Reaper's Fire

She raised the knife again, then lunged at me. I whipped the cooking tray up in front of my body, banging the hell out of my hand in the process. This was a good thing—the pain sharpened my focus. The knife didn’t hit it, though, because she’d faked me out. Talia laughed, raising a brow.

“You think that’s gonna stop me? Now listen up, cunt, because I have a few rules for you. First thing—you’re never stepping into his apartment again,” she said. I felt a rush of relief, because this meant she wasn’t planning to kill me, at least not yet. “I know he does work for you around the building. From now on, your only communication with him happens in the form of Post-it notes and text messages, got me? We’re gonna give it a week or two, and then you’re going to fire him and kick his ass out. Better think of some excuse, because if you tell him about me, I’ll come back here and slit your fucking throat. That’s a promise. Then I’ll call my brother and he’ll make your body disappear somewhere that they’ll never find it. This is your only warning. Got it, bitch?”

I nodded my head quickly.

“I’m leaving now,” she said. “But remember—talk to him and I’ll slice you. Go into his apartment and I’ll slice you. In fact, you so much as fucking blink in his direction, I’ll cut out your heart and eat it.”

She gave me one last sweet smile, then slowly and deliberately pushed the stacks of trays over. My breath caught as a week’s worth of work—nearly six hundred handmade chocolates—crashed, scattering across the floor. Then Talia turned and walked back out through the store, the bells on the door chiming with a friendly jingle. I stood there, stunned, nausea roiling up from my stomach in silence.

Holy shit. Things like this didn’t happen to real people—not in my world.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I held myself tight, sliding down onto the floor as my entire body started to shake. Why hadn’t I done something to defend myself? I wasn’t a weak person. I’d started hunting with my dad when I was six, took down my first buck when I was ten. I’d used a knife just like hers to dress it out. I should’ve seen it coming, protected myself.

But this was supposed to be my safe place.

Mom’s shop was where I’d come after school for hugs and fresh cookies. She’d give me peppermint tea while I did my homework at one of the tables, until Dad came by to pick us up and take us home. Bad things weren’t supposed to happen here.

Maybe Brandon was right.

Maybe I should go home to Seattle, where people weren’t crazy and I had a real kitchen instead of this cramped little pocket of space. None of the chocolate would be salvageable, not after hitting the floor. I’d have to call my clients, let them know there was a delay. I’d always been reliable—hopefully I wouldn’t lose too much business long term. I felt a curl of anger deep inside and decided to focus on it. Anger was strong, and I could use a little strength right now, because seriously . . . what a fucking bitch!

Forcing myself up, I took a deep breath and considered my options. I could call the cops, of course—that’s what people did in Seattle. But this was Hallies Falls, where the Nighthawk Raiders made their own rules and the cops looked the other way. Everyone joked that they were on the club’s payroll, but it wasn’t a funny kind of joke.

We all knew it was true.

And it wasn’t like I had any evidence that Talia had threatened me, either. Sure, there was chocolate all over the floor, but the only thing that proved was that I was clumsy. At most I’d get a restraining order, and we all know how great paper is in a knife fight.

Carrie. I’d call Carrie.

Reaching for my purse, I dug around for my phone. My fingers landed on the small can of pepper spray I kept in there for self defense. A grim smile twisted my face. Dad had always laughed at it, telling me I’d be just as likely to spray myself as an attacker, but he was wrong—I’d never had a chance to spray it at all. Finding the phone, I dialed Carrie’s number.

“What’s up?” she asked brightly.

“Think you could take an early lunch?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Something just happened, and I could really use some company.”

“Are you all right? You don’t sound all right. What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut for a minute. You will not cry. There’s no crying in gourmet chocolate. “Just come over as soon as you can, okay?”

• • •

“I’m going to kill her,” Carrie fumed. I’d shut down the store for the day, putting out the “Closed” sign before retreating back into the kitchen to wait. I hadn’t wanted to be out in the main shop where people could see me, so instead I put on some water for tea and started cleaning up the giant-ass mess Talia had left behind her. The damage was pretty bad—not only was the candy on the trays toast, but most of the boxes I’d already packaged had gone spilling across the floor, too.

When Carrie arrived, it’d taken all my force of will to walk back through the main shop and open the door.

“I just want to keep it quiet,” I told her, pulling a stool up to the worktable.

“No fucking way.”

“Hear me out,” I insisted, holding up a hand. “Talia Jackson is insane and she hates me. What do you think will happen if we call the cops? They’ll take a report and maybe give me a temporary restraining order, which will be worth exactly jack shit when she decides to murder me in my sleep. Oh, and that’s assuming they aren’t on her brother’s payroll. You know how things work around here.”

Carrie bit her lip, and I could see she wanted to argue with me, but I was right and we both knew it. The Nighthawk Raiders owned this town. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the test case for how far their influence reached.

“Then we’ll tell Darren,” she said finally, determined. “He’ll protect you.”

I shook my head. “Bad idea. He’ll go all Iron Man on her ass, and then her brother and those bikers will come after him and suddenly you’ll be a widow and your kids will be orphans and . . .”

My breath caught as I felt tears starting to well. No. No crying, I reminded myself.

“Calm down,” Carrie said quickly. “You raise a good point about Darren—we shouldn’t tell him, because he will lose his shit and I can’t afford to have him murdered until after the girls graduate college. But where does that leave us in terms of options?”