Chapter 4
Kinsley
I sat on Ivan’s enormous bed, tucked into the center of it, as if the size of the mattress might help fill the space hollowing out inside me. Newsflash. It didn’t. I’d never felt more alone. The silence stretched long, broken only by the soft hum of the radiator.
Christmas was coming. That should’ve meant something. But the closer it got, the less it seemed to matter. The decorations I’d carefully placed around the house felt heavy now, almost burdensome in their cheer.
The glittered ribbons, hand-painted ornaments, and garlands I’d woven with dried oranges and cinnamon sticks weren’t enough to carry the weight of disappointment pressing in from all sides. I had given so much of myself to this season—to this family.
Every detail was chosen with care, with deep and real meaning.
The advent calendars weren’t only cheeky or sexy—they were intimate.
Personal. They were built around the pieces of them I’d come to know so well.
Each joke, each seductive surprise, each handmade note was another way of saying: I love you.
And still…it hadn’t been enough to spark even a flicker of excitement.
Poor Isabella had even had to endure my slump, her usual sarcasm button on mute for the time being.
She’d tried, in her own way, to lift my spirits—offering to help me shop, suggesting we take another crack at wrapping gifts together.
But her heart wasn’t in it, and I didn’t fault her for that. She wasn’t wired for sentiment.
Neither were my guys, apparently. I couldn’t be angry. Not really. But I was suddenly exhausted. There was only so long one person could keep the magic alive on their own. I curled up in a ball, hugging Ivan’s pillow tightly as a random tear fell.
The soft buzz of my phone on the nightstand broke through the stillness. I rolled over and glanced toward it without moving at first, half-tempted to ignore it altogether. Then it buzzed again.
Alek. Of course it was him. Not one to ignore him, I unlocked the screen, pulse heavy in my throat.
REAPER:
Marcus has instructions for you. Please follow them.
Instructions? I stared at the screen, trying to process. My heart beat sluggishly and low, dragged down by disappointment that not even Hallmark could fix. He thought a vague order dropped in my inbox without context, apology, or a hint of love, would fix this?
Typical Reaper behavior.
I wished I had a magic wand I could wave over him and tell him what I needed right now was my sweet Alek. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, thumbs trembling with restraint. The temptation to shut him out entirely pulsed through me. I wanted to ignore it. Ignore him. Ignore all of them.
Another buzz made me jump. The sudden vibration sliced through the stillness.
REAPER:
Kitten, answer me.
I let out a short, breathy, bitter laugh. Oh, now he was going full authoritarian.
“Answer me,” I mimicked, then bit down on my tongue to stop the words I really wanted to send—words like ‘fuck off’, except that wouldn’t do.
Instead, I typed back, every keystroke clipped with restraint I refused to hide.
KINSLEY:
I have plans already. You should have said something last night when we talked.
There was a pause. Only a few seconds, but it felt like forever. Then another message.
REAPER:
It’s not up for discussion. You’ll do as you’re told. Understood?
Oh, I understood, all right. I understood that my feelings were still being treated as optional. I understood that “just a few days” had become five and counting. And I understood that the man who claimed I was his world hadn’t bothered to ask how mine was holding up.
The heat behind my eyes burned, but I blinked it away and let the fire settle in my fingertips instead.
KINSLEY:
I’m not stupid, old man. But clearly, you should get your eyes checked. But until then, try this; go to your settings. Click on accessibility, select display and text size. Tap larger text for options. Make it as big as you need and then re-read.
The reply came instantly.
REAPER:
Is that how we’re going to play?
I smirked, but it didn’t touch my heart.
KINSLEY:
We haven’t played in a week. You’re gone, remember?
The typing bubble disappeared. I tossed the phone face down onto the mattress. A moment later, the screen lit up with an incoming call. I stared at it. His name, front and center. Demanding.
I let it ring. And of course, because the universe enjoyed kicking me while I was down, Celine serenaded me. Our song. I considered changing it. Clearly, he didn’t love me anymore. The Power of Love. Yeah, more like The Power to Destroy.
As she wailed through it like she was mocking me in my current humiliation, I stared at the screen, motionless. What a cruel joke. I added my overly dramatic voice along with hers as it echoed loudly from the phone speaker. I sang the small clip, my emotions rising to the surface.
Blessed silence followed as it went to voicemail.
