Page 26 of Reaper’s Ruin (Reaper’s Ruin Trilogy #1)

Thunderspire rose before us like something from a dream.

I leaned forward in the back of the merchant’s cart we’d hitched a ride on, eyes wide as we approached the Storm Court capital.

It was built directly into the base of an impossibly tall mountain, its towers and spires stretching upward as if trying to touch the perpetual storm that raged at the peak.

“Whoa,” I breathed.

Lightning danced across the upper reaches of the mountain in a continuous display that never seemed to end.

Each flash illuminated the dark stone of the city in brilliant blue-white, casting dramatic shadows that flickered and vanished with the next strike.

The rumble of thunder was constant, sometimes fading to a gentle background murmur, other times crashing with enough force that I could feel it in my chest.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen,” I said, turning to Rhyker who sat beside me on the rough wooden planks of the cart bed.

He nodded, eyes scanning the road ahead. “The storm has been raging for millennia. It’s what gives the Storm Court fae their power.”

The cart hit a rut in the road, jostling us together so that our shoulders bumped. Rhyker immediately shifted to give me more space, but the brief contact lingered in my awareness .

I studied him covertly as he focused on the approaching city.

He’d been distant since last night—standing guard outside my door until dawn without ever coming inside.

So much for my romantic “one bed” fantasy playing out.

Maybe I’d misread everything. Maybe he wasn’t attracted to me at all.

Maybe all those heated looks and that protective rage had been nothing more than a Reaper’s sense of duty toward the soul in his charge.

The thought stung more than it should have.

But I couldn’t deny my own attraction, which only seemed to be growing stronger.

It felt ridiculous to be nursing a crush on Death, but here I was, stealing glances at him and wondering what it would be like to feel those strong hands on me in a context that had nothing to do with pulling me through shadow realms.

“The clothes we picked out should work well,” Rhyker said, interrupting my inappropriate thoughts. “No one looks twice at servants.”

We were both dressed in simple, practical clothing—the kind worn by the countless staff he said would be flooding into Thunderspire for the coronation.

Nothing fancy or attention-grabbing, just drab grays and muted blues that would help us blend into the background.

The more elaborate outfits he’d procured for the actual masquerade and the next days’ events were tucked into our sacks.

He’d taken me to a dressmaker in Centralia, and since I’d had no idea what to wear to the Storm Court, Rhyker had picked out several dresses for me, each one more beautiful than the last. He’d taken a surprising amount of care ensuring not only that I’d fit in but that I felt comfortable and beautiful in the exquisite gowns.

Seeing my badass Reaper present me with a beautiful gown had done nothing to quell the desire for him that seemed to rage like an inferno no water could put out .

As we neared the massive gates of the city, guards posted at the door checked everyone who entered. They were tall, imposing figures dressed in dark blue uniforms with silver accents that occasionally sparked with tiny lightning bolts.

“Do you think they’ll let us in?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

“They should. With all the extra help being brought in for the coronation, they’ll be expecting plenty of new faces.”

The cart rolled to a stop in a line of vehicles waiting to enter the city. When it was our turn to move forward, the driver called back to us, “This is as far as I go. The guards are checking everyone at the gate.”

We thanked him, climbing down from the cart with our small bundles of belongings. The line of people on foot moved forward slowly, each person being questioned by the stern-faced guards.

But when we reached the gate, things didn’t go as planned.

“Invitations?” demanded the guard, a stern-faced woman with intense blue eyes.

“We’re kitchen staff,” Rhyker replied smoothly. “For the coronation feast.”

Her eyes narrowed. “All staff should have been cleared in advance. Where are your papers?”

“Our overseer was supposed to arrange them,” he said, and I was impressed by his quick lie. “He said everything was taken care of.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” she snapped. “No papers, no entry. Security has been tightened since the recent... incidents.” Her expression turned grim. “Everyone must be accounted for. No exceptions.”

She waved us aside, already turning her attention to the merchants behind us.

We stepped away from the gate, moving out of earshot of the guards.

“Now what?” I whispered once we were far enough away .

“Now we see if the way I know is still unguarded,” he replied, a hint of determination in his voice. “I’ve been watching this place for centuries. There’s always another way in.”

