Page 6

FIVE

Inaya

What woman rides shotgun into the woods and waits while the man she’s with dumps a body? An abducted one. The Reaper’s tracking and killing skills are beyond anything I can muster in forty-eight hours. He’s bigger, stronger, and faster. I’d have to be smarter, and with that, I watched him drop Michat’s dead body on the ground without bothering to cover him in any way. He’s comfortable with these woods, which tells me he frequents them. You don’t run on someone's territory.

He returns and opens the back door. “Get out,” he orders as he grabs some bags.

I do as I’m told, hoping I’m not walking into my death. He passes me a bag I recognize as mine and he slings his over his back.

“Stay close, or I will put you down like a lame horse.”

He moves without waiting for a response and begins trekking through the woods. Compliance. He knows he has it. He knows I’ll follow him into an uncertain future instead of attempting to attack him or make a run for it. We both know his capabilities, yet my eyes fall to his ass. It’s crazy to believe that someone as attractive as him is so fucked in the head; it somehow suits him. While warm in color, his brown eyes hold no warmth or gentleness whenever he looks at me. I’m just a pawn in his scheme and I don’t know my role.

I must move twice as fast as him to keep up. I duck just in time to avoid a branch that he pushed out of his way but didn’t bother to hold for me. The way it whipped through the air tells me it would have hurt like a bitch had I not been paying attention. There’s nothing but the sound of leaves crunching, branches rustling, and my heavy breathing for a solid thirty minutes until a loud blast makes me yelp and jump into his back.

The force of him pushing me off causes me to trip and create a small cloud of leaves to float around me.

“It’s just the car exploding, idiota,” he grumbles as he moves forward.

I’d talk so much shit if I didn’t know he could kill me with little effort. With a frustrated huff, I push myself off the ground and dust off my jeans before catching up. My legs are burning by the time we reach the pavement, and I want to cry when he unlocks an old silver Honda Accord with a dent on the back door of the driver’s side. It’s not a vehicle of luxury, but if it gets me out of the woods without my feet screaming in my Chucks, then I’ll take this small win. I’ll worry about my fears after I catch my breath.

He opens his pack and pulls out a stocking cap, covers his hair, and retrieves a blond wig. I’m shocked when he slides it into place. It looks far more professional than some women’s wigs. Definitely glueless lace. Standing, he pours some water from a bottle on his hands, passes it to me to hold, then squirts clear gel in his hands.

“Come on,” he commands.

Following him over to the foliage, I watch as it rubs his hands together. I nod when I see the white foam. Soap. He holds his hand over to me once he’s scrubbed to his liking and I pour the water for him to rinse.

He’s so meticulous that I’m both impressed and not surprised. Shaking the moisture off his hands, he applies contacts to his eyes. He’s blond with green eyes once he’s done. We venture into a secluded spot in the foliage with a clearing big enough for just the two of us. I’m not sure why we're here until ripping draws my attention to him. He tears his shirt open, and it falls off his body, showing me the defined chest and abs I’d touched about two hours prior. He could be on television if he wasn’t so wicked, and I would have been the captain of the fan club of women who adore him. Instead, I’m constantly looking for ways to leave him behind. Now, however, he’s taking off his shoes and jeans. I didn’t know a man could make briefs sexy and I begin to wonder about that anomaly when The Reaper stops undressing and glares at me.

“Take off your shit and put it in the bag before I choke you to death,” he growls.

Flinching, I get to work, because I know what an empty threat sounds like and that wasn’t it. Stripping quickly, I push the stuff in the bag and stand in my underwear waiting for the next instruction.

“Put on the dress in your bag.” He starts griping in Spanish, and while I cannot understand every word, I know he’s questioning my intelligence. “Get your stuff and tame all of that damn hair unless you want me to shave your head.”

I’m starting to appreciate all the quiet brooding. Hearing his accent doesn’t make up for the vitriol that comes out of his mouth. Luckily, he’d boosted my toiletry bag, and it has everything I put in my hair. I’d want to know how he knows, but the footage on the news tells me he had cameras in my home.

I wet it with leave-in conditioning spray and brush my curls down. I put it in a low ponytail as neatly as I can and plait the rest. Luckily, there are a few bandanas in my bag. I turn the blue one that matches my floral dress into a headband with a bow. He looks at me from my head to my bare feet, but his expression tells me nothing. I assume he approves when he grabs our trash and pivots on his heel to head to the car. He puts our bags in the trunk.

