Page 17 of Reaper & the Lioness (Lone Star Mavericks MC #1)
Chapter Thirteen
T he weight of the night’s events crashed over me. The fabric of my shirt clung to my skin, still damp with cold sweat.
I moved mechanically, shedding my clothes for a shower.
The hot water cascaded over me, steam rising in billowing clouds that fogged the glass.
But even as it soothed my tense muscles, it couldn’t wash away the reality of what happened.
I could have died tonight. Hale was dangerous, but I never imagined my investigation could result in this situation.
I stepped out of the shower and slammed the glass door shut harder than necessary.
As I toweled off and brushed my teeth, my mind raced.
The moment Reaper shot the hitman in my kitchen replayed in my mind.
He hadn’t called an ambulance. Reaper had wanted Merrick to question him before letting him die.
And I had no idea what they would do with the body.
The thought should have horrified me. Instead, numb acceptance filled my chest. This was the world I’d stumbled into. As much as I’d hoped to separate the businesses from the bikers in my work, the two were intertwined.
A wave of conflicting emotions washed over me.
Part of me recoiled at the casual brutality and the ease with which Reaper had pulled the trigger.
I’d intellectually known what an outlaw motorcycle club was capable of, but witnessing the violence that simmered beneath the surface firsthand hit differently.
A darker part of me swirling below my facade of corporate professionalism and achievement embraced the grim satisfaction. The man had come to kill me, and he’d bled out on my kitchen floor. There was a certain poetic justice to it.
If asked to choose between my life and the life of a killer, I’d choose my own. Every. Fucking. Time.
I sat on the edge of Reaper’s bed, running my fingers through my damp hair.
Each recent lead ran through my mind, a twisted maze of cover-ups.
In addition to Amy, I’d spoken to several other women who’d worked for Abell Enterprises.
Their stories echoed the same patterns: humiliation, gaslighting, and brutality.
Katelyn had been the head of sales for one of Hale’s companies.
Like Amy, she was terrified to go on record.
Hale had berated her in front of the staff, called her incompetent, and when she’d finally resigned after a late-night confrontation, he’d attacked her.
She’d drifted in and out of consciousness as the Abells covered their tracks, fabricating alibis and using their influence to shield Hale from consequences.
Another victim, Sarah, was a promising executive in accounting who’d discovered evidence of fraud.
When she brought it forward, Hale had responded with violence.
She’d left his office with a scar across her forehead, her injuries blamed on a workplace accident and her silence bought with a settlement.
The pattern was clear: anyone who threatened to expose Hale’s secrets was swiftly dealt with.
My hand unconsciously went to my throat, recalling Hale’s grip as he’d attacked me—all because I’d refused to be his puppet, to spin lies.
The flashpoint occurred when I’d professionally told him to fuck off in a meeting.
The memory of his face, twisted with rage as he fought to control his wrath in front of the board, still burned in my mind.
“We’re not in the business of lying to investors,” I’d told him, Hale’s board chair shifting in discomfort at the confrontation. “I won’t spin this report just so you can sell the company. Your proposal violates so many ethics and maybe a few laws. We have to tell the truth.”
I lay in the hospital a few hours later in a haze of pain and confusion, the details of the attack blurred under the pain medication. Still, I remained adamant to the police that Hale was my attacker. They took my report and said they had enough to make an arrest.
I clenched my fists so tight that my nails dug into my palms. How many more women were out there, silenced by the Abells’ money and influence? How many more stories of violence and intimidation remained buried? And how could I bring all of this to light without ending up in the ground?
I curled up in Reaper’s large oak bed and tightened the quilt around me. Exhaustion warred with adrenaline, leaving me wired and drained all at once. Reaper’s scent clung to everything in the room. The smell of cedar, campfire smoke, and leather reminded me I wasn’t alone.
My mind drifted back to the kiss we’d shared outside my home.
The memory of his lips against mine still burned, and the searing heat of his body lingered on my skin.
I could almost feel the rough texture of his leather jacket beneath my hands and how he’d pulled me to his chest with a possessive intensity.
The kiss had left me breathless and wanting more.
But, even as I replayed the moment in my head, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was playing with fire.
He’d saved my life tonight. No hesitation, just action. It should have scared me. And maybe it did, a little. But it also made me feel safe in a way I couldn’t explain.
I chewed my lip, staring at the unfamiliar shadows on the ceiling. If anyone came through that door tonight, I had no doubt Reaper would end them before they took a single step toward me.
The brutality of the thought should have unsettled me.
Instead, it filled me with a sense of peace.