We left the gate, and I followed him into the woods onto a narrow path that wound through a dense stand of trees crackling with strange energy. After about twenty minutes, we reached a small clearing where the city wall was partially hidden by undergrowth.

“This section of wall is rarely patrolled.”

I eyed up the formidable stone barrier skeptically. “How are we supposed to get over that?”

Rhyker jutted his stubbled chin up toward the top of the wall at least twelve feet high. Probably taller. “I’ll boost you up, then follow.”

“And how do we get our stuff over?”

In answer, he simply hurled one of the bags over the wall with a casual strength that made my mouth go dry. The second bag followed immediately after.

“Right. Super strength. Got it,” I muttered.

He approached the wall, examining it briefly, then turned to me. “Ready?”

I nodded, stepping closer to him.

He stepped behind me, hands sliding around my waist as he gripped me tightly.

The sensation of his strong hands wrapping so easily around my waist gave me a small shudder that turned into a big one when he hoisted me up with the same amount of effort as if I was one of the leaves on the trees surrounding us.

“Can you reach?” he asked, holding me suspended in the air.

I stretched my arms up as high as I could, but the top of the wall remained frustratingly out of reach. “Not even close.”

“Get on my shoulders,” he said, crouching down.

I stared at him. “What? ”

“It’s the simplest way. Climb on my shoulders then you can stand on them and pull yourself over.”

Oh God. Stand on his shoulders? This meant my dress would be... over his head. His face would be... I swallowed hard, heat rising to my cheeks at the thought.

“Is there another way?” I asked, hoping my voice didn’t betray the inappropriate thoughts suddenly racing through my mind.

“We could find another section of wall, but we’d risk running into patrols,” he replied.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Shoulders it is.”

He crouched lower, and I awkwardly positioned myself behind him, placing my hands on his broad shoulders. With a silent count to three, I hoisted myself up, swinging one leg over until I was perched on his shoulders like a child at a parade.

Except nothing about this felt childish. Not with his hands gripping my calves to steady me, not with the awareness that my dress had ridden up to accommodate the position, not that my crotch was now pressed against the neck of the most dangerous Reaper in Faelora.

And the sensation wasn’t unpleasant at all.

God, Soraya! Get it together you dead dirty perv!

“Okay. I’ll hold steady while you climb to standing.”

“Are you sure I won’t hurt you standing on your shoulders?”

He snorted. “No. You won’t hurt me.”

I bit my lip. “Okay. Try not to let me fall.”

He held still while I awkwardly climbed to my feet, my hands pressing onto his head as I steadied myself. I wobbled a bit as I reached half height, but he reached up, bracing his hands against my legs. Finally, with my arms outstretched to balance myself, I stood up completely.

“Hey! I did it!” I announced proudly.

But when I glanced down to grin at him, I realized he was buried beneath my skirt. His head between my legs and if he looked up...

Heat flushed my cheeks. Was he looking? I couldn’t see him under there. Part of me was hoping he was, and the other part of me horrified that he could be staring straight up my skirt.

“Can you reach it now?” he asked, his voice sounding slightly muffled from behind the wall of fabric.

I stretched upward, my fingertips just barely grazing the top of the wall. “Almost. But not quite.”

“This isn’t working,” he muttered. “Hold on.”

Before I could ask what he meant, his hands let go of my calves and I felt him wrapping them around my feet.

“What are you—” I gasped.

“Stand on my hands,” he instructed, raising his palms above his head.

“Are you serious?” I squeaked.

“I won’t drop you,” he promised, his voice steady with a confidence I wished I shared.

I glanced down, but I couldn’t see him or my feet, so I felt my way with one foot until I found his palm.

Hesitantly, I placed one foot, then the other, in his upturned palms. His grip was firm, unwavering as he began to straighten his arms, lifting me higher and higher until I was standing completely above his head.

I wobbled slightly, my hands flailing for balance, my stomach flipping like I was on a rollercoaster. “Oh my God!”

“You’re... wriggly,” came his dry voice from beneath my skirt.

“Sorry! I’m not a Cirque du Soleil acrobat!” I hissed.

“Steady,” he said calmly. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. Despite my awkward movements, his hands remained rock solid beneath my feet, as if I weighed nothing at all. The casual display of strength was doing dangerous things to my pulse rate.

Now I could easily reach the top of the wall, but once again, all I could think was... if he looked up...