Chapter Three

Reaper

I dream of my father.

I don't often think of the man who raised me to be his little minion. I was the product of a forbidden fling between a hitman and his target. It would be a romantic story if my mother had not decided to disappear shortly after my birth and leave me behind with a monster.

A monster who was set on raising me to become one too.

At ten years old, while other kids were swinging on the playground and screaming as they chased each other around under the watchful eye of their caring parents, I was practicing how to shoot under my father's critical gaze. By the time I was fifteen, I could shoot any target with precision.

I took my first contract at eighteen. He was an ex-convict on parole antagonizing a former victim, and after exhausting all legal means, her family finally hired my father to get rid of him. He sent me to take care of him instead. At eighteen years old, I was well over six foot, but my target was built like a tank. One look at me, and he'd scoffed, underestimating me on sight, sneering and laughing when I revealed the gun and pointed it at him.

"Do you even know what that is, kid?" he'd mocked me. "Now put the toy down before I knock all the teeth out of your mouth."

All it took was one bullet to wipe the smug look off his face. His moment of shock was almost comical, and I would have laughed if my sense of humor had not been beaten out of me.

That was almost two decades ago.

But for some reason, I am taken back to that moment now.

I would rather dream of anything else. Like my dark-haired angel with her soft touch and wide, forest green eyes that look so innocent and pure. So . . . uncorrupted.

I haven't seen eyes like that on anyone else in my life. Surrounded by violence from the second I was brought into this unforgiving world, I never imagined something as bright as her could exist, someone whose touch is gentle and caring. Her words, soft and concerned, are unlike any that have ever been directed at me.

"Good God, you're burning up!" Her soft voice breaks through my hazy consciousness, as if hearing my silent plea for her to return. "I have to get you to the hospital."

"No!" I say, my voice coming out hoarsely. Despite the heaviness of my arm, I reach out blindly and grab for her. "Please, you can take care of me here. I'll be . . . I'm fine. I've been in worse shape than this before."

But I am not really fine. My body is freezing, but I'm sweating like I've run a marathon. I'm not lying when I tell her that I've had worse, though. Way worse than this. Like the one time a target trapped us both in an abandoned house and set it on fire with the intent of sending us both to hell. Or another time I almost froze to death in the winter cold after getting lost in the woods as a kid when I'd tried to run away from my father. I was nearly hypothermic by the time my old man found me. Once I'd recovered somewhat, he'd made sure to show me what would happen if I ever tried to run again.

"Fine," my angel says with a resigned sigh that sounds so fucking sexy even in my height of fever. "I'm only giving in because I think your body is trying to fight an infection, and I don't believe you're in actual danger, but if the fever doesn't break by morning, then you're going to the hospital."

She pulls away from my grasp and leaves before I can say a word but doesn't stay gone for long. My lips part on a sigh when I feel something cold brush my skin.

"I can't believe I am doing this right now, wiping down a stranger's body instead of taking them to the hospital," she grumbles, her tone a contrast to her soft touch. She helps me sit up and drink some water before giving me pills to swallow, followed by more water.

"I don't even care about losing my nursing license anymore. I just want you to be okay, and I'm terrified that I am making the wrong decision."

Her words are followed with a sigh, and as much as I want to say something, anything to kill the sadness I hear in her voice, for the life of me, I can't form the words. My entire body feels heavy, and as she resumes wiping my skin with the cool cloth, her efforts start to lull me back to sleep.

This time, it's her I dream of. I dream that we met in a normal way. Perhaps at a grocery store or a restaurant and not on her bathroom floor. I dream that I am a normal man with a nine-to-five, and from a normal family. In this version, everything is perfect.

When I wake up next, the fever is gone, and seeing that there are no blue and red lights flashing outside her open window, I can assume that she kept her promise to not contact the authorities. I wince when my staples tug as I attempt to sit up in the bed, inspecting my surroundings under the soft morning light.

