Her Reaper's Arms Read online

  spicy cinnamon scent he gave off overpowered her senses to make her head reel. She

  could barely breathe as he lifted her right hand and looked down at it, twisting her

  wrist gently so he could see the palm.

  Her hand was work-roughened, reddened, calloused, and her fingernails chewed

  down to the quick. The flesh smelled of harsh soap as he laid his free hand over hers to

  gently stroke the flesh, pulling his big palm along hers. He stroked her palm gently.

  “You’re not one of her whores,” he said then lifted his head to fuse his eyes with

  hers. “Not with hands like these.”

  She didn’t think he wanted a confirmation of his guess so she said nothing.

  He studied her face for a long time—making her very uncomfortable beneath his

  close scrutiny as his gaze crawled over her features, but she could not look away from

  that intense golden stare. It almost felt as though she were falling into those smoldering

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  orbs, being drawn down into the very soul of their owner. Then he tilted his head to one

  side.

  “Don’t be afraid of me, wench. I won’t hurt you,” he said.

  He turned her hand sideways and brought it to his cheek, closing his eyes as the

  coolness of her flesh contacted the heat of his. He leaned his face into the cup of her

  palm and when at last he opened his eyes, it was then Lea saw into the Reaper’s soul,

  and what she discovered there made her heart hurt for him. Loneliness cried out to

  loneliness, holding out a hand to be touched.

  This man was alone but it was not his solitude that spoke to her. It was the deep

  isolation in his gaze, the desire for something other than the trail and the next kill, the

  next burden to handle or the next wrong to set aright that caught and held her

  enthralled. She thought she could see down to the very core of him and what she

  glimpsed pulsed from him in waves of desperation. She knew he was but a hair’s

  breadth away from becoming completely irretrievable. In that moment, she lost all fear

  of him, the unease fading away as though it had never been.

  Bevyn felt her hand tense on his cheek and thought she was going to pull away, but

  instead she caressed him, smiling tentatively when he gave her a surprised look.

  “What would you have me do, milord?” she asked, though every instinct in her

  body screamed at her to run—to run before it was too late and she could not ever

  escape him. “How can I ease your pain?”

  No woman—or man for that matter—had ever dared speak to him without first

  being bid to do so. He was startled by her bravery and more than a little unnerved by

  the way she was meeting his direct look. No one looked his kind directly in the eye

  unless bidden to do so.

  “You’re a brave one, wench,” he mumbled.

  She shook her head. “No, milord. I am scared spitless,” she said.

  He felt ashamed, the burden of his position, the nature of his existence having worn

  him down to the quick just as she had savaged her nails. People feared his kind and he

  could see that fear in her pretty gray eyes, but she was gamely holding his stare though

  she was trembling beneath his steady gaze.

  She eased her hand from his and knelt down in front of him, her trembling hands

  going to his thighs. She could not seem to look away from his bewildered stare. “How

  can I help you, milord?”

  Bevyn needed something to which he could not seem to put a name. He ached for

  just a solitary moment of comfort, one single bolstering act that would help him

  through the next day, the next hour, even the next breath. What he sought had eluded

  him all his life. He never thought to find it and certainly had never looked for it in the

  perfumed arms of a stranger.

  “Lie with me,” he said. “Let me hold you. That is all I want.”

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  Lea felt heaviness between her legs that she did not understand and she could have

  sworn moisture gathered there at his words. Her belly did a tight little squeeze that she

  thought odder still.

  “You don’t have to undress,” she heard him saying, his words slurred. “I just want

  to hold you.”

  He was drunk and more than likely unaware of what he was saying. She could tell

  by the way he mumbled his words the liquor was rapidly claiming him, but she did not

  doubt he would keep his word. A Reaper’s word was law, drunk or not.

  There was sweat glistening on his chest and she remembered someone once

  remarking that Reapers’ body temperatures were higher than normal.

  “You are hot, aren’t you?” she asked, and at his nod, she rose to her feet and

  reached out to push the shirt from his body, helping him draw his heavily muscled

  arms from the sleeves. The moment she saw the stylized grim reaper tattoo on his left

  pectoral, she tensed.

  “Was that burned into your flesh, milord?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he whispered, still surprised, and a bit confused that she would dare

  question him.

  She met his gaze. “It must have hurt.”

  “Not so much,” he lied.

  Her gaze roamed over his flesh and it was all she could do not to flinch as she took

  in the myriad scars that lined his broad chest. There were unmistakable burn marks,

  long cuts, places where it looked as though the flesh had been torn away.

  “A pretty sight, huh?” he asked.

  “You are a warrior, milord,” she said. “Such a sight is to be expected.”

