The Reaper Prince

CHAPTER 35| The Winter Siege

I haven't slept properly in thirty days.

Thirty days since I walked away from Nikolai de Rivel in that courtyard. Thirty days since I slapped the Reaper Prince and told him to go to hell. Thirty days since I discovered I'm apparently some kind of mafia princess from a family I never knew existed.

Thirty days of trying to process everything that happened in that gothic arena while simultaneously trying to pretend my life is normal.

Spoiler alert: it's not working.

I stare at the ceiling of my tiny dorm room, watching the shadows from passing headlights slide across the water-stained tiles.

My cheap alarm clock says it's 3:47 AM. I have a sociology exam in five hours that I haven't studied for because every time I try to read a textbook, I see Nikolai's face instead of the words.

His empty dark eyes.

His blood-soaked hands.

His broken expression when I ripped my wrist free and walked away.

I roll onto my side, pulling the thin blanket tighter around my shoulders. The heating in this building is shit, and winter hit Ardencrest hard this year. Ice coats the windows. Snow blankets the campus. The cold seeps through the walls like it's personally trying to murder me.

But at least I'm free.

At least I'm not in his penthouse. Not under his control. Not being manipulated and conditioned and molded into whatever version of me he decided he wanted.

I'm free.

So why does it feel like I'm suffocating?

My phone buzzes on the nightstand—the old phone, the one I had before Nikolai replaced it with an expensive one that I immediately threw in a dumpster because I'm not stupid enough to keep anything he gave me.

I grab it and squint at the screen.

Reminder: Counseling appointment, 9 AM

Right. The free campus counseling I signed up for after everything imploded. The therapist who looks at me with that carefully neutral expression whenever I try to explain that I was dating a psychopath who implanted chips in my hearing aids to condition my emotional responses.

She doesn't believe me.

She thinks I'm experiencing paranoid delusions brought on by trauma.

Which would be insulting if I hadn't literally shown her the chips I extracted from the hearing aids. She just stared at them and said something about "perceived threats" and "hypervigilance" and prescribed me anxiety medication I'm not taking.

I delete the reminder.

I'm not going to another appointment where someone tells me my reality isn't real.

My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since... yesterday morning? Maybe the morning before? Time has gotten weird. Food feels optional when your entire worldview has been systematically dismantled.

But I should probably eat something.

I drag myself out of bed, my bare feet hitting the freezing linoleum floor. I'm wearing an oversized sweater and shorts—the same outfit I've been living in for three days because doing laundry requires energy I don't have.

The mini-fridge in the corner hums quietly. I open it.

Empty.

Completely fucking empty.

Right. I forgot to buy groceries.

Again.

I close the fridge and lean my forehead against the cool metal door, trying to remember when I last went to the store. Was it a week ago? Two weeks?

I've been surviving on vending machine snacks and whatever food the girl down the hall occasionally leaves outside my door with a note that says "Eat something, you look like death."

My stomach growls again, more insistently.

Fine.

I'll go to the 24-hour convenience store off campus. It's only a ten-minute walk. I can manage ten minutes.

I pull on my worn yellow dress over the sweater—the same dress I was wearing that night, because apparently I'm either too traumatized or too stubborn to stop wearing it—and grab my coat from the hook by the door.

Then I pause.

My hand hovers over the doorknob.

Because for the past thirty days, every single time I've left this room, he's been there.

Not inside the building—he's never crossed that boundary.

But outside.

Always outside.

Watching.

Waiting.

Following.

The first week, I didn't notice. I thought I was free. I thought he'd actually let me go.

Then I started seeing him.

In the corner of my eye when I walked to class. Standing across the street when I went to the library. Sitting on a bench outside the dining hall while I ate dinner.

Always exactly six feet away.

Never closer.

Never touching.

Just... there.

Like a ghost. Like a shadow. Like something I can't escape no matter how hard I try.

He doesn't try to talk to me. Doesn't approach. Doesn't attempt to force interaction.

He just watches.

And somehow that's more unsettling than when he was actively manipulating me.

At least when he was playing his twisted games, I knew what he wanted. I could see the strategy. I could identify the psychological tactics.

This? This silent, constant presence? I don't know what to do with this.

I've tried confronting him. Twice. Walked right up to him and demanded he leave me alone.

He just looked at me with those empty dark eyes and said, "Je ne peux pas." (I can't.)

