Chapter Seven #2
She was done with this day—unless one of her guests needed her. That was the major drawback of owning a bed-and-breakfast. You were on call twenty-four hours a day. But Rob and his buddies had proved extremely easygoing and self-sufficient, and they would likely be out until late.
The crisp, cool sheets were heaven when she finally tumbled into bed. Sighing, she turned out the light and closed her eyes. As tired as she was, she expected to drift off within minutes, but sleep didn’t come.
Snippets of the day replayed in her head. The star of them all was one Alexiares Blackwell. It was an exotic and unusual name…much like the man himself. He’d literally collided with her, shaking the foundation of her carefully structured world.
Her behavior around him was totally out of character.
Not only had she kissed him—something she’d never done with any other guest, although he technically wasn’t a paying guest—he knew all about her troubles with Richard.
Only Rosa and her lawyer were aware of how bad things were between her and her brother.
Though Alex was proving easy to talk to and easy to kiss, it would be a mistake to take their relationship any further.
Sighing in frustration, she rolled onto her side and stared out the bedroom window. There was enough ambient light for her to view the pink and red roses climbing the trellis. They were beautiful, cultured, and despite their delicate appearance, hardy. They reminded her of her grandmother.
Usually the sight of the roses and the smell of them seeping through the screened window soothed her, but not tonight.
Air-conditioning for her room was on the list of things needed down the road.
Her priority had been to update the units in the guest rooms and main areas of the house.
She didn’t mind the heat and there was a hint of a breeze tonight, enough to keep her from being uncomfortable.
No, her discomfort stemmed from the knowledge that Alex was upstairs.
Did he sleep naked? Heat bloomed on her skin and deep in her core.
She beat the back of her head against her pillow.
“Stop thinking about him.” The harder she tried, the less she succeeded.
It was impossible to put him out of her mind.
He was larger than life with his hard, tough build, rough good looks, and mesmerizing eyes.
Was he thinking about her or had he put her squarely out of his mind? No doubt he hadn’t given her a second thought. Demoralized by the thought, she flipped onto her opposite side, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.
…
Alex cursed the showerhead for the dozenth time. It was mounted on the wall by the claw-foot tub. It was the perfect height for most men, but he wasn’t most men. At six and a half feet tall, he had to contort himself to wash his upper half.
He longed for the huge walk-in shower in his converted warehouse back in Brooklyn—the one with multiple showerheads, including a rainfall one. In desperation, he’d considered a bath, but there was no way he could fit comfortably in the tub.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. That honor was given to his erection, which showed no signs of subsiding. Doing his best to ignore it, he reached up to adjust the direction of the water. The showerhead snapped off in his hand. Water began to spray everywhere.
“Fuck!” He dropped the faulty piece of metal and cranked off the water.
Hands on his hips, he rolled his eyes and cursed his fate.
“This is just great.” He’d managed to rinse his hair, but soap still clung to his body.
Accepting there was no hope for it, he contorted himself until he was sitting, flipped the lever—praying it, too, wouldn’t break—and began to fill the tub.
The absurdness of the situation struck him, and he began to chuckle. Maneuvering into a kneeling position, he sluiced water over his arms and torso and back. Then he stood and wiped a washcloth over his legs.
Not even a plumbing disaster put a damper on his erection.
This room and the entire outside needed upgrading. From what he’d observed, Cilla wasn’t afraid of hard work. That meant either lack of money or time had to be the issue, maybe a bit of both.
Money was something he normally had plenty of but was currently short on.
What he did have was expertise. He enjoyed getting his hands dirty, whether it was on a construction site or in a garage.
He was blessed—or cursed, depending how one looked at it—with an insatiable thirst to understand how things were made and how they functioned. It was as natural as breathing.
Staying at the inn without paying for his room didn’t sit right with him. He could offer a deal that would satisfy both Cilla and himself: free labor in exchange for lodging. He could easily fix this shower, and doing so wouldn’t be purely altruistic on his part. A working shower was a necessity.
After he rinsed off the last of the soap, he emptied the tub and dried off with one of the thick white towels stacked on the shelf. No complaint about the linens.
Cilla had replaced what she could in the room—mattress, pillows, sheets, and towels—but the fact remained the wood floor needed to be refinished, the walls stripped of faded wallpaper and repainted, the tiles in the bathroom replaced, and the plumbing most definitely updated.
Dropping the towel on the floor, he mopped up the water that had spilled when the showerhead broke. Fixing that would be the first order of business. The worst of the flood dealt with, he dumped the soaking wet towel in the tub.
Naked, he padded into the bedroom, threw himself down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. It was curious the plumbing had malfunctioned. Maybe it was coincidence or maybe it was a subtle reminder from his father to pay attention.
He glanced down at his erection and sighed.
His brain got the message loud and clear.
The rest of him? Not so much. It was embarrassing for a man of his age and experience to have no control around the lovely innkeeper.
Flushed, hair piled on her head, shirt stained from gardening, she’d captivated him.
Swearing under his breath, he gripped his shaft and pumped his hand up and down. If he wanted to think straight, he needed to clear his head. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten himself off. It was more common these days than he cared to admit.
What would Cilla be like as a lover? His breath caught in his chest. Would she be demanding, open and natural about her sexuality, or would she be more repressed? The way she’d responded to their kiss, the hint of surprise, made him believe she hadn’t had many lovers, at least not competent ones.
His dick swelled at the mere thought of taking her to bed. Her hands would be smaller and softer than his as they glided up and down his dick. He could picture her astride him, taking him inside her, riding them both to completion.