  She was holding his silk shirt in her hands and began to fold it carefully, trying not

  to look at the scars. She laid it aside as he swung his legs up on the bed and stretched

  out, one knee cocked. Since he was close to the edge of the bed and she would have had

  to crawl over him to lie down, she skirted the bed and went to the other side. Sitting

  down, she lifted her legs, removed her worn boots and stockings and then drew her feet

  onto the mattress. Then she lay there as still as a corpse, her hands crossed over her

  stomach, not knowing what he desired her to do.

  Bevyn rolled over to his side, facing her—not touching her though he longed to. She

  turned her face toward him, her gray eyes a bit wary. He liked the way the sunlight

  coming in through the window shone on her bright blonde hair. It was piled up in a

  haphazard way upon her head with little tendrils falling down and he desperately

  wanted to take the pins from it, to see it hanging free. He shook himself to get rid of that

  tempting notion.

  “How did you come to work here, wench?” he asked, memorizing every freckle,

  mole and tiny imperfection on her lovely face. His fingers itched to trace a small scar on

  the underside of her chin, wondering how she’d come by it.

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  “My mother was the town’s seamstress,” she said, shifting so she was lying on her

  side too. One small hand lay pressed against the mattress, the other she tucked beneath

  her head. “When she died, I had no way to fend for myself but to work. The house we

  lived in was a rental and not even the furniture was ours. The only things Mama owned

  outright were her sewing machine, the tools of her trade and a dress form. When she

  died, those things were
auctioned off to pay for her funeral. Mable was kind enough to

  offer me the job as her cook and maid. I had no other options and no money to journey

  elsewhere for work.”

  “There were no men courting you, wench?” he inquired. As pretty as she was, he

  found it hard to believe the men of Orson had not been camped on her doorstep.

  “There are few single men in town, milord, but those who would have me would

  do so without benefit of Joining.”

  Bevyn’s head was swimming. No food, too much booze too quickly, the nearness of

  the lovely woman lying willingly beside him—all combined to put a pleasant fuzziness

  to his world. He found himself relaxing, something he rarely did in the company of

  others.

  “You should have a husband, wench,” he said. He slid his hand to hers, entwining

  their fingers, liking the contact.

  “One day,” she said. She arched her hand, pulling his fingers beneath her own as

  though it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

  His eyelids were growing heavy. Normally, he would have sent the girl from his

  room before he even thought of sleeping, locked the door behind her, keeping his gun

  close at hand in case some hard case decided to get up the courage to challenge him.

  “Were you born here in Orson?” he asked, trying to hide his yawn.

  “In Prescott, just west of here,” she replied. She was studying his face so close to her

  own, mentally tracing the tribal tattoo, her gaze dipping to the crimson Reaper insignia

  on his chest.

  “I spent a month there one night,” he joked. “Shitty little town.” He yawned again

  and the flash of his very white teeth against the dark tan drew her attention.

  “You don’t have fangs?” she asked.

  Bevyn’s eyes had nearly closed but he snapped them open, frowning. “Why would

  you think I had fangs?”

  She shrugged. “I thought all Reapers did.”

  The frown smoothed out from between his brows. “Only when we Transition,” he

  said, “and I’m not near to my cycle.” He could not seem to keep his eyes open.

  “So I don’t have to worry about you biting my neck?”

  Once more he forced his eyelids open and the smile he gave her was purely evil.

  “Not unless you ask me nicely, wench,” he said, and winked.

  She smiled, and that smile—combined with a very feminine giggle—transformed

  her face from merely lovely to breathtakingly beautiful and it chased away his

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  drowsiness in a heartbeat. He stared at her, transfixed. No woman had ever looked at

  him in that way, but then again, no woman had ever met his gaze before.

  “Where are you from, milord?” she asked.

  “A long way from here,” he mumbled, not wanting to think or talk about his past.

  Lea felt his hand tense on hers and knew she had asked something she shouldn’t

  have so she said nothing more. When he suddenly tugged on her hand, pulling her

  toward him, she moved over, laying her head on his shoulder as naturally as though

  she had done it a hundred times before. She snuggled against him as he enclosed her in

  the perimeter of that strong arm, his fingers curling around to cup her shoulder. Unsure

  of what to do with her hand, she laid it gently in the center of his chest, liking the feel of

  those crisp hairs beneath her palm, her other arm trapped between their bodies, her

  fingers touching the leather of his pants along his hip.

  For a long time they just lay there with his arm cradling her, their breaths mingling,

  their heartbeats seemingly synchronized with one another. He covered the hand she

  had placed on his chest with his, caressing her fingers gently. When he at last broke the

  silence, it was with a question that stunned her.

  “Would you consider being my compánach, Lea?” he asked. “My companion?”