Then he stayed exactly where he was.

I've tried ignoring him. Pretending he doesn't exist. Going about my day like there isn't a six-foot-four psychopathic crime lord trailing me everywhere.

It doesn't work.

My awareness of him is constant. Inescapable. Like trying to ignore the sun or gravity or my own heartbeat.

And the worst part—the absolutely worst fucking part—is that I feel safer when he's there.

Which makes me want to scream.

Because I shouldn't feel safe around him. He's dangerous. He hurt me. He manipulated me in ways I'm still discovering. He literally commissioned books to psychologically condition me into loving him.

But my stupid, broken brain doesn't care about logic.

My stupid, broken brain just knows that when Nikolai de Rivel is nearby, nothing else can hurt me.

Three days ago, some drunk guy tried to follow me back to my dorm. Started making comments about my body, reaching for my arm, getting aggressive when I told him to fuck off.

Nikolai appeared out of literally nowhere.

Didn't say a word.

Just stepped between us, and something about his posture—about the absolute violence radiating from his stillness—made the drunk guy turn white and run.

Nikolai watched him flee. Then turned to me, checked that I was unharmed with a single sweeping glance, and walked back to whatever shadowy corner he'd been lurking in.

Still maintaining that six-foot distance.

Still not speaking unless I speak first.

Still just... guarding me. Protecting me. Haunting me.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate that I don't entirely hate him.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

The hallway is dark and quiet. Most students are either asleep or out at parties. The fluorescent lights flicker in that way that suggests the building wiring hasn't been updated since the 1970s.

I make my way down the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

When I push open the main entrance door, the freezing night air slaps me in the face.

And there he is.

Sitting on the cold concrete pavement outside my dorm building.

Like he has been for the past seven days straight.

Nikolai de Rivel, heir to the most powerful French Syndicates, Crown Prince of the criminal underworld, The Reaper Prince of the Ardencrest, is sitting on the ground outside my shitty dorm building at four in the morning.

He's wearing his usual dark button-up shirt and expensive slacks. No coat. No gloves. No scarf. Just the thin dress shirt that probably costs more than my entire semester's tuition.

He looks up when I emerge.

Our eyes meet.

I feel that familiar jolt—that electrical current that's always existed between us, that I used to think was genuine connection before I learned it was carefully manufactured.

His dark hair is slightly disheveled. His face is pale in the streetlight. There are shadows under his eyes that suggest he hasn't been sleeping either.

Good.

I hope he's as miserable as I am.

"Go home, Nikolai," I say flatly.

He doesn't respond.

Just keeps looking at me with that intense, unsettling focus that makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the world that matters to him.

Which is a lie.

Everything about him is a lie.

"I'm going to the store," I continue, walking past him. "Don't follow me."

I make it exactly six feet before I hear him stand up.

Then the quiet sound of his footsteps behind me, maintaining that precise distance.

Always six feet.

Never closer.

Like he's given himself a rule and he actually follows it, which is somehow more disturbing than if he just grabbed me.

I spin around. "I said don't follow me!"

He stops immediately.

"Je te protège, mon papillon." His voice is quiet. Hoarse, like he hasn't used it much lately. "There are still threats. Dante et Giuseppe had allies. The Corsican syndicate has remnants who might seek revenge. You need—" I protect you

"I don't need anything from you!" The words come out sharper than I intended. "I don't need your protection. I don't need your presence. I need you to leave me the fuck alone!"

Something flickers across his face. Pain? Regret? It's hard to tell with him—emotions have always been foreign territory for his broken brain.

"Je ne peux pas," he says again. I can't.

"Why not?" I'm shouting now, my voice echoing off the buildings.

"Why can't you just go? You won.

Okay? You made me into whatever the hell you wanted me to be.

You proved you could break me down and rebuild me.

You played your fucked-up psychological games and you won. So why are you still here?"

He takes a single step forward—breaking his own six-foot rule—and for a moment I think he's going to grab me again.

But he doesn't.

He just looks at me with those empty, dark eyes that somehow seem less empty than they used to be.

"Parce que sans toi, je ne peux pas respirer," he whispers. Because without you, I cannot breathe.

Then he steps back, restoring the distance.

I stare at him for a long moment, my chest tight, my throat burning with unshed tears that I refuse to let fall.

