CHAPTER 14
AEBON REXX
The city sleeps below in muted neon, but I’m wide awake—because I know she’s on the move. I follow the track: her rhythm; the way her steps tap a certain insistence against glass and steel. I’ve got someone watching—subtle, discreet, blending into the crowd—but it’s not enough. She’s not just any person. She’sher.
I don’t fucking like it.
But she needs it.
I’ve learned that protecting her doesn’t always mean throwing a fist—it sometimes means watching her back without her knowing. A Reaper’s instinct is to shield. Always. It doesn’t ask permission.
I follow her into the Justice building midday lull. She’s moving like she’s charging uphill—purposeful and tense. My observer tails her at a distance: a nondescript courier, a swivel in his hips, eyes on her shadow.
Good.
But I need close proximity—just in case.
Fucking instincts.
Later that evening,she corners me in the security-locked hallway near her office. Her cheeks are sharp with anger, the form of her as precise as a blade.
“Why?” she spits. “Why do you keep doing this?”
I take a breath. Every inch of me wants to crush the walls around me and her fury with them. But I stay contained—just enough custom suit, enough cold discipline.
“She deserves to be safe,” I say quietly.
“Safe?” Her voice cracks. “Or caged? I’m not some lost child you have to follow around!”
There it is—the old dance.
“I didn’t ask for permission,” I say, venom tight in my throat. “Because Iknewyou’d refuse.”
She flares—classic Aria. Jaw forward, lips taut.
“Don’t talk to me about choice, Rexx.”
I step in closer. Too close—maybe. But tone demands proximity.
“You were bleeding in my arms a week ago,” I snap. “You think I forgot that?”
Her breath hitches, and I see the instinct flash again—her walls rattled for a moment. But she steadies, voice low and deadly.
“That was on your turf. This is my life. I don’t need you babysitting every step.”
I snarl under my breath. My eyes narrow, bone spur muscles clenching.
“She’s not fragile,” she says. She isn’t talking to me anymore but to herself. A mantra. A blade she uses to hold herself together.
I close my eyes, calm myself.
She’s a damn good reason to be better.
And then I see it—my face in her eyes. Not anger. Hurt.
“You think you don’t?” I hiss. “You were screaming when they hit your spine. Your blood was warm on my skin. You trembled because your chest hurt. Not because of your laws, or your pride. Because your heart was trying to quit.”
She flinches. Can't meet my eyes.