  She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him with shock clouding her

  gray gaze, her full lips parted. “Milord, I…”

  “I don’t mean as my mate,” he was quick to tell her. “I would not ask that of you or

  any woman—I can not ask it—but just to be here when I pass through, to lie beside me,

  to keep me company.” He squeezed her hand. “You would not have to service me. I

  would not ask that either.”

  She heard such longing in his voice and a touch—of what? Self-pity?—that broke

  her heart. He looked like a little boy asking his mother for a toy, the light in his eyes

  expectant, enthusiastic.

  “I would buy you a house,” he said. “Furnish it. Give you a comfortable allowance.

  I would take care of you.”

  “In exchange for just being held, milord?” she asked softly. “Just talking to you?”

  He smiled hopefully. “Aye, wench,” he said eagerly. “Nothing more. I swear it.”

  “You would not expect me to…to…” Her face flamed.

  “Service me?” he asked. “Not unless you willingly offered.”

  She eased her hand from beneath his, trying not to react to the keen disappointment

  that flitted through his hopeful eyes. She laid her palm on his cheek. “You sell yourself

  too cheaply, milord,” she said. “You ask little of me but are willing to give so much.”

  She caressed his face. “Too much. Surely you know any woman would jump at the

  chance of having you as her protector. I am not much to look at and—”

  “You are beautiful!” he interrupted her. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve

  ever seen.”

  “Milord…” she said in a chiding tone.

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  “You are.”

  She nearly laughed, thinking he was joking, but the earnest look on his face stilled

  her twitching lips. “You are serious,” she said.

  “Reapers do not lie,” he said, and sat up, twisting to look down at her. She watched

  his pectorals jump as though he were offended she would consider that he could tell a

  falsehood.

  She realized he was holding her hand to his thigh and stroking the back of it with

  his other hand. Looking up at him, her gaze wandering over his tousled hair—one dark

  curl hanging over his eye—she wanted to thread her fingers through that dark mass to

  discover if it was as soft as it looked.

  “I could give you everything you have ever dreamt of, Lea,” he told her. “You

  would want for nothing.”

  Lea searched his gaze and realized he was offering her something far beyond her

  ability to understand. Reapers were feared, avoided until needed, and once their job

  was finished, the townspeople wanted them gone. What would it be like to be his

  woman? How would the good folk of Orson treat her?

  “I could take you wherever you wish to go,” he said, reading her mind. “It does not

  have to be here.”

  Self-conscious to be lying there with him huddled over her, she sat up, feeling the

  tremendous strength in his hand as he helped her. “This is my home,” she said. “I am

  content here.”

  “You would be more content if you did not have to toil like a commoner,” he said.

  “What pleases you, milady? Gardening? Reading? Painting?” He hitched a shoulder.

  “Sewing?”

  She smiled. “I never could sew a decent stitch and I seem to kill whatever I plant.

  The only painting
I have ever done was a bedroom.” She tucked her lower lip between

  her teeth before telling him that she loved to read but books were scarce in Orson.

  “Then I’ll ship you a library!” he said. “I spend a lot of time reading myself.”

  Lea thought on that for a moment. “Do you mean it, milord? Would you send

  books for me to start a library for the town?”

  Bevyn blinked. “A library?” he repeated. He was unaccustomed to women thinking

  of anyone other than themselves. “You would do that?”

  “There used to be one here before the War but it was destroyed in the fighting. I

  know there are those who would gladly welcome having a place where they could

  come and read, take home a book or two.”

  “Then I will see to it,” he declared, his word law. “Orson will become my primary

  residence.”

  Before she could say anything else, he stretched out beside her, drew her into his

  arms and rested his chin atop her head.

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  Her Reaper’s Arms

  “I can sleep now,” he said as though the entire matter were settled, and within a

  matter of moments he was snoring lightly.

  Lea marveled at the ease with which he could simply close his eyes and shut down

  the world. She had a terrible time falling asleep each night—no matter how tired she

  was. Lying in his arms, hearing his steady, even breathing, feeling the overwhelming

  strength of him protecting her, she closed her eyes and finally drifted off to sleep, the

  strange quiet of the saloon helping to ease her.

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  Chapter Two

  Bevyn was disoriented when he woke the next morning and more than a little hung

  over. His belly was cramping and he lay there realizing he hadn’t eaten at all the day

  before. He was famished and started to turn over only to find his arm held fast. For just

  a brief moment panic seized him and he snapped his head toward whatever was

  fettering him to the bed. When he saw the sweet, smiling face of the most beautiful girl

  he’d ever encountered looking back at him, his body relaxed, the previous day’s

  memories coming back to him like a soft, gentle breeze.

  “Good morn, milord,” she said.

  “Good morn,” he said, struck anew by her beauty and realized it was indeed a very

  good morning. He didn’t feel the overpowering sense of dread that always