Page 5 of Reaper
My eyes lock on the man standing in the wreckage of the frame.
He fills the space. Tall. Intimidating. Packed with the kind of dense, functional muscle that doesn't come from a gym. It comesfrom carrying heavy things through hostile terrain. He radiates a ferocious, undeniable danger.
"Who are you?" The question rips from my throat. My hands are shaking, but the Glock remains leveled at his chest.
"Wyatt. Wyatt Harrison." His voice is a low, gravel rasp that vibrates straight down my spine.
"That tells me nothing."
"It tells you the only name of the man keeping you alive." He steps forward, closing the distance with the silent, terrifying grace of an apex predator. He doesn't give me time to process. "Grab the bag. We have fifty seconds before an Ares cleanup crew swarms this valley."
And he is terrifyingly, devastatingly handsome.
He's the kind of man who could charm the panties off a woman with nothing but a slow wink and a crooked smile. The rugged jawline. The dark, intense eyes assessing the room, taking in every potential threat in a fraction of a second.
The hardshell drag bag slung across his back holds a sniper rifle, and his boots are currently resting inches away from a dead man's blood.
I don't question his presence. I don't scream or demand badges or ask why a hitman just saved my life. My mind bypasses the panic and zeros in on an entirely different, entirely inappropriate thought.
The women who have fallen for that charm.
How lucky they must have been to have those large, capable hands on them. To feel the weight of his attention. To be seen by a man like this.
Then the familiar, cold reality settles in. I will never be one of those women.
I'm A.D. Hart. I exist in spreadsheets and forensic data trails. I built a career hiding my femininity behind a gender-neutralbyline and a severe wardrobe because men in my field don't respect women.
They respect machines.
I made myself a machine.
Competent. Unflappable. Untouchable.
A man like Wyatt Harrison doesn't look twice at a woman like me. Not for anything other than a tactical extraction.
"Time's up." His voice is a low, gravel rasp.
He turns on his heel as if he expects me to follow.
And I do.
A man who commands with that kind of absolute authority strips away the instinct to question.
My Glock slides into its holster. I don't tag him as a threat. The ease with which he gets me to drop my defense and follow him out the door might be the most dangerous thing about him.
I step out into the biting Wyoming wind.
The dead man lies on the porch. Blood pools on the wooden planks, thick and dark, creeping toward my favorite rocking chair. A perfect, devastating headshot.
My gaze snaps to the rifle bag strapped to Harrison's back.
He didn't stumble across my house. He didn't arrive by accident. He was on that ridge.
We cross the gravel driveway. A dirt bike rests on its kickstand near the tree line, the engine ticking as it idles. The aggressive tread is caked with mud and crushed sage.
"Get on." He swings a long leg over the seat and rights the bike in one fluid motion.
The low, rough command kicks my heart into a hard rhythm. My pulse races, a tight thrum against my throat. It isn't fear. It's the sheer, undeniable weight of his authority. I swing my leg over the rear tire and settle onto the narrow seat behind him.