"That's not my problem," I finally say.

Then I turn and walk away.

He follows.

He always follows.

The convenience store trip takes twenty minutes. I buy instant ramen, protein bars, a loaf of bread, and the cheapest peanut butter they have.

When I reach the checkout counter, the cashier looks at my items and then at the card reader.

"That'll be thirty-two fifty."

I pull out my debit card—the one connected to my scholarship stipend—and swipe it.

DECLINED

I frown and try again.

DECLINED

"Um." I look at the cashier. "Can you try running it as credit?"

She does.

DECLINED

Panic starts creeping up my spine. That card should have money on it. My scholarship stipend was deposited two weeks ago. There should be at least two hundred dollars available.

"I'll just... let me check my balance real quick."

I pull out my phone and log into my banking app with shaking fingers.

Available balance: $0.00

I stare at the screen.

That's not possible.

I didn't spend that money. I've barely bought anything except the bare minimum.

Then I see the transaction history.

All my scholarship money was transferred out three days ago to an account I don't recognize.

What the fuck.

"Miss?" The cashier is looking at me with barely concealed impatience. "Do you have another form of payment?"

"I... no, I—"

A hand reaches past me, placing a credit card on the counter.

I don't have to look to know who it is.

The cashier takes Nikolai's card and swipes it immediately. Because of course she does. Because his card probably has no limit and his last name probably appears in Forbes.

"Wait—" I start to protest, but the transaction is already complete.

"Have a nice night," the cashier says, handing Nikolai his card back and pushing my groceries across the counter.

I grab the plastic bag and storm out of the store.

Nikolai follows.

I make it half a block before I whirl around to face him.

"Did you steal my scholarship money?"

He has the audacity to look confused. "Non."

"Don't lie to me!" I'm shaking now, from cold and anger and exhaustion. "My account was fine two weeks ago and now it's empty! Someone transferred all my money out and I know it was you!"

"It wasn't me." His voice is calm. Clinical. "Though I do know what happened. The financial aid office flagged your account three days ago. Apparently there were... irregularities. Questions about your enrollment status and your living situation. They froze your stipend pending investigation."

The way he says it makes me instantly suspicious.

"You did that. You made them flag my account."

"I did no such thing." But there's something in his expression—something too controlled—that tells me he absolutely knows who did.

"You're starving me out." The realization hits like a punch. "You're systematically removing my resources so I have no choice but to come back to you."

"I would never let you starve." He says it like it's obvious.

Like it's insulting that I would even suggest it.

"I've been paying for your groceries every time you shop.

The store owner has instructions to bill everything to my account.

You just never noticed because the transaction happens at the system level. "

I stare at him.

"You're..." I can't even finish the sentence. "You're insane."

"Yes." He doesn't deny it. "But you already knew that."

"I'm going to the financial aid office tomorrow. I'm going to sort this out. And then you're going to leave me alone."

"D'accord." Okay. But he doesn't sound like he believes it will work.

Because it probably won't.

Because he's probably already corrupted that system too.

Because Nikolai de Rivel doesn't just let things go, especially not things he's decided belong to him.

I'm so fucking tired.

I turn and start walking back to my dorm, clutching the grocery bag against my chest.

He follows.

Always following.

Always six feet behind.

Always there.

When we reach my building, I stop at the entrance.

"Go home," I say without looking at him.

No response.

I glance back.

He's settling back down onto the concrete pavement. In the exact same spot he's been occupying for the past week.

"You can't just sit out here all night. It's freezing."

"I'll be fine."

"You'll get hypothermia."

"Then I'll get hypothermia." He pulls his knees up slightly, resting his arms across them. "Je reste." I'm staying.

I want to argue. Want to scream at him. Want to drag him inside or call the police or do something to make him stop this obsessive, stalking behavior.

But I'm exhausted.

And he's not technically breaking any laws.

And the campus security already tried to remove him once—he showed them some kind of documentation that made them back off immediately and never bother him again.

So I just shake my head and walk inside, leaving him to freeze on the pavement.

Not my problem.

Not my responsibility.

Not my concern.

I repeat those words like a mantra as I climb the stairs back to my room.

The week passes in a blur.

I go to classes. Fail to concentrate. Come home. Avoid eating. Don't sleep.

And every single time I look out my window, he's there.

Sitting on the pavement.

In the same spot.