“Sit in the passenger seat but keep your feet out of the car,” he tells me.

I sit with my feet dangling and he bends by my legs. His skin on his forearm brushes my shin, leaving those same tingles behind. I ignore them and watch as he pours water on my feet and inspect them to ensure they’re free of debris. His touch is almost gentle, but I know he’s being thorough. He dries them with the same care.

“Turn into the car and put on the sandals waiting inside.”

The car dips under his weight, and I wait while he does the same thing to himself. He dries his feet and slips on boat shoes to complete his khaki pants and floral shirt vacation look. It’s far too fun for his stoic personality, but I think that’s the point. Even now, his permanent scowl and the downward tilt of his eyebrows belies the carefree attire.

He turns his legs under the wheel as I slide on my seatbelt without being told. The Reaper drives off almost immediately, and I wonder if he would have left me had I taken too long. If so, I try to figure out how far I would have been from civilization, but twenty minutes into the drive with no sign of life gives me my answer. I need him to survive, but I doubt I can survive with him.

When my stomach growls, he pulls over, though it doesn’t look like that sound motivated him since there’s nothing but a lake. It’s a beautiful shade of green and it’s surrounded by a park. Not many people are out, probably because it’s hot as hell. The heat would be a bitch in this open space.

“When we get out of the car, you better act like you fucking love me. If you try to get help from anyone, I’ll kill them and you, entendes?”

For brief moments, I forget who he is and what's going on but when he looks me in the eyes and promises to kill me without any trace of hesitation present, my stomach drops with the reminder. I’ve seen him in action and what he’s done to others as The Reaper, but I haven’t had time to cry and now isn’t that time either.

I nod, and he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small, black velvet bag, releasing the drawstring. The sun bounces off the metals and diamonds inside. They would be blinding if the windows didn’t have tint. The Reaper grabs my left hand and slides two rings on my finger. Then he adds one to his.

“If anyone asks, you’re my wife, Jada Rodriguez, and I’m Hugo.”

“Is either one your real name?”

“What kind of dumb-ass question is that? Why the fuck would I give you my name?”

He leaves the car, comes to my side, and opens it for me. Now, his face has transformed into one of a normal person. He’s smiling at me like I’m the love of his life, but the threat still lingers in his gaze.

I practice my fake smile when he escorts me out of the car and to an empty bench. “We have to take self-photos with the stupid name.”

“Selfies? Usies?”

He sighs, like me saying them made my intelligence drop. A phone I haven’t seen materializes and he pulls up the camera. His smile is so rare that I’m mesmerized. I’m not aware I’m staring until he takes the picture.

“The camera is in my hand and not on my face. Keep up.”

Standing, he grabs my arm, then steps behind me. His arm slips around me like we’re lovers and pulls me back to his chest. With his beard tickling my ear, he aligns our faces. I force a smile for the picture. Then he takes another with him kissing my temple.

My breathing is easier when he releases me. My relief is short-lived when he laces our fingers for the second time today.

“This is taking too long,” he mumbles as he guides us to a photobooth and slides a five-dollar bill inside.

The Reaper lowers himself into the booth and pulls me into his lap. It’s a thrill I cannot afford to feel. His hand slides along my exposed thigh and I bite my lip to force myself not to squirm or feel pleasure. The click pulls my attention back to the camera, but Dante’s sensual assault has me looking wild and aroused. His fingers move to my jaw, and he pulls my face close to his like he wants to kiss me on my jaw. His lashes tickle my cheek when he closes his eyes. The camera catches us like that.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

Obeying, I turn my head the rest of the way and look into his artificially green eyes as instructed. We study each other as the camera clicks again. His grip tightens, making my lips part in surprise and he takes advantage. His lips slide over mine and my heart accelerates. His unexpected kiss sends a jolt of awareness that I don’t need.

The last click signals the end of our session, and I find myself falling again when he suddenly stands. He steps over me and exits the booth. Pulling myself together, I get up and follow him outside. His head is bent, studying the pictures like he’s looking for the slightest hint of me fucking up. He’s back to business when he meets my eyes again.

“These will do. Let’s go.”

Once again, I find myself scurrying after the psycho.