I took several deep breaths and then startled once more when she once again screamed at me. Then, because I was feeling epically tragic and petty—and maybe even a little unhinged, I opened my mouth and sang along. This time, I stripped the song of its magic, though.
“The harsh commands from the Reaper…Barking orders left and right…Are rolling like my stomach now…as I ignore your call.”
I snorted, grabbing my Blade Squishmallow and cradling it like it was the only man in my life who hadn’t disappointed me. The music swelled, and so did my voice.
‘Cause I was your lady…and you were my man…You stopped reaching for me…so ignoring you is the plan.
I stared at the ceiling and let it finish out once more. Because if he wanted to make grand gestures, he could start by listening to the silence he left behind. Instead of coal in his stocking, he was getting voicemail.
Let him sit in silence for once. I needed to get out of my own head.
Even if it was just to brush my teeth. Sliding off the edge of the bed, I padded barefoot across the thick carpet and into the en suite.
Was I pathetic enough that I still bed-hopped each night?
Yup. Like the desperate whore I was, in case they came home.
The light over the mirror flickered on, too bright, and I winced.
My reflection stared back at me. I looked tired, my jaw was tense, and my hair was an absolute mess.
I picked up the brush, dragging it through the tangles with a little more force than necessary, relishing the pain. A glutton for sure—that was me.
I snorted. I was no longer a desperate whore. Call me a pathetic, unloved woman with a pain kink instead. Once I’d made headway and my scalp throbbed, I tossed that brush down and reached for a different one.
I squeezed out the minty paste in a pea-sized dot like the directions said—because, after all, I followed instructions.
When I wanted to. I shoved it in my mouth, mumbling the new lyrics to our new song.
Maybe if I scrubbed hard enough, I could erase the bitter taste of disappointment from the back of my throat.
God knows I hadn’t gagged in well…forever, it seemed.
Foam built around the edges of my lips as I leaned over the sink, rinsing my mouth.
Slam.
The bathroom door sprang open. I screamed, flinching so hard I nearly stabbed myself in the cheek with my toothbrush.
“The hell—you scared the shit out of me!” I gasped, slapping a hand over my racing heart.
“Language, young lady,” came the familiar, maddeningly deep calm voice of Sebastian Caruso. “Where’s your phone?”
I blinked, still catching up, still half-foaming at the mouth like a feral raccoon. And there he was—standing in the doorway, come to do the Reaper’s dirty work and take me to task.
But why the hell was he wearing nothing but low-slung pajama bottoms that rode beneath the sharp cut of his hips? His dark hair was tousled, infuriatingly messy—and he looked like he’d rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to fix it. Probably because he hadn’t needed to.
And his chest? Bare. Broad. Beautiful. Covered in smooth, tanned olive skin and marked with the tattoo I’d never admit to obsessing over.
A woman—perfectly rendered in black and grey.
She was bound in intricate shibari, ropes crossing over her body with the kind of care only someone truly wicked would take the time to tie.
She was beautiful, with one nipple exposed. What always drew me in was the blindfold and the way her mouth parted. Could have been a gasp or a moan, maybe both. Whatever it was, it was erotic. Disturbing. Arresting. My Reaper King’s artistic flair screamed from it.
And it made me want to scream again—for entirely different reasons.
When was the last time the Crow tied me to the bed?
Because if we were keeping score, it had been a while. A long while. And now I had the Torturer walking around looking like a goddamn limited-edition dark romance book cover. It wasn’t helping my current mood at all.
I scowled at him, toothbrush still clenched between my fingers like a weapon.
“Don’t make me ask again.” His voice dropped low. Controlled. The kind of tone that screamed, obey me now. Damned worst part was it wasn’t even raised. Dominant asshat.
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not in authority over me, you know,” I huffed, chin tilting up.
It was a weak retort, and we both knew it.
That’s when I saw it. A belt—draped diagonally across his chest. The thick leather bisected the inked woman eternally etched into his skin.
My breath hitched. It wasn’t just any belt.
It was worn, black, and too fucking familiar. Damn it. It was the Reaper’s.
My brain did a full-stop-slide into a fantasy so vivid I had to physically blink it away. Sebastian, tightening that belt around my wrists. That same steady expression on his face. The way he’d stare down at me, like I was nothing but disobedience and opportunity.
Jesus.