Wearing the same thin shirt.

Never leaving.

The first few days, I assumed he was going back to his penthouse at night. That this was just a daytime stalking situation.

But on day three, I woke up at 2 AM and looked out the window.

He was still there.

Same position. Same clothes. Same haunting presence.

Day four: still there.

Day five: still there.

By day six, other students start noticing. Start whispering. Start taking pictures of the insanely attractive guy who's apparently camping outside the dorm.

Some girls try to approach him. Try to flirt, offer him coffee, ask if he needs help.

He doesn't even look at them.

Just keeps his eyes fixed on my window.

Day seven.

Today.

I wake up to a severe winter storm.

The kind that hits the East Coast and shuts down entire cities. Heavy snow. Freezing rain. Wind that cuts through clothing like knives.

The university sends out an emergency alert: all classes canceled, students advised to stay indoors, temperature dropping to dangerous levels.

I look out my window.

He's still there.

Covered in snow.

His dark hair is white with frost. His clothes are soaked through. His skin looks deathly pale even from this distance.

And he's not moving.

Just sitting. Staring up at my window. Slowly being buried by the storm.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," I mutter.

I throw open the window—immediately regretting it as freezing air blasts into the room.

"NIKOLAI!"

His head turns slightly. Acknowledging that he heard me.

"GO HOME! YOU'RE GOING TO DIE OUT THERE!"

He doesn't move.

Doesn't stand.

Doesn't even acknowledge the very real danger of the situation.

"I'M SERIOUS! GO TO YOUR PENTHOUSE! THIS IS INSANE EVEN FOR YOU!"

Still nothing.

He just... sits there.

Like he's made peace with freezing to death on my doorstep.

Like this is his choice and he's committing to it.

I slam the window shut, my hands shaking.

This is manipulation. Obvious, blatant manipulation. He's trying to guilt me into taking him back by literally dying of exposure outside my building.

It's psychotic.

It's cruel.

It's working.

Because despite everything—despite the chips and the lies and the psychological torture—I can't actually let him freeze to death.

I pace my tiny room for an hour, trying to convince myself it's not my problem.

He's an adult.

He's making his own choices.

He has an entire empire's worth of resources and he's choosing to sit on frozen concrete in a blizzard.

Not. My. Problem.

But my traitorous brain keeps showing me images of him in that arena. Kneeling before me. Calling me his butterfly. Looking at me like I was the only thing in his broken world that mattered.

Another hour passes.

The storm intensifies.

I look out the window again.

He's swaying now.

Barely conscious.

His lips are blue.

And suddenly I can't breathe.

Can't think.

Can't do anything except panic.

Because he's dying.

Right there.

Right in front of me.

And regardless of everything he's done, I apparently can't watch him die.

"FUCK!" I scream at my empty room.

Then I'm running.

Out the door, down the stairs, through the building entrance, into the freezing hell of the storm.

The snow is ankle-deep and still falling. The wind nearly knocks me over. I can barely see three feet in front of me.

But I see him.

Sitting exactly where he's been for seven days.

Covered in snow.

Shivering so violently his whole body shakes.

Not moving.

Not seeking shelter.

Just waiting.

For what? For me? For death?

"You stupid, stupid psychopath," I choke out.

I reach him and drop to my knees in the snow.

His skin is like ice when I touch his face. But underneath the cold, he's burning up—fever. His body trying desperately to fight off hypothermia and failing.

His eyes barely focus on me.

"Mon papillon," he slurs. "Tu es venue." My butterfly. You came.

"Shut up." I'm crying now, tears freezing on my cheeks. "Just shut up and stand up."

I try to pull him to his feet, but he's dead weight. Over two hundred pounds of freezing, fever-delirious psychopath.

"Nikolai, please. You have to help me. I can't carry you."

He tries. He actually tries. Gets his legs under him, leans heavily on me, lets me guide him toward the door.

We make it inside.

Up the stairs—one agonizing step at a time.

Down the hallway.

Into my room.

I kick the door shut behind us and half-drag, half-carry him to my small bed.

He collapses onto it, still shivering violently.

I run to my hot plate, filling my kettle with water and turning it on maximum heat. Then I grab every blanket I own—all three of them—and turn back to him.

"We need to get you warm—"

But when I try to drape a blanket over his shoulders, Nikolai's hands shoot out and grip my waist.