There were so many things he wanted to do with her. Tasting every square inch of her long, lean body would be a priority if he ever got her in bed. Cilla was pure temptation.
His balls constricted. His hand pumped harder, faster. Biting back a yell, he came on his stomach, continuing to milk his dick until there was nothing left. The pleasure was fleeting, leaving him hollower and more dissatisfied than he’d been before he started.
Muttering a curse, he rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom to clean up. When he was done, he dressed and grabbed his room keys. He wasn’t going far, but it was time to get some answers.
As unforgettable as it would be to make love to Cilla, it couldn’t happen for several reasons.
The main one being she was part of his mysterious assignment from his father.
That put her off-limits. He couldn’t afford to get more emotionally involved than he already was.
Humans’ lives were short. He brushed up alongside them but barely impacted them.
That was the job. It wasn’t his place to interfere.
Then there were all the normal reasons he’d stopped taking human lovers and only occasionally indulged in one-night stands with women who were looking for the same thing—pleasure with no strings attached. He couldn’t be himself with a woman. There were secrets he could never reveal.
Most reapers had no problem keeping to that dictate, finding companionship among others of their kind.
It had never been as easy for him. Neither he nor his brothers were welcomed by regular reapers, set apart by the fact they were the sons of Death.
They were shunned by the inhabitants of Shadowland and isolated on Earth by virtue of who and what they were.
They belonged nowhere.
In the end, it was easier not to get emotionally involved with humans, both during their lives and after their deaths.
He did the job and did it well, but the sorrow and pain of the souls he reaped washed off him like rain off an umbrella, never touching him.
He gathered souls and took them where they needed to be.
If necessary, he gave the standard reaper speech to go into the light and be reunited with loved ones who’d passed.
It sufficed in most cases. When it didn’t, he took them anyway and left them with those whose job it was to deal with them in the afterlife.
He was nothing more than the deliveryman.
It was still better than being confined for eternity to Shadowland.
Here, he could lose himself in his pursuits and passions and occasionally indulge his carnal desires with a willing partner.
There, he’d be alone forever, unable to reap ever again.
And as unfulfilling as the job was most days, being a reaper was who he was.
It would destroy part of his soul, and most likely his sanity, if he was forced to stop.
Not for one second did he believe being the Grim Reaper’s son would save him from such a fate if he failed. After all, he had two brothers to carry on the family legacy, and Sam had already passed his test and proven himself worthy.
The hallway was empty and the other rooms quiet, their occupants out enjoying whatever passed for nightlife in Redemption. Rather than leave by the front door, Alex headed toward the back.
Where did Cilla sleep? She hadn’t come upstairs.
Not that he’d heard, and he’d been listening.
He slowed as he passed a door across the hallway from the kitchen.
Given the age and architecture of the house, he’d bet good money it was the entrance to the housekeeper’s suite.
Cilla would give the guests the best rooms upstairs.
Staying down here put her closer to the main entrance in case she was needed. It also gave her a modicum of privacy.
Picking up his pace before he did something stupid like knock, he unlocked and opened the back door, doing his best to be quiet.
Ordinarily, he’d have opened a portal from his room, but with his powers muted, that option wasn’t available to him.
There was more than enough light from the stars and nearby streetlamps to guide him.
He normally wouldn’t need it, but with his preternatural senses curtailed, his vision was basically that of a human.
The lawn was a mixture of brown and green, a victim of the scorching summer heat, but a profusion of flowers sprouted in strategically placed areas, a testament to Cilla’s hard work.
Comfortable benches situated beneath shade-giving trees invited guests to sit and enjoy morning coffee or an evening glass of wine.
He bypassed them and headed to the wild area, ducking beneath the branches.
When he exited, he stood in the center of the secret rose garden and turned in a full circle, searching the trees and bushes. “Malaki.” The damn bird had to be around here somewhere.
Black wings flapping, the bird swooped in front of him, making an impressive entrance. Malaki was nothing if not dramatic. He perched on the railing of the gazebo where a section of ivy had been ripped away and bobbed his head in acknowledgment.
“I’ve been here all day and have no more idea who my assignment is than when I was unceremoniously dropped here.
” Frustration and anger bubbled inside him.
“Since my entire future hinges on my success”—bitterness tinged every word—“and my previous thousands of years of service count for nothing, I need to understand what the hell is expected of me.”
Caw! Malaki flapped his wings.
“You’re the messenger, do your damn job. I need information. I’m working blind. With my senses locked down, how am I supposed to recognize my target?” It had never been an issue before. As a reaper, he normally knew where he had to be and the soul he was tasked with reaping.
Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck. He needed so much more than information, but damned if he would ask for money or his abilities back. He wouldn’t give the old man the satisfaction. He’d complete the assignment with the meager resources he’d been given.
“Will I get a sign when I meet the person whose soul I’m supposed to reap? That’s why I’m here, right? To properly reap a soul.” As if he’d been doing it wrong his entire existence.
The bird bobbed his head again, as if in agreement, but Alex knew better.
The bastard was taunting him. Malaki made no bones that he tolerated Alex and his brothers only because of their father.
As much as he wanted to throttle the feathered bastard, it wouldn’t get him answers, not to mention it would piss off his old man.
Caw! The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose. Leaves rustled behind him. A cold breath whispered in his ear.
Anticipation flowed through him. This had to be the sign he’d been waiting for. Finally, he could get on with the job, finish it, and go home.
He faded into the shadows and waited for his target to appear.