’m out,” I say, and I drain the last of the wine from my bottle and then lazily throw it at his head. It misses. Because I’m drunk and pissed and horny as hell. “I’m going to bed.”
Then I stand and march crookedly toward the bedroom.
It isn’t until I reach the bedroom door and look through that I freeze. My eyes take in the impossible. The unallowable. The holy-fuck-no-able.
“God fucking damn it,” I scream.
“What is it?” comes his voice from the living room.
I take some time to collect my voice and form an intelligible sentence from the constant stream of curse words flowing through my mind like a raging river.
It takes me long enough that Reaper calls out again, all while I stare in mute rage at the scene in front of me, my heart throwing itself against my ribs like an out-of-control jackhammer.
“Adriana? What is it?”
Finally, I scream.
“There’s just one fucking bed.”