Blade (Reaper #8)

Chapter 1

DELILAH

Waking up to another day is a privilege I’m not taking for granted. If you had asked me yesterday if I believed I’d survive, you would have gotten a resigned shake of my head.

But here I am.

Alive!

My heart is still beating frantically as memories tear a hole in my sanity when I remember what nearly happened.

I was about to be sacrificed.

You could say I had better days, but to be honest, I can’t remember when I had a good one.

My limbs are still shaking as the effects of the drugs I was fed linger in my bloodstream. I’m the lucky one, and it’s all thanks to a gruff, scary biker who whisked me away from certain death and brought me here.

The bed is comfortable, despite where we are. If I thought I was heading to civilization, I was wrong.

Even though we were surrounded by leather, anger, and more testosterone than is good for a girl, it’s just the two of us now.

Me and Blade.

His name suits him because he has a scar on his face that must have been painful. I guess that’s how he earned his nickname.

The sun is shining outside, the calm after the storm, and my throat is thick, my breathing rough, and my muscles cramped.

I’m a mess.

With a deep sigh, I attempt to shift from the bed. Nature has a way of telling you not to linger when it’s a beautiful day outside, one you have been gifted and urged not to waste. Plus, I need to pee—desperately.

Somehow, I make it to the small bathroom and relax as I make use of it, grateful I get to live another day.

Whoever I am.

The sad thing is, I can’t remember. They call me Delilah Grimes, but that name was given to me by a psychopath. The woman who enslaved me and controlled every part of my life.

Angela Constable. The principal of Rockwell Academy.

Thank God she’s dead.

I head to the small basin and peer at my reflection in the smudged mirror. The woman staring back at me is a stranger.

I can’t remember who I am, where I come from, and why I was even a slave, but I do know I’m not Delilah Grimes.

I peer a little closer, noting the roots coming through on my scalp.

I’m not even a brunette, it seems. Pale blonde hair is making an appearance, which is surprising given I have the most intense green eyes.

It’s as if I am introducing myself to—well—myself. The old me is fading—say hi to whoever you are.

A faint smile dusts my parched lips, and my eyes are drawn back to the nightstand where a glass of water is waiting.

When did Blade put that there? It was empty when I drifted off to sleep last night.

My heart races as I stare at the crumpled pillow beside the one I woke up on. Did he?

My hands steady my shaking limbs as I grip the basin. A dizzy spell brought on by anxiety, I’m guessing.

Did I sleep with Blade last night?

Fuck. I can’t begin to wrap my head around that situation. Surely, I’d know if we, well…

The sad fact is, it wouldn’t be the first time I woke up next to a man with no recollection of how I got there and what happened between us. Only the dull ache inside me and the pain enlightened me, with bruises usually on my wrists, my neck, and my face; not to mention the agony I felt inside.

Not today, though. It reassures me knowing I haven’t been abused in my drug-fueled haze. For once, anyway.

A door slams from somewhere outside the bedroom door, causing me to jump. The dull tread of a heavy boot causes my pulse to spike.

My heart races, anxiety crushing any bravery I may have enjoyed in the past, and I prepare myself for another day surviving a cruel and heartless world.

“Delilah.”

His gruff voice travels through the closed door, and I close my eyes, clawing any bravery I possess into my voice.

“I’m awake.”

“Breakfast is ready.”

He doesn’t attempt to enter the room, which I’m grateful for, and I say as loudly as I can muster, “I’ll be right there.”

Once again, I cast a look at my reflection and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing, I suppose.

I’m thankful for the sweatpants and oversized t-shirt they gave me. There are a few clothes hanging in a wooden closet that Blade gruffly told me to use. I came here in a hospital gown.

I never want to see it again.

As I head to the door, I swallow my nerves because my stomach reminds me that food is a requirement to survive, and I’ve been given a second chance, or is it a third? Either way, I’m not taking it for granted.

The door creaks open under my trembling hand, and I steel myself for a glimpse of my protector, possibly captor; I really don’t know anymore.

The sight of him will probably never still my racing heart, giving me palpitations that I have yet to process because this is not a man; it’s a monster in human form.

His eyes lift and tear through me like a tornado, twisting its path, leaving devastation in its wake.

His muscles ripple, straining against the thin t-shirt that is doing a shocking job of attempting to control the muscles of a man most definitely in his prime.

His shoulder-length black hair is tied back from his face in a ponytail, a bandana wrapped around his forehead, his dark, sensuous eyes gleaming as they power through to my soul.

I shiver inside at the scar that runs the length of his cheek, a violent reminder of a past battle that the perpetrator almost definitely lost.

He is a machine. A killing machine—one I sorely needed last night. Is he an angel sent to me from God, or something else? I have yet to decide.

His powerful stare rips through any bravery I mustered, and he nods toward a rickety wooden chair, set on the opposite side of a small wooden table.

“You must be hungry.”

My stomach growls, almost in response, and I nod, swallowing hard as I perch awkwardly on the edge of the seat, my gaze falling on a plate of eggs, bacon, and toasted sourdough.

“You are very kind.”

I murmur, accepting how ridiculous my statement is because this man and kindness surely don’t belong together. He appears distracted, angry even, as if he would rather be anywhere else, and he probably does.

A faint smirk tugs at his lips, surrounded by dark, rough stubble that I’m almost positive is a permanent feature on his jaw.

“If you say so, darlin’.”

His voice is low, deep, like the purr of the engine of the bike we rode here on. I’m trying so hard to forget how I felt when my arms clung to his body as we whipped through the darkness to safety, or at least I hope it is.

He points to the food as he loads his fork. “Eat.”

I don’t need a second invitation because I am delirious with hunger and the aroma is as intoxicating as my companion.

We eat in silence.

Birdsong through the rickety window is delightful; the sun pouring through the glass is warming and the silence relaxing. Is this paradise, or the gateway to hell? I have yet to find out.