From what I remember of the house, it's too big for one person, and for a second, I entertain the thought that my angel could be living with someone else. A family member, perhaps even a husband. Maybe she has kids, and they're just not around, but a quick look about the room shows no evidence of a spouse or children. No family photos, and the nightstand on the far side of the bed is bare. There is one photo frame on a dresser along the opposite wall, but it's too far for me to make out the image.

"You're up!" comes a voice from the doorway, followed by the soft patter of feet rushing to my side. A pretty, dark-haired girl stops in front of me, and Christ, she's perfect.

All the dreams, hallucinations, and memories of glimpses caught in dim lighting I've had of this girl don't live up to the sheer perfection that is this person standing in front of me, dressed only in a pair of shorts and a low cut top that reveals more than my muddled brain can handle. And when she bends down to touch my forehead, all my blood rushes south at the sight of her cleavage.

"The fever seems to have gone down," the girl says, placing her wrist over my forehead, then moving her hand down my neck to feel my pulse. "How are you feeling?"

I force my gaze away from her cleavage and look up to lock eyes with the prettiest green I have ever seen. They are forest green, wide and innocent, and fuck, they threaten to suck me into their depths.

"Better," I croak out. "How long was I out?"

Her eyes narrow on me as if she doesn't believe me, but she doesn't challenge my words. Instead, her focus shifts to the injury on my arm. "You've been in and out of it for about a day and a half. The fever didn't start until late last night. It's early morning now. I should check your wound and change the bandage. I need to grab my things first."

Fuck, I've been here that long? Priest must be losing his mind since I haven't checked in. I'll need to figure out what happened to my phone, I can't remember. The girl rushes out of the room, and I miss her warmth the second she leaves, but she returns quickly with the first-aid kit before settling down on the bed beside me.

"This is probably going to hurt," she warns, her eyes shooting up to lock with mine, and I am taken aback by the way she looks at me.

I've had women look at me before, often with desire and other times malice or annoyance, but never compassion. Nothing like the way this perfect angel is looking at me, and for a moment, I forget the harsh throb in my arm and the lingering pain in my head, focusing instead on the ache building up in my groin. The need to grab this girl and roll her so she's lying under me, to tear off her little shorts and plunge my fat cock into her pussy is so strong.

Fuck, my balls are already aching with the need to rut her into the mattress. I wonder what sounds would break through those perfectly curved lips as I ram my cock into her. Would she scream and scratch my back with every thrust, or would she wrap her arms around my shoulders and whimper softly into my neck as I made love to her?

Made love? The thought takes me by surprise. I don't make love to anyone. All the arrangements—more like hookups—I've had in the past have been based on a mutual agreement that it was a one-time thing. Those instances were few and far between, and not one of them could be considered something as fantastical as "making love."

So why the hell am I thinking of my pretty little savior in that way?

"Are you sure you still don't want to go to the hospital? They can take much better care of you there," my angel asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

"This is fine," I assure her. We both know that the second I walk into the hospital with a gunshot wound, they're going to call the police, and I'm going to get arrested. Priest would have me out before I even got booked, but at this point, I am thinking more of her. The thought that I could bring trouble to this girl makes my chest ache. There is also a selfish part of me that wants to be tended by her. I have been to many hospitals in my lifetime, and not a single one offers more compassionate care than she does.

"I have never done anything like this before, you know," she whispers, and I look down to find her laser focused on tending to my wounded arm.

"Treated strangers with gunshot wounds in your bathroom?"

She chuckles softly. "That too, but I meant breaking the law."

"No one has to know I am here."

"Assuming you didn't shoot yourself, then someone else did it, and they're probably talking to the cops right now." Or lying dead in an abandoned warehouse, but I don't tell her that. I don't think it would go over too well if I told her the truth.

"Nothing will happen to you," I promise her, because truly, that is all that matters at the moment. This girl and I were never meant to meet, but now that we have, she's mine to protect, and I plan to do just that with everything I have.