Hard.

Desperate.

He pulls me onto his lap with enough force that I gasp.

"No," he says, his voice rough and broken. "Not the blankets."

"What—"

He buries his face against my chest, his frozen nose pressing against the hollow of my throat.

His whole body is trembling.

Not just from cold.

From something else entirely.

"I can't breathe without you," he whispers against my skin.

"Mon cerveau ne fonctionne pas dans le silence.

I tried. I tried to stay away like you wanted.

But every day was... vide. Empty. Wrong.

Like trying to exist underwater. Je me noie, Leah.

" My brain doesn't work in the silence. I'm drowning, Leah.

His arms wrap completely around me, crushing me against his freezing body.

"Just kill me." His voice cracks. "Right now. If you hate me this much, if you can't forgive me, just—just kill me. I'd rather die at your hands than survive another day of you looking at me like I'm a monster you can't stand to see."

I look down at him.

At the most dangerous psychopath in North America. Hell in the world.

At the boy who was born without the capacity for normal emotions.

At the monster who spent months systematically manipulating me.

And his eyes—his dark, empty eyes—are shining.

Welling up with moisture.

He's trying to cry.

His broken biology is attempting to produce tears.

For me.

Because of me.

The last of my stubborn defenses—the anger I've been clinging to like armor, the hurt I've been using as a weapon—completely collapses.

"You're such an asshole," I whisper.

Then I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him.

Just hold him.

His entire body sags against mine, like I just gave him permission to stop fighting. To stop pretending he's fine. To stop being the untouchable Reaper Prince.

"Je suis désolé," he breathes against my throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I know it doesn't fix anything. I know you hate me. But I'm sorry." I'm sorry.

I don't say I forgive him.

Because I don't.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But I hold him anyway.

The hug shifts.

Changes.

His mouth finds mine in a desperate, heavy kiss that tastes like snow and fever and desperation.

His freezing hands slip under my sweater, seeking warmth, seeking me.

"I don't want your blankets," he gasps between kisses. "I don't want anything except—"

"Body heat," I finish quietly. "You want my body heat."

"Yes." His hands are already pulling at my clothes. "Please. Tu es le seul chose qui peut me réchauffer." You're the only thing that can warm me.

I should stop this.

Should maintain boundaries.

Should protect myself from falling back into his gravitational pull.

But I don't.

Instead, I help him strip off his wet, freezing clothes.

Help him remove mine.

Within seconds we're both naked, tumbling onto my small bed, pulling the blankets over us as our bodies press together.

His skin is still ice-cold against mine.

But I can feel his heartbeat.

Rapid. Unsteady. But there.

He's alive.

And for some reason, that matters more than anything else right now.

Nikolai wraps his arms and legs completely around me, caging me against his chest. His face burrows into the crook of my neck, and he just... breathes.

Deep, shuddering breaths.

Like he's been holding them for seven days and finally remembered how.

"Mon papillon," he whispers. "Ma reine. Mon tout." My butterfly. My queen. My everything.

I run my fingers through his damp hair, feeling his body gradually stop shivering as he absorbs my warmth.

"You're a complete psychopath," I tell him quietly. "You know that?"

He makes a sound that might be agreement.

Might be amusement.

Might be exhaustion.

Within minutes, his breathing evens out.

Slows.

Deepens.

He falls asleep holding me like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

And maybe I am.

I look down at the sleeping monster in my arms—the Reaper Prince who brought empires to war for me, who kneeled before me in front of his army, who spent seven days freezing on concrete because I told him to go away.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escapes my throat.

Because I spent months trying to escape him.

Months fighting his obsessive control.

Months building walls to protect myself from his psychological warfare.

And here I am, holding him together while he falls apart.

Realizing that maybe the safest place in the world isn't away from the monster.

Maybe it's right here.

Holding him.

While he holds me.

Two broken people who somehow fit together in the most fucked-up way possible.

"I'm stuck with you forever, aren't I?" I whisper to his sleeping form.

His arm tightens around my waist in response.

Even unconscious, even exhausted, even vulnerable—he's still possessive.

Still claiming me.

Still completely, irrevocably mine the same way I'm his.

I close my eyes and let myself drift off, wrapped in blankets and psychopath and the quiet understanding that I never actually escaped the cage.

I just learned to stop fighting it.

And maybe—just maybe—that's okay.