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.”
16
Her Reaper’s Arms
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.
17
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“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