"Everything looks okay, but we still need to keep a close eye on it for signs of infection. Last night, you said you were hit in the back of the head. I didn't see any more indicators of a concussion overnight or this morning, and your head isn't bleeding, but I should still take a look at it," she says, gathering everything back into the kit, and when she gets up, I grab her hand and stop her.

"I want to know the name of the girl who saved my life."

She blinks prettily at me, as if the thought of exchanging our names never occurred to her. "You're right. I'm Holly Jaxon."

"Holly," I repeat after her, the name rolling off my tongue smoothly.

"What about you?"

"Reaper."

"Like the cloaked guy who comes to take souls after death?" she says with a small laugh. "Is that really your name?"

"Most people look horrified when they learn that's what I go by."

She chuckles, her eyes swimming with humor. "What did you do to get that name? Steal a bunch of souls with your handsome face?" The smile drops from her lips, and her cheeks quickly turn a rosy hue. I can tell she's embarrassed by her words. "I . . . I didn't—"

"You think I am handsome," I say, tightening my grip on her hand when she tries to escape.

"How the hell are you so strong when you're nursing a gunshot wound and a head injury?" she mutters, tugging at her hand. I'm careful not to hurt her, but I don't let her go.

"You didn't answer me, Holly." I run my eyes over her face and drink up her flushed expression.

"God, you're so vain," she says, glaring at me, and the corners of my lips tug in a smile at her fierce expression. Fucking hell, I haven't felt like this in a long time. Haven't had a reason to smile in ages, but this girl brings out a side of me I thought was dead. "Fine, you're handsome. Now let go of me."

I do let her go, but only so I can wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She gasps when she lands on my lap, and I know . . .

I know I should take it easy, for her sake and mine. Hers because I don't want to terrify her into thinking she's stuck with a mad man, however true that may actually be, and mine because my head is aching.

And yet, I can't seem to grasp my logic long enough to follow through.

I want her.

I crave everything about this girl, and yet, I know I cannot have her. She would run for the hills if she knew the kind of man I am, but I want to revel in her world even if only for a few minutes. Soak in her purity and bask in her innocence.

She's a rare soul, uncorrupted by this dirty world.

It's like coming up for air after a life spent drowning.

Holly is my breath of fresh air.

"What are you doing? You're going to hurt yourself," she scolds, checking to see if my movements have disturbed anything, but I grab her chin and force her eyes to meet mine. Her green eyes flash with something akin to curiosity when they lock on mine, and I have to bite back a groan at the blatant innocence in them. I thought she'd be at least a little afraid of my actions, but it's clear she isn't.

How the fuck is she real?

"I'm still not so sure I haven't made you up in my head. I keep thinking that I am lying in that warehouse, bleeding out, and you're the angel come to take me to hell."

"Why hell?"

"I am not a good man, Holly," I tell her truthfully, breaking eye contact to trail my gaze down her body. Her nipples poke at the tight top, and a groan climbs up my throat with the need to lean down and run my mouth over the perky buds.

Christ, I am not just a bad man. I am a fucking reprobate for desiring this girl that saved my life. To want her the way I do is sick, but I can't help myself. I want to bury myself inside of Holly, and with the way she's watching me, I am tempted to do just that.

"Have you . . ." Holly starts, but she hesitates. Her eyes shift from me for a second, and I watch her bite her bottom lip as she organizes her thoughts before looking back at me. "As a nurse, I swore to save all lives, but . . . h-have you ever hurt anyone that didn't deserve it?"

My eyes stay on hers as my hands drop back to her waist and I pull her flush against me. Her lips part on a gasp when she feels the press of my hardness against her. The evidence of my desire for her is obvious, but she doesn't try to run away, and that's all the confirmation I need.

"Never," I assure her, looking her in the eye so she can see that I'm telling the truth before trailing my hungry gaze down her body. "I have never hurt anyone that didn't deserve it."