He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then crossed the threshold.Her overnight bag sat open on the bed, the sight of it grounding and surreal.Like she might unpack and stay.The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound landed heavy.
She leaned back against the dresser, arms folded loosely, like she wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“I heard voices,” she said.“Earlier.Someone said your name.And then ...King.”
His shoulders stiffened.She caught it.Of course she did.
“Who’s King?”she asked gently.
Reaper dragged a hand down his face.There was no clean version of this.
“He’s the MC president,” he said.“Runs Devil’s Crown.My boss.”
She widened her eyes a fraction, but she didn’t step back.
“And he wanted to know who I was?”Elena asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“And?”Elena pressed.
“And I told him.”He exhaled slowly.“That saving you wasn’t planned.Bringing you here wasn’t either.”
Her fingers curled into the hem of her pajama top.She bit her lower lip, worry flickering across her face.The sight hit him low and hard.He turned slightly, angling his body away like that might help.It didn’t.
“You did it on impulse?”she asked.
“Yeah,” Reaper muttered.
She studied him like she was trying to read between scars and silence.
“That doesn’t seem like something a man like you would do,” she said.
A humorless huff left him.“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” she said.“Reaper, you didn’t have to get involved.You could’ve called someone else, or warned me and walked away.”
He met her gaze then, really met it.“I couldn’t,” he said.
The truth sat there between them, raw and unguarded.He hated how exposed it made him feel and part of him liked it.
“Why?”she asked.
He searched for a lie, but none came.
“I wasn’t going to watch you die for doing your job,” he said.“Because I’ve seen how this ends, and because I’m not letting the cartel decide who deserves to live or die.”
Silence stretched.She pushed off the dresser and took a step toward him.He went still.Elena took another step.She was close enough now that he could smell her soap, clean and faintly floral, and it was so out of place.Reaper curled his hands at his sides, knuckles whitening.Don’t touch.Don’t.
“Thank you,” she said.
Reaper stilled, unsure how to react to those two simple words.She reached up, brushing her fingers against his forearm, her touch tentative.The contact sent a sharp spark through him, straight to his spine.He sucked in a breath through his nose.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said.
“I do.No one’s ever...”She trailed off, shook her head.“You didn’t have to protect me.”
He swallowed.“Yeah.I did,” he said.
