The Reaper Watches
His grip doesn’t tighten. Doesn’t hurt. Just holds — cold and steady, like winter river stones pressing into my pulse. I force myself to breathe.
He’s taller up close. *So* much taller. My head barely reaches his chest. Those glowing sigils ripple under his skin like liquid mercury, casting faint light on the sharp planes of his face. The air smells different near him — damp earth and cedar smoke, with a metallic bite I can’t name.
“Are you—” My voice cracks. “Are you going to kill me?”
No answer. Just those eerie silver eyes tracking the bob of my throat. His thumb shifts slightly against my inner wrist.
The egg still warms my other hand. I should drop it. Shouldn’t have touched it. But the soft golden pulse feels like the only real thing in this nightmare.
A branch cracks nearby. The Reaper’s head snaps toward the sound, hair sweeping over his shoulder like a white curtain. His claws flex — not digging in, just... adjusting. As if holding a teacup he’s afraid of breaking.
When he moves, it’s sudden.
He releases my wrist only to grip my upper arm, steering me deeper into the woods.
His stride eats the ground, and I have to jog to keep up.
The black cloak swirling around him parts to reveal a leather belt hung with strange tools — bone handles, twisted obsidian shards.
No weapons. Or maybe *everything* is a weapon when you’re nine feet of fae muscle and shadow magic.
“Slow down,” I pant, stumbling over a root.
He stops instantly. Looks down at my bare feet, then at the treacherous forest floor. For three seconds, we just stare at each other. Then he scoops me up like I weigh nothing.
“Wait—!”
Cold. He’s *freezing*. I gasp, instinctively squirming, but his arms lock around me. My cheek presses against his chest. No heartbeat. Just a deep, resonant hum that vibrates through my ribs.
“Put me down.”
He keeps walking. His cloak billows, wrapping around me. It feels like being swallowed by a storm cloud.
“Asshole.” I smack his shoulder. It’s like punching marble. “I don’t need your—”
A low growl shudders through him. Not threatening. Almost... amused? His chin brushes the top of my head as he adjusts his hold. My face burns. *Get angry, not embarrassed.*
Darkness thickens as we pass under a canopy of interlocked pine branches. The Reaper doesn’t hesitate, navigating the maze like he’s part of it. Glowing fungi and bioluminescent moss replace the fog’s eerie gray light. It’s beautiful. Wrong, but beautiful — like finding roses growing in a crypt.
---
He sets me down in a clearing where the trees form a perfect circle. There’s a bed of moss, a shallow pool fed by a spring, and shelves carved into the trunk of a petrified oak. Books line them. Actual *books*. I blink. Monsters aren’t supposed to read.
The Reaper crouches by the pool, filling a stone cup. Water sloshes as he offers it.
I cross my arms. “Poisoned?”
He tilts his head. Waits.
“Right. Not chatty.” I take the cup. His claws graze my fingers. Static zaps between us, sharp and sweet. He jerks back like I burned him.
The water’s clean, at least. I drink greedily while he watches, perched on a boulder. Studying me like a puzzle.
“What?” I finally snap.
He points to my ankle — swollen from the root’s grip — then gestures for me to sit.
“No thanks. I’ll stand.”
A flash of silver in his eyes. He flicks two fingers.
Shadow vines explode from the ground, coiling around my waist. They deposit me gently onto the moss bed.
“What the *fuck*!” I scramble back, heart racing. The vines retreat. He’s already crossing the clearing, pulling a jar from the oak shelves.
I tense as he kneels in front of me. His hands — claws retracted now, I realize — unscrew the lid. The earthy scent of comfrey and witch hazel hits my nose. Salve.
“I can do it myself.”
He dips two fingers into the ointment. Holds them out. Waiting again.
This close, I notice the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Notice how his chest barely moves when he breathes. His stillness isn’t human. It’s the patience of mountains. Of glaciers.
Slowly, I extend my injured leg.
The first touch makes me flinch. His hand engulfs my calf, spreading salve with surprising gentleness. The coldness of him seeps through my skin, dulling the ache. His thumb presses a tender spot, and I bite back a whimper.
He pauses. Looks up.
“Keep going,” I mutter.
But he’s staring at my face now, pupils flaring. The sigils on his neck glow brighter. His free hand rises toward my cheek — hesitates — then brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
My breath hitches.
He inhales sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. A tremor runs through him. The salve jar cracks in his grip.
I freeze. “Did I… do something?”
He stands abruptly, vanishing into the trees faster than I can blink.
---
I wait ten minutes before attempting escape.
The moss bed makes a surprisingly good sled down the eastern slope. I crash through berry bushes, thorns snagging my dress. Run until my lungs scream. Find a stream. Follow it like village lore taught me.
He steps out from behind a birch tree.
I backpedal. “How did you—”
His mouth flattens. Points back toward the clearing.
“No.” I sidestep. “I’m not dying here because Farmer Crayford’s sheep got mange. Move.”
He doesn’t.
I bolt west this time.
The forest bends around me. Branches trip. Roots rise. Twenty minutes later, I emerge… five feet from the stream. The Reaper leans against a tree, arms crossed.
“Stop that!” I shout.
He raises an eyebrow.
“You’re messing with the forest. Cheating.”
A shrug. Infuriatingly elegant.
I collapse on a log, sweat chilling my skin. “Why won’t you just kill me? Is there a ritual? Waiting for the moon?”
He kneels, plucking a blue mushroom. Snaps it in half. Liquid oozes out. Points to my mouth, then makes a dramatic gagging face.
Despite myself, I snort. “Toxic?”
Nod.
“Oh. Thanks, I guess.”
He tilts his head, sunlight catching the silver in his eyes. For a second, I think he’ll smile.
---
Nightfall brings nightmares.
I jolt awake screaming, tangled in his cloak. It smells like him — cold and deep and ancient. The fire’s died to embers. Across the clearing, the Reaper sits motionless against a tree. Staring.
“Don’t you sleep?” My voice rasps.
No response.
Three days pass like this. He hunts — brings rabbits, berries, once a fish with translucent scales. Cooks them with a touch, his hands glowing red-hot. He watches me eat. Watches me pace. Watches me poke at his books (poetry, mostly. *Weird*).
On the fourth morning, I snap.
“Either kill me or talk to me!”
He looks up from whittling a branch into what might be a flute. His hair’s down today, framing that stupidly perfect face.
I march over, boots squelching in dew. “You can’t just—”
He grabs my hand.
Everything stops.
His palm presses against mine, calloused and icy. A gasp tears from him, raw and pained. My vision whites out. Heat floods my veins — not mine. *His*. The sigils on his arms blaze as he shudders, pulling me closer.
“Let go!” I try to wrench free.
He can’t. Or won’t. His other hand grips my waist, holding me steady as tremors wrack his body. The cold melts. Fire replaces it, radiating where our skin meets. His breath comes faster, lips parting on silent words.
The heat crests — and breaks.
He collapses backward, dragging me down. We land in a heap, my face crushed against his chest. His heartbeat thunders now, savage and alive.
“Get off,” I mumble into his shirt.
His arms tighten. Not trapping. Clinging.
And that’s when I feel it — the bond. A thread in my ribs, humming where his skin touches mine. Not magic. Something older.
He turns his face into my hair. Breathes.
I don’t pull away.