She doesn’t realize it, but she owns this room.
Eyes follow her. Not just because of that body—gods, thatbody—but because there’s a tension in her walk. Like she’s one wrong look away from eviscerating someone. And no one herecan figure out how a Reaper like me got a woman like her to show up willingly.
Hell,Idon’t even know.
“You’re late,” I say with a smile as she approaches.
“You didn’t give me a time,” she replies, sliding into the seat across from mine like it’s a throne.
I grin wider. “Details.”
A server flutters forward—young, neon-haired, barely legal—and offers her a drink list. Aria waves it off.
“Vakutan black,” she murmurs. “No synth. No foam.”
I raise a brow. “You sure you’re not secretly mobbed up already?”
She meets my gaze head-on. “If I were, you’d already be dead.”
There it is—that fire. That uncut steel hiding behind smooth skin and green eyes that seeeverything. It’s not just her mouth I want on me. It’s that mind. That fight. That fury.
We order food. Something extravagant and smoky. Flavors imported from three systems over. But I don’t taste a damn thing.
Because she’s talking.
And all I can do is listen.
She asks about the confession cube. Doesn’t accuse. Doesn’t demand. Just lets the question sit between us like a live wire. I twirl my glass.
“I called in a favor,” I say finally. “A big one. One I may bleed for later.”
“And the price?” she asks.
I lean in, slow and quiet. “I don’t pay in credits, sweetheart. I pay in promises.”
She swallows hard. I see the way her fingers tighten on the glass stem.
“And what promise did you make?”
“That I’d protect what matters.”
Her breath stutters. I don’t press.
The room fades. The music dims. The rest of the world slips away.
It’s just her. And me. And this cliff-edge we’re standing on, daring gravity to blink first.
Outside, lightning spiders across the glass, blue and violent. Inside, the air thickens with something older than desire.
And when she finally looks away, cheeks flushed and jaw tight, I know I’ve won something tonight.
Not all of her.
Not yet.
But the first piece of her soul is already mine.
The drink between us glows like molten topaz, refracting the storm-light from the windows, catching on the edges of her eyes. Her gaze flicks to it briefly—then right back to me. Never one to run. Gods, I respect the hell out